Archive of Our Own ^beta

The silence in Liam's bedroom was far from comforting, the dim light and the ceiling fan only adding to the eerie feeling in Liam’s chest. It hadn’t felt safe for a long time. The room pressed in on him like a weight, suffocating him beneath the illusion of peace. The creak of floorboards settling, the occasional groan of the house expanding in the cool night, none of it sounded like home anymore.

Liam laid stiff on his bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling, body frozen in a tension that never let up. The sheets were twisted around his legs like restraints, sweat cooling against his skin. His heart pounded so hard that he could hear it. He hadn’t slept in three nights, maybe four. The days were starting to blur. Time didn’t real anymore, it was all just one big spiral.

Every time he closed his eyes, they died .

Scott, Mason… the pack. Over and over again, it was always his fault. But it wasn't just the dreams. They were bad, sure. Blood and screaming, his claws soaked red. But it was after that was worse—the way the fear followed him into the waking world like it didn’t know where else to go.

He’d wake up gasping, his throat raw from screaming, hands torn from clawing at nothing. Then came the cold sweats, the hallucinations and the pulpitations. He started hearing things, seeing shadows move across the walls even when he was awake. Sometimes he smelled blood when there wasn’t any.

He didn’t tell anyone, not even Mason. What could he say? I see your dead body every night and I’m scared of the dark again. Can we hang out?

He laughed bitterly into the silence, his voice cracked halfway through. Tonight, he didn’t even try to sleep. He just laid there, waiting for something to break, either his mind or the world around him, whichever came first.

The clock read 2:41 AM. Still too early for the sun but too late to ask for help. His fingers dug into the bedsheets, nails already fraying the threads. “I didn’t kill you,” he whispered into the dark, almost half expecting an answer. 

But of course, nobody did.

Instead, a voice in the back of his mind—the one that always came late at night, answered for him.

Didn’t you?

Liam sat up suddenly, gasping.
He hadn’t even realised he was falling asleep. His pulse thundered and his ears rang. Liam’s hands flew to his chest, rubbing his collarbone unintentionally to soothe himself. His breath came in sharp, painful gulps. Something was wrong.

He reached over and flicked on the lamp.
But the bulb burst—exploding with a loud pop , sparks raining for a second before everything went black again. Liam froze.
His heart stopped and he could barely breathe.

A creak came from the hallway. He wasn’t alone. He knew he was alone—his mum was working a double shift and David was out of town, the house was empty. But logic didn’t matter right now, his wolf instincts were screaming.

Another creak. Closer. Then a voice.

“Liam?”

Scott’s voice. No. No no no—

“ You're not real. ” Liam clutched the side of the bed, teeth bared and his body shaking. “You’re not real! ”

The door creaked open slowly. But it wasn’t Scott. It was himself . Standing in the hallway. His eyes were dull and his skin was pale, he looked like he had seen a ghost. A ghost wouldn’t explain the blood that tainted Liam’s claws and clung to his shirt, dripping from it. 

“Why did you let them die?” the mirror-Liam whispered.

Liam screamed.

He clawed his way backward until he hit the corner wall, panting like he was being choked. His claws were out, slicing his palms. He didn’t care. 

The hallucination faded, the hallway was empty, but the terror didn’t leave. He was losing it. He was really losing it now.

Liam stumbled to his feet, his legs weak as he yanked open the window. Cool night air hit his face, and for a moment he felt like he could breathe again. He leaned out, hands gripping the sill hard enough to splinter the wood.

The street was quiet. Empty, except for the occasional flicker of a streetlamp. No voices, no blood and no Scott. Just his own reflection in the glass, he hated that face. It was the face of someone who survived.
The face of someone who failed to protect the people who mattered.

Liam dropped back onto the floor beside the bed, too exhausted to move. He curled on himself, arms wrapped tight around his knees, and tried to stop shaking. But the darkness still pulsed behind his eyes. The worst thoughts always came when it was quiet.

They didn’t trust him, did they?

The pack. They pretended to. Smiled, told him he was doing great, reminded him that he was strong. But he remembered when he’d lost control, when the anger took over.
When Theo had manipulated him, twisted his instincts, nearly made him kill Scott.

He hadn’t forgotten, and he was pretty sure they hadn’t either. What if this was what he really was? What if he wasn’t scared of the nightmares—what if he was scared that they were true?

That one day he’d wake up and realise he had killed Mason. That this wasn’t anxiety, it was guilt. 

He pressed his palms to his temples, hard. “Shut up, shut up, shut up—”

But the voice kept going.

You’re a monster. You always were.

Liam snapped. He got up and tore the photo from the wall—the one of him and Mason after the game. His claws ripped through the frame, the glass cracked, but he didn’t stop until the image was destroyed. Then he sat in the middle of the floor, breathing hard, surrounded by pieces of who he used to be.

He didn’t cry, not this time. He just sat in the silence, waiting for something inside him to break. His phone buzzed but didn’t look and he didn’t care.

The sun was starting to rise, another night survived, but it didn’t feel like victory.

Liam finally moved, dragging himself to the bathroom. The mirror didn’t look like him. His eyes were sunken and his skin was pale, his hair stuck to his forehead with sweat and his shirt was soaked. His arms were scratched raw and he looked like someone who’d been dragged through hell.

He felt worse.

He turned on the tap and splashed cold water on his face, then again and again. He didn’t stop until the water ran pink from the cuts on his hands. It was only when he caught himself smiling in the mirror—smiling without meaning to, teeth bared, eyes empty—that he knew something was really, truly wrong.

He stumbled back into his room and sat on the bed, still wet, still shaking. A single message blinked on his phone.

Mason: You awake? Seriously. Please answer.

Another followed:

Mason: I’m outside. I’m coming in.

Liam didn’t even react, he just waited. Not even a minute later, the door opened. “Liam?” Mason stepped into the room and stopped cold. “Holy shit.”

Liam didn’t move and he didn’t look at him. He just stared at the ruined photo on the floor, the destroyed sheets and the blood on his arms. Mason crossed the room in seconds. “Hey. Hey—what happened? Are you hurt?”

Liam shook his head. “No.”

“Did someone—?”

“No.”

“…Did you ?”

Liam finally looked up, his voice was hoarse. “I can’t sleep, Mason. Every time I do, you die. I think—I think I’m the one who does it.”

Mason didn’t speak right away. He sat beside him, slowly, like approaching a wounded animal. Liam flinched when he got too close, but Mason stayed anyway. “You didn’t kill me,” Mason said softly. “I’m right here.”

“Yeah. Now .”

Mason sighed. “This is PTSD, man. Nightmares, guilt... You’re not going crazy. You’ve been through too much.”

Liam blinked hard. “Then why does it feel like I’m losing my mind?”

“Because you’re exhausted . You need sleep. You need someone to—” He cut himself off. “You don’t have to go through this alone.”

Liam looked down at his hands. He didn’t believe it, not yet. But maybe he didn’t have to, not tonight.

Mason stayed. He cleaned the cuts, took the destroyed photo from the floor without saying anything and then sat on the bed while Liam laid down, still shaking.

“I’m gonna sit right here,” Mason said. “You don’t have to talk and you don’t have to sleep. But if you do, I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Liam didn’t respond. But eventually—
He slept. Not without fear and not without pain. But this time he wasn’t alone.