Chapter Text
Stiles stares out into the bare garden of overgrown weeds and empty flower beds that have been abandoned during the passing summer months. He blinks, eyes sore and red, a chilling tear rolling down his cheek and dropping onto the decaying wooden decking under his feet. He's sitting on the back step, knees pulled up to his chest as he tries to curl up, making himself impossibly smaller.
Behind him, the house movers are working, moving furniture around him like he isn't even there. Maybe he isn't, because he certainly doesn't feel like it. He certainly doesn't want to. He doesn't want to feel anymore, doesn't want to feel the pain he'd been feeling for the last two weeks since his father's death. He feels hollowed out, as if someone has scooped out his insides like a Jack-O-Lantern.
A hand lands on his shoulder suddenly. Stiles flinches under the touch, a subtle jerk despite the touch being gentle. He doesn't bother looking up to see who it is, already recognising the motherly voice that calls his name.
"Stiles?" His mother doesn't move her hand from his thin shoulder. "Stiles, come on, honey. We need to go. All that's left are your bags."
Stiles doesn't move for a few moments, shoulder's tensing for a second before he finally rises to his feet, not sparing a glance at his mother as he walks through the house and runs up the creaking stairs of his home for the last time.
The walls of his room are empty, bare of any posters or photos that he's stuck up over the childhood years he's lived here. The stained and worn carpet still has the deep indents from his furniture that was quickly moved out. The window sill is empty, the dust still sitting in the places his belongings weren't, leaving patches of clear white. The only thing left is a stuffed duffel bag sitting in the middle of the room. Stiles moves from the doorway as fast as he can, grabbing the bag by the handles and turning to leave as soon as he can. He can feel the tightness in his chest, squeezing his lungs like a stretched rubber band. He can't stay, but at the same time he doesn't want to leave.
On his way out, his sweatshirt sleeve gets caught on the door handle, riding up the thin fabric to reveal the pale expanse of his lower arm. Despite being alone, Stiles panics, frantically reaching down to retch the sleeve back down to recover his scarred arm, the years of his darkness carved into his mangled skin.
It was something only his dad knew about, and he found out by accident only two months before he died. But that didn't matter now, because his dad is gone, and now Stiles is being moved out of the only place he's called home during his whole fifteen years of life, and is going to live with his mothers new boyfriend and his children.
Stiles still couldn't understand why in the world his mother thought it would be appropriate to announce the moving day only 15 days after his fathers death, and only a week after his funeral. His parents have been divorced for six months, so his mother hasn't been holding back on the open 'moving on' scheme she's on. He just wished his mother would see that he isn't ready to go yet, he isn't ready to change everything he feels permanent of.
He'd dropped his bag in panic of the reveal of his arm, so he reaches down to pick it up again before dashing down on the stairs on shaky legs. He feels the guilt and sadness tug at his heartstrings as he walks down the stairs for the last time, the uncarpeted wooden planks creaking and groaning under his shoe-covered feet. Memories flash behind his eyes of the times he'd fallen down them, bouncing like a dropped ball on each step, or slid down them on his mattress despite his parents telling him continuously not to.
Claudia is waiting in the car for him, flashing him a warm smile that he can't bring himself to return. After putting his duffel bag on the backseat, he climbs in the front, not bothering with a seatbelt and his mother must fail to notice as she's driving away the moment he closes the door.
"Robert has got your room set up for you already. He said he hasn't had time to decorate it yet, but we thought it would be a nice project for us all to do it together," his mother says happily, glancing at her son who continues to stare out the window with the same emotionless expression he wears. "Would you like that?"
Stiles shrugs and mutters, "I don't care."
Claudia bites her tongue, and Stiles can hear the sharp intake of breath she sucks in as if she's holding back a shout. "You might not care now," she replies, "but you'll be grateful when you get comfortable."
Stiles doesn't reply, he can't bring himself to. He knows whatever he says will only frustrate his mother even more.
Soon, the grey roads lined with houses begin to dwell down, the houses further apart. Tree's replace the brick architecture until they're only surrounded by thick forest and dirty terrain. The tarmac roads change into a dirt track as his mother turns off and heads into the Beacon Hills Preserve. A blur of browns and greens brush by as Claudia's silver family Volvo struggles along the makeshift dirt track.
Standing out like a drop of blood in a stark white basin, Stiles notices the house almost instantly as it comes into view. The huge, modern, white painted mansion stands behind the uneven rows of tall trees. The house is so large and high class that Stiles doesn't think such a home belongs in the sleepy, rundown town of Beacon Hills. Despite Stiles' judgement on the size and standard of the home, Stiles is grateful that Robert has stayed in Beacon Hills, as he isn't sure he would be able to cope with his mother moving him to another town as well.
Stiles doesn't notice when the car slowly rolls to a stop, the gravel of the drive way crunching under the tires. The lead up to the house is almost as glamorous as the house itself.
A wide stone drive way circles around a running water fountain the centre, gushing water as it overflows and splashes into the pool below it, over and over and over again. There's two cars parked in front of the house, to the right of the front steps, both slick black and probably worth more than Stiles' entire childhood home.
"What do you think?" Claudia smiles, but Stiles simply continues to stare at the home he can't imagine he'd ever call home. "Come on," Claudia continues, opening the drivers door, "It's better inside."
Stiles almost scoffs, following his mother out of the car in a much slower fashion. His mother makes no move to reach for the bags as she shuts her door and heads towards the house, but Stiles reaches into the back to get his duffel bag, slinging it on his shoulder before following his mother up the large, grand steps to the front doors.
The inside isn't anymore appealing to Stiles. Once through the double doors into the house, Stiles finds himself standing in the middle of the house, all open plan and huge. There's no other way to describe it but something out of a dream. There is no foyer, no entrance. Through the front door, they step directly into the centre of the house with the living room area to the side, with a set of large couches and a love seat, a large flat screen mantled to the wall above a electronic fireplace. Beyond it is a large set of stairs, curving around and disappearing to the second floor. Floor to ceiling windows stand all around, huge and wide, letting all the light shine through and reflect of the marble looking floors. Blood red drapes frame the windows, matching the pillows on the couches and the vases of roses on the coffee table. The ceiling is high above them, a huge chandelier hanging above them, dangling jews that glimmer in the sun shining through. Everything is clear and simple, perfectly placed and untouchable.
Doors lead off from the grand room, hallways leading to unknown places. There's a archway towards the back, clearly leading into the huge kitchen that is probably the size of Stiles' entire downstairs of his old home.
Too big, Stiles keeps thinking as he looks around. It's too big.
"Claudia?" A deep voice calls out moments before a tall man walks out of the archway.
Stiles has to restrain himself from rolling his eyes at the high class suit the man is wearing, the man he recognises as Robert Hale. The successful man is well known all around the states for his business companies that Stiles has taken no interest in when the man has tried to brag about the first time they had met.
"Hello, love," Robert walks up to his mother, pulling her into a hug before kissing her deeply on the lips. Stiles has to look down then, averting his eyes to his scuffed converse to stop himself from throwing up the coffee he'd drank this morning. "Stiles," the voice snatches the teens attention away from the expensive marble floor. He looks up, not meeting Robert's eyes. "I hope you can settle here. I understand it will be hard but I want you to know this is just as much my home as it is yours now. Okay?"
"Sure," Stiles replies quietly.
Robert shifts, and Stiles doesn't know what to think of the way he stands beside his mother, the way his expression loses it's softness it had held before. Stiles recognises the annoyance in his thinned lips.
"How about I show you to your room? I'm sure Claudia has told you about decorating," Robert says.
Stiles nods. "Yeah. Mom told me."
Robert nods in reply, seemingly lost of what to say to that. "Your room is at the end of the hall. There's a bathroom to the left that you'll share with Derek."
"Okay," Stiles replies, moving across the large space between the front door at the stairs.
"We're going to get the boxes in," his mother calls behind him. "I'll bring your stuff up for you and when we're done we can give you a complete house tour!"
"Whatever," Stiles mutters, ascending the stairs with one hand running along the cold, black-painted metal banister that lines the staircase. He pretends he doesn't hear his mother reassuring Robert that he was simply bothered about moving and he will be fine by dinner. He will not.
At the top of the stairs, Stiles spares a glance over the balcony that overlooks the floor below. He's so high he feels his stomach drop. He looks away quickly.
The landing is long and wide, a fluffy white rug sitting on the dark wooden planked floor. There's five doors along the one wall. Stiles assumes one room is Robert and Claudia's bedroom, one is Derek's bedroom, one is Cora's bedroom, then the bathroom and finally Stiles' room. There's a thin table standing against the wall between two doors, bare apart from a white vase on top with colourful flowers and a clock hung on the wall above it.
Stiles doesn't dwell too much, making his way down the hall to the last door that he assumes is going to be his.
Claudia wasn't exaggerating when she said Robert hadn't done any decorating to his room apart from refurnish it. All of Stiles' old furniture was gone, his mother refusing to bring it along. His new room consisted of a large double bed in the centre, two symmetrical windows either side of it with cushioned window seat sills. There's a large dresser to the right of the room, a desk with draws beside it in the corner. On the other side is a empty bookcase and a mirror hung on the wall. Everything is white; the walls, the furniture, the bedsheets. It reminds Stiles of a doctors office, plain and boring and bland.
Stiles discards his bag on the bed, looking around the pain room that although is filled with expensive furniture, doesn't appeal to him in the slightest. His old room had character and memories. Stiles is looking forward to plastering the boring walls with his many posters and drawings he's done and torn out of his sketch book. He needs to fill the walls, give him something to look at the drag him away from his everlasting spiralling thoughts.
He knows deep down though, that no matter how many things he puts up on the walls, no matter how many books he stuffs to fill the shelves, this will never feel like home.
It will never be home.
*
Derek brakes the car to a stop as the dirt under the tires scrape slightly. The familiar white mansion before them stands as it always does, the only addition being the silver Volvo that's parked beside his fathers black SUV.
"I completely forgot they were moving in today," Cora says beside him.
Derek nods, he had forgotten too. This day hasn't been a long time coming. If anything, Derek thinks it's too soon. Claudia is pleasant enough, sweet and kind, but at the end of the day, she will never be like Derek's mother.
Derek isn't dim either, he knows about the sheriff's death not two weeks before, and he knows as much as everyone else everything that went down at the station the night of the shooting.
And Claudia isn't the only one moving in, she's bringing her son with her too. Derek knows as much about Stiles as the next person. He knows he's the son of the sheriff who was recently assassinated, he knows Stiles has disappeared under the social radar since his parent's split at the beginning of the year. He's seen Stiles a few times at school, seen him in the corridors or the lunch hall, sitting with Lydia Martin and Scott McCall.
Derek hasn't thought much about Claudia and Stiles moving in, but now it feels all too real seeing the Volvo parked outside. He follows Cora out, slamming his car door all too roughly.
Inside, Derek finds his father and Claudia in the kitchen, seated at the table with coffee's in their hands. Claudia's boxes are stacked high all around the living area by the stairs.
"Derek," Robert says as they walk through the archway. "How was your day?"
"Fine," Derek answers with a nod, going to the fridge and pouring himself a glass or orange juice. He meets Claudia's eyes, who flashes him a smile that he forces himself to return as he leaves the kitchen, passing Cora on the couch and heading upstairs.
"I still don't think it's worth it, love," Robert chuckles before taking a large spoonful of spaghetti meatballs into his mouth.
Claudia had cooked the meal, insisting that she makes the first meal on her first night as it is 'unfair' to treat her as a guest in her own home. It is apparently a homemade recipe that she's cooked many times before, and often with Stiles, but the teen hasn't reappeared from his room since he arrived earlier that afternoon. Claudia is continuously apologising and explaining her sons feelings are still slightly sore from the move. None the less, Robert, his two children and Claudia sit around the table and enjoy the meal as a family.
"Of course it's worth it," Cora replies, "It's Hawaii, dad! You know I've always wanted to go there."
"Cora, darling, as much as I am truly proud of you as a father, I don't think getting into junior year is a good enough reason to go to Hawaii," Robert says cautiously.
Cora rolls her eyes in response, but doesn't complain any further although Derek can see his sister is still annoyed. The sudden sound of footsteps approaching the large kitchen has the whole group pausing their food in time to see Stiles walk into the room.
Slightly surprised by the many pair of eyes that land on him the moment he enters the room, Stiles suddenly feels more uncomfortable than he'd originally been. The teen pauses like a deer in headlights before Robert breaks the suffocating silence.
"Hello, Stiles. Hungry now?" Robert greets, placing his spoon and fork down on the sides of his bowl. He rests his elbows on the table in a way that reminds Derek of a typical movie villain.
"No, thanks," Stiles replies quickly before moving to the fridge and pulling out a bottle of water.
"Stiles, honey, you need to have something for dinner," Claudia says softly, and with his back to them, Stiles sighs deeply.
"I'll eat later. I'm not hungry now."
Derek can practically taste the lie. No way can a teen who is practically skin and bones seriously not be hungry. Stiles' weight must be so under the health line that Derek is surprised the teens mother hasn't already done anything more drastic. Clearly, just asking the boy to eat as a strategy is not working anymore.
None the less, Stiles disappears from the kitchen on an empty stomach after saying he can't even sit with the four as he is in the middle of homework.
*
Insomnia is something that Stiles is no stranger to. With a head riddled with nightmares and a mind that never seems to stop running, sleep is something that Stiles doesn't have often. It's been going on long enough now that Stiles is able to run on little sleep with no problem, and if no one brings up the bruises under his eyes, it's like he can pretend this problem doesn't exist.
Last night was no different. Stiles stayed up simply because no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't help but feel like he was sleeping in some kind of hospital. All the white furniture practically glowed in the dark, glaring at him like beams of light.
In the end, a few hours before he assumes someone will wake up on the bright Saturday morning, Stiles begins to unpack one of his boxes in his quest to find his posters and sketches. He hangs them up on the walls all around the room, unorganised and messy, making the walls less plain.
By about 5:30, Stiles gives up on trying to find his box of books to fill his shelves and is in serious need of a cigarette. He grabs his sketch book and pencils before descending downstairs.
Even with the morning sun glowing through the tall windows, peaking through the gaps in the closed curtains, the house still doesn't sit right. It's too big, and considering the sizes of the rooms, they seem to all be bare and plain. He walks slowly through the silent house, thankful for the too-big wool socks he's wearing so his bare feet don't create an echo. The stairs don't creak or moan as he walks down them like his old home used to, another thing he isn't sure he can get used to. The kitchen is bright enough to make Stiles groan and squint until his tired eyes adjust. Unsure of how to use the ridiculously flash coffee maker yet, Stiles settles for a glass of water before stepping out of the backdoor and onto the decking that surrounds a large portion of the backside of the house.
The garden is magnificent, and there is no denying that - not matter how much Stiles hates the home. Acres of land stretch back beyond the house, various expenses scattered amongst the fields. At the very end of the seeming never-ending land of the Hale mansion, Stiles recognises a tiled floor from an outdoor basket ball court with two tall hoops on either side and a metal shed towards the back corner. Before the field, is a millionaire-looking swimming pool that is crowded with fancy sun beds and diving boards. Flower beds and thick hedges surround the private land as well as a low fence that subtly separates the garden from the surrounding woods.
It all looks like something out of a Hollywood film, or a holiday home in the Canadian mountains.
His stomach growls, a spiking ache making itself known in the pit of his abdomen, but Stiles ignores it as he plunks himself down on the decking steps that lead down to a BBQ area and picnic tables. With shaking hands, he pulls out a cigarette from the small, cardboard box and lights it between his lips. He knows the consequences of smoking, and he will never forget the look on his fathers face when he caught him, finding out his 15 year old son is smoking, but Stiles didn't stop after that. Sure, he promised his father he would try, and he did, but smoking seems to be the only to stop his hands from visibly trembling uncontrollably and his overactive mind from tormenting him like it does during sleepless nights.
After taking a long drag and breathing out the smoke, he opens up the almost filled sketch book, old and worn and breaking at the spine. When it opens it, the pages are close to coming lose from being dragged around with him everywhere for the past six months, shoved into bags and ran through all weathers. This sketchbook specifically has been aimed at portraits, filled with drawings of his mother, of Scott and Lydia. Stiles is thankful for his friends. As annoying as they are, they make good subjects. He flips to the page that is particularly his favourite, just because it was well done. It's a simple drawing, outside on the snowy streets of Beacon Hills last year, just his two friends siting on a bench. The memory of that moment wasn't even anything special, and if anything the day was a total disaster from sitting out in the snow for so long, but the simplicity of the drawing, the scene and the idea of what could have been happening in that moment make it seem like the most beautiful times of Stiles' life.
Many of his pages are taken up by not whole portraits, but focal points; like jawlines, hands, sometimes the way lips curve with a smile or even the occasional hair style that stood out. The latter is mostly taken up by his mothers as her long, wavy, auburn hair has always been fun to draw.
Stiles turns to an unfinished portrait of Scott's recent girlfriend, Kira. The Japanese teen had unknowingly been Stiles' focus when he drew her. At the time, the group of them hd been at school on lunch break, sitting down in the courtyard when Stiles brought the book up on his knees, having the perfect view of the teenage girl he'd started to draw. It had began with her eyes, the slanted, relaxed shape of them as she bathed in the midday sun, sparking with wonder and wisdom. It then lead to drawing her entire face, crafting the perfect shape of her jaw and nose, and then Stiles finally began to add the hair, which now is only a light outline. Stiles holds the rolled paper and tobacco between his lips as he drags the pencil down the paper, carving the shading of Kira's waving, dark hair that cascades down her shoulders. Around him, the birds chirp and sing mindlessly.
It almost feels peaceful.
Almost.
*
Derek groans as he surfaces to the land of consciousness, and suspects his family have not roused from sleep too after a glance at his clock that informs him it's only 6:54 in the morning. Flabbergasted that he's even woken up that early on a Saturday, Derek tries to fall back to sleep, only to find he's too awake and no longer has any linger of slumber clinging to him.
Rolling out of bed and exiting his room, Derek makes his way downstairs to the familiar kitchen in serious need of coffee. The sun glares through the kitchen window above the sink, promising Derek a day of practicing basket ball in the garden.
While the coffeemaker brews, Derek notices the back door is ajar. The teen frowns, confused, before making his way to the back door. He flings it open abruptly in attempt to frighten any unwanted trespassers - something that is not unheard of as they're in the middle of the forest - but instead, Derek hears a startled cry and the sound of a glass being knocked over.
It takes Derek a moment to recognise the figure sitting on the decking steps as Stiles before teen even turns around, looking at Derek with a mixture of surprise and anger merged into a stealthy glare. The teen dumps a battered, thick black book down on the wooden planks before rising to his feet, his fingers plucking small shards of glimmering glass from the decking before making his way to the house. Stiles' head is bowed, eye contact avoided at all costs.
Derek moves out of the way just enough for the younger boy to get through the backdoor as he makes his way to the bin in the corner, and dumps the broken shards of glass inside.
"You haven't even lived in this house for 24 hours, and you're already breaking stuff?" Derek says, and while it was meant to come out light and humoured, it comes out gruff and hostile.
"I'm sure your daddy can replace it," Stiles replies coldly, not looking up as he wipes his hand on his grey tracksuit leg. Derek's eyes catch the red smear that freshly stains the grey fabric, and he realises that Stiles most likely cut his hand picking up the shards of broken glass.
"Idiot," Derek mutters, not even realising he'd said out loud until the teen shoots him a unamused glare before making his way outside into the garden, actually shutting the door properly with a soft click behind him.
Derek scoffs at the teenagers arrogance, rolling his eyes, and pouring his mug of steaming coffee. He takes his coffee upstairs to drink while he brushes his teeth and throws on his basket ball kit. He downs the coffee like it doesn't scorch his throat and mouth and makes his way back downstairs.
The fresh air of the morning has a slight bitter bite to it, causing goosebumps to rise on Derek's arm but he doesn't mind, knowing the coolness will help stop him from overheating. He walks straight past the Stilinski boy, who hasn't moved from the spot on the stairs. Derek grimaces, and slightly overreacts when he coughs after walking through a cloud of nicotine smoke.
He's never understood smoking. For something so advertised to be addictive, deadly and life-ruining, why did people even try it? Derek has been called a health-freak in the past, and he ignores the teasing about his obsessive need to be healthy and fit, but smoking is just something he can't get his head around.
Stiles is too young anyway. Derek barely knows the kid, he's only seen him around school a few times, but he can see the self-destruction in him - even from a distance. The smell of nicotine sticks to him like a second skin, the bruises under his eyes are like stains and the slump of his shoulders seem to be a permanent weight.
Derek takes his frustration out on the basket ball as he throws it around, smacking it on the court floor hard and propelling it towards the hoop.
Kitchens in the morning are chaos, as they are in every family household, but mornings in the Hale mansion is like a war zone. With Robert trying to make his coffee and read his newspaper, while demanding peace and quiet that is never met as Derek and Cora argue over something miniscule.
"Just have some toast, Cora," Robert sighs, exasperated, looking a moment away from rolling his eyes at his children arguing over Derek finishing the cereal.
"What?! How is that fair?" Cora shouts, throwing the empty cereal box at Derek.
It hits him square in the face, but knocks over his glass of orange juice that spills across the entire table.
Including Robert's newspaper.
"Cora!" Robert roars, jerking back and skidding on the chair, the legs squeaking on the floor. After checking his suit, he gingerly picks up the sodden paper by the corner, grimacing with a angry frown. The mass of soggy paper then tears, landing in a wet pile on the floor with a disgusting squelch.
Cora looks a cross between pleased and guilty, shooting Derek a cold glare, who looks smug in the corner.
Claudia, who's witnessed the entire scene play out comically, finally steps away from the coffee maker.
"Okay," she starts, "Cora, I'll go to town in a bit and get you some more cereal, and Robert, love," she places her hands on either of Robert's shoulders, forcing him to look at her, "I'll also get you a new newspaper, alright? Drink your coffee, you'll be late for your conference."
Cora huffs in response, stomping out of the kitchen and up to her room in a teenage tantrum while Claudia begins to soak up the spilled orange juice from the table.
The sun shines through the kitchen window, glistening onto the island counter, when Stiles walks through the backdoor moments later.
"Morning, Stiles," Robert says tensely.
His mother looks up, a smile growing on her face. "Morning, love. I didn't realise you were outside. Do you want some breakfast?"
Stiles shakes his head wordlessly, eyes flitting to the wet table, to Robert, his mother, and for a nanosecond, to Derek. And then they're directed back on the floor.
Claudia doesn't seem fazed. "We're going to town in a bit. Would you like to come?"
"No thanks," Stiles replies. He's got his sketchbook clutched to his chest, and swallows thickly.
Derek shovels down the remains of his milk-sodden cereal, standing up and holding his bowl in one hand. He places the empty bowl in the sink when he's finished moments later, he dashes back out to the garden, still dressed in his kit from earlier.
*
Stiles waits until his mother and Robert walk out the front door before he feels like he can finally breath.
He watches the front door finally close, his mothers call of goodbye ringing in his ears as they leave.
The teen sighs where he's standing. He sets his sketchbook down on the mahogany table at the bottom of the stairs that has a large vase on it's top, overflowing with a range of flowers that Stiles, as intelligent as he is, can't identify. He doesn't know where Cora is, but he thinks it's safe to assume the teenager is going to be staying upstairs for a while - of the argument in the kitchen that Stiles overheard was anything to go by. He glances around the large, oversized main room of the house. He doesn't even know how to describe it. It's like a foyer, a lounge, a corridor and a hall all in one. So large, the first room you walk into through the front door yet the room that leads to every other. His peering eyes repel the fancy furniture and instead, are drawn to a white painted wooden door in the corner of the room, parallel to the stairs and tucked away behind the loveseat.
Inside, Stiles discovers a library. He grins with excitement; maybe this house does have one perk.
He steps inside.
The library is small and has wall-high bookshelves. Each shelf covered in hundreds of books, stacked hazardously. The dark wooden floor boards and book-covered walls do nothing to help open up the space, but Stiles finds it cosy. Unlike the rest of the house, the library doesn't have full length windows that bleed light into the room. Instead, there are circular windows dotted along two of the walls, high and unreachable from the floor. The room isn't stark white with fancy furniture. In fact, it looks as if it hasn't been entered in years and when Stiles walks in further, he sees a red and green tartan patterned reading chair that has been discarded in the corner.
Stiles comes to the conclusion that none of the Hale's clearly read, because when he walks closer to the first book shelf, he can see a layer of dust that has settled along the tops of the books and visible wood of the shelves. He runs his finger through it, lifting them to find a thick collection of grey, fluffy dust collected on the pads of his fingers. Stiles looks up in awe at the ceiling-high shelves above his head and he has no idea in the world how he's going to get the books down, but he is determined and so damn excited to read them.
He walks, fingers running along the spines of the books. He is astonished to find them in alphabetical order, something he notices when he's finished walking around the room. He also frowns, confused as to why, and whom, would actually spend the time putting all the books in such a specific order. Even Stiles doesn't think he's ever been bored enough to find the time to do something like that.
Standing in the middle of the room, staring at the books, Stiles feels more at home than he has done in the past 24 hours of being inside the hell house. The smell of old books and wood gives him some kind of sense of comfort that none of the other rooms have given him.
He grabs a random book from the first shelf; East of Eden by John Steinbeck.
Stiles drops down in the reading chair, grimacing slightly when the dust flies into the air like water on a vibrating speaker.
The chair, despite the dust, is very comfy, Stiles practically melts into it. He slings his legs over the arm rest, left shoulder resting against the cushioned back. He opens the book, flipping the pages that feel like soft silk under his thin fingers, and begins reading.
The rest of the summer continues as it had. Stiles spends his time in his room or in the library when his mother and the Hales are home. His nose is constantly buried in a book, whether that be a cheap paperback from his own shelves, or his worn sketch book, or a leather bound ancient novel from the Hale library.
He avoids his mother and Robert like the plague. It appears to be easier than it sounds, because his mother is so intent on spending every moment she can with Robert she barely seems to notice Stiles slipping away at every available moment. In the last 3 weeks of summer, Stiles spends a total of 4 meals with the Hale family: one breakfast, and three dinners.
He spends every other moment in his room or out with Lydia and Scott. The three of them, sometimes accompanied by Allison or Erica and Boyd, spend summer days in Scott’s back garden or Lydia’s house, or at the sandy beach a few towns over. In the evenings, they gather around Lydia’s fire pit in her yard, or watch movies in Erica and Boyd’s apartment that they bought at the beginning of summer. They binge watch TV shows, smoke cigarettes (Stiles, Erica and Boyd) and play video games.
Sometimes, when he's with them, Stiles can almost forget how fucked up he is.
— tbc.