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No one knows how many devils fit on the head of a pin. Maybe a hundred, maybe only one. They've been trying to solve this strange problem for ages, even though the answer wouldn't satisfy anyone sane. A devil isn't just a horned creature with a tail, from hell, that herds restless souls into a cauldron full of tar with a pitchfork. It's just one definition of a devil. The simplest, the most stupid, the least perfect. A devil is pain, fear, or rage. It's addiction, betrayal and fright. It's injustice.
On the head of a pin you can fit every devil in the world.
I. Fear
The first devil is fear. When heart hammers in the chest, and hands tremble too much to grab anything. It's a stench of smoke and burning flesh. It's an urge to flee, a desire to hide. It's loss. The first devil is under Derek Hale's eyelids, crawls under his skin and doesn't let him sleep at night. It commands him to stay awake, to listen for danger. It's a nightmare that haunts him every night, full of screaming and fire. Fear can be defeated, can be braved. Every attempt costs, sometimes more than the Alpha can afford. Sometimes you can just clench your fists, cut skin with claws, and wait. The devil paralyzes, when his betas can't breathe, when Stiles is unconscious, when Peter looks at him from the corner of a room. It's a moment when everything he'd built crumbles down, a moment when everything he'd done isn't enough. When he's too weak to help them. Fear that he'll never be good enough for them. It can't be put to sleep, can't be put away, can't be forgotten. But without it there would be no courage, no peace. Just emptiness. The first devil is fear, a companion in solitude.
For Stiles fear is a mindless fright of storm and thunder. Of something that can really hurt him, his father or friends. Fear of the dark where the monsters crawl. 'Cause the monsters are real, not just a cheap imitation from a B-movie. They're always somewhere close, just behind him, sometimes in him. The devil that torments him isn't subtle, isn't tender. If he pierces his skin, it hurts. Fear is a trap, easy to fall into. A bit of guilt is enough, a bit and fear is too strong to breath. It's his father patrolling at night, a patrol he might not come back from. It's Derek always standing before him, shielding him. It's his friends he can't help. Fear, that he'll screw up again, breaks something he'll never be able to fix. Always when he looks into his father's eyes, he looks for traces from that dream or vision. That he's guilty. Stiles' devil is fear that everything is his fault.
II. Rage
Rage wasn't always important. There was time when it was just a feeling he got when he didn't get his favorite book or when Laura broke his toy car. It was somewhere in the background when he tore a new pair of pants, climbing a tree despite his father forbidding it. Then the rebellion came, very similar to rage in its nature, but not the same. Leather jacket, music that drove his family crazy. And Kate. There was screaming and fights, bans and orders he didn't care much about. But it was just a poor substitute, a petty thing that was supposed to pass with age. Rage appeared later, dug his claws in, melted into skin like a tattoo. It held him together, forced to go on, even when there was nothing around. It made him clench his fists, show his teeth, not trust anyone anymore. It whispered sweet nothings when his eyes changed color, when everything turned red. Rage is a quick breath, bonds that can't be broken.
A teenager's rage is throwing a game pad against the wall when you lose a race, it's slamming a door shut when you're grounded. Sometimes it's kicking a backpack or hitting a desk. Nothing much. A little thing. A child's rage is stamping your feet, crying in the street, holding a favorite plush toy tight. An adult's rage when you're a child is clenching your fists helplessly when you look at your mother dying. It's a silent plea for the universe to leave him alone. Rage can be mistaken for pain, it can paralyze all the same. Now rage is different, appears in a flash. It screams inside him, burns bright to go out equally fast. It'll change sometime and it'll be just a dumb memory, but now it's biting a lip bloody, it's sharp words spat at those who didn't deserve them, it's a crooked smile, narrowed eyes. Stiles' rage is only an impulse, a moment. It'll be cold precision later.
III. Desire
Desire is a wet mouth, soft and warm. It's dilated pupils, quickened breath, drops of sweat on skin. It's shame and embarrassment when you're only fifteen, and your body looks like a surreal jigsaw of bones and non-existent muscle. Desire is guilt, harbinger of something frightening, nightmarish. Maybe it'll be hormones acting up, a sweet smile, hips swinging. A feeling that steals breath away, quick, uneven heartbeat, blushing. Now it's bitter like anise candy. It's an acrid taste of failure and betrayal. For Derek it might not exist, disappear, but it's still there, appears unexpected every time he looks at Stiles' mouth. When he wants to close his hands on his hips and forget. It's disheveled clothing, torn of buttons. It's a fever that can't be brought down. But desire is also a stench of a burned home, it's muffled screaming in the night, it's a laugh sharper than a glass edge. Derek curls into himself every night, tries to forget.
Desire is an idiotic word from romances where beautiful ladies faint, and their knights carry them around. Hormones acting up when body stops reacting to brain's orders. It's slightly sweating palms, discreetly wiped on jeans, expensive perfume or cheap cologne. For Stiles desire is natural, normal, something he can't and won't control. It's shame when his eyes stray to the Alpha's wide shoulders. Quickened breath when he looks at Lydia's soft mouth. And a silly smile, when he remembers what he watched a few days earlier, in the middle of the night, sound muted. It's a whisper in the night and a muffled moan, because sometimes he's not alone at home. It's Derek's hands, which are sometimes too hot, too sure on his shoulders. Desire is still a reflex of arousal, red cheeks and glazed eyes. Swallowing loud enough for everyone to notice. It's dreams and fantasies. It's a taste of pepper and chocolate. Little more yet.
IV. Envy
It's a green-eyed monster that wants everything, wants more, every time. It wants someone's happiness just for itself. A quiet growl when someone's too close to his home, his betas, his friends. It's frustration and aggression when others have something he wants for himself, something he doesn't want to share. He envies smiling people holding hands, because he knows he won't get it, not yet. He bites his lips when a mother strokes her child's head, because he misses his mother's delicate, narrow hands that could soothe any pain. Every muscle clenches, hard like stone when Erica and Boyd whisper to each other, sharing secrets. He'd like to know them. He'd like someone to be silent with. Everything screams within him when Scott is too close to Stiles, when he pats his shoulder lightly, brotherly. He'd like his family back, Laura back, Peter to be normal. He envies, because he wants it all for himself, every spark of happiness. He envies, because he knows that maybe it won't be all right, not ever. That every day he'll have to clench his teeth, be alone. Envy has green eyes, just like Derek.
Envy is stupid, irrational, senseless. It's a desire to have things, people, feelings. A desire that's hard to control when you're eight. An unpleasant throbbing somewhere in the middle of his chest every time Melissa called Scott home. When all the children in school drew cards for Mother's Day. Stiles curls by a small marble grave mumbling under his breath how much he hates them all. When you're sixteen and your friend suddenly becomes a werewolf, gets stronger, faster, sees and hears better, becomes the team's captain, then envy is different. Mixed with admiration, desire to achieve the same. Then it's healthy. Sometimes it hurts so much, when people around are happy, and he's still alone. When he's thought can't get back on the right track, bursting like soap bubbles. Envy is an angry look when Erica is too close to Derek in the front seat of his car. An irrational feeling, because the Alpha doesn't belong to him. It's a bitter taste when everything he'd done for Lydia doesn't matter the moment Jackson appears. Envy is idiotic, it has no right to exist. It's easier just to close his eyes.
V. Longing
Sometimes fire can be freezing cold and yet burn every cell in his body from the inside. It's like a cold breeze on a rainy day in the fall. Water drops fall on his face, replace the tears, because Derek can't cry anymore. Longing is sorrowful howling on every anniversary of the fire, it's loneliness among the rubble that had stopped smoking long ago. Images under his eyelids, more and more blurry. His mother's smile at a Sunday morning, Laura dancing in the field, his father's gentle eyes. Longing is the past he'd like to drown in, the past he can't let go. Careless summer days, first snow, smell of cinnamon. It's his first full moon when he changed. When he runs ahead, not matter where, further, faster. He can't and he won't forget, even though he knows that unless he makes a first step, his only home will be emptiness and loneliness. Smiles will fade, just like memories, he'll be living among the ghosts that will never let him out of their embrace.
For Stiles longing tastes of dark chocolate. It melts on his tongue, velvet. It's a photo album he keeps in his drawer, his mother's scarves and her last perfume bottle. Little things hidden in a cardboard box that used to be a treasure chest. Longing is melancholy, sad and sweet, like a girl lost in thought on a park bench. Like an unfinished book that the writer kept putting off for later. It's hardest when the rain hits the windows, world loses its colors. Everything is gray, misty, distant. Like a stone grave on the cemetery, by which there are always fresh flowers and candles. Then Stiles sits on the bed, opens the album, looks at photos. Sometimes he cries, after all tears are good, necessary. If not for them, he couldn't breathe. He misses his mother, misses pancakes with fruit he always ate during summer holidays. He still remembers, but knows it's not all. Sometimes you need to let go of the last, walk away to make room for something new.
VI. Loyalty
For Derek Hale loyalty is the only thing left. Toward the dead and the living, toward himself and his memories. It's the only thing he could be redeemed with, currency with which he could pay for what had happened for the rest of his life. He was loyal toward Peter even when he'd killed Laura. He didn't betray his betas even when they left him. It was the only constant in his life, something to hold to, to function normally. He'd known the taste since he was a child, salty and metallic, because loyalty meant blood. Thick and brown that seeped slowly from wounds poisoned by the past. It was in him, around him. An empty word, an empty promise that became Derek's whole world. Loyalty had Isaac's bright eyes, who stood by him when everything crumbled, when he knew it could cost him his life. It had Stiles' hesitant smile, who followed him questioning his every word, but never left him. It was nothing like blind obedience or empty promises. Loyalty was everything he knew.
Stiles could lie well enough if he only wanted. He'd been lying to himself and others since forever, that everything was all right, that he was happy. That he's just a clown with ADD. He lied to his father when he wanted to protect him from everything that was happening. He lied to Scott, saying that everything was fine, that there was nothing to worry about. He lied to himself, every time he looked into a mirror, that it's better and easier. He'd never thought about loyalty, not really. If somebody told him that he's like that, he'd laugh in their faces, maybe quip something sarcastically and walk away. When Derek told him that, he looked down and turned his back to him. Loyalty wasn't something he understood, not completely. He didn't betray anyone, he always had their backs, ready to help, to protect. But he kept lying, which excluded honesty. Last time he heard he was loyal was when one of the hunters broke his arm, threatening to break the others if Stiles didn't tell him where the pack was. He said nothing.
VII. Trust
Derek didn't want to trust, he couldn't. Past betrayals still burned, etched into his skin, buried teeth in his flesh. He couldn't trust if he wanted to survive. If he wanted to protect them, he'd need to be careful to the point of paranoia. He had to be alone, even though the pack was near. Trust was a privilege he couldn't afford. Not yet. Maybe never. Trusting someone meant turning his back to them, placing his life in their hands. Uncertain, trembling. He couldn't do it. He wouldn't do it. He didn't believe that someone would sacrifice himself to save him if the moment called for it. Trust was sweet, the sweetest. It was more important than love and affection. He couldn't trust. Stiles held him up in the water for two hours, until his teenaged body couldn't take the strain anymore, but it didn't matter. He put his life into his hands when he was hit with the wolfsbane bullet, but it didn't count. He was dying anyway, so he could as well let the teenager do anything. He didn't want to trust him. He was falling asleep, though, with his back turned to him, defenseless. The seventh devil was trust that shouldn't have existed.
Stiles always looked for lies, hidden motives, double meanings. He couldn't take anything on trust, he had to touch, check, know for himself. He browsed through his father's papers at night, through his mother's medical records. He didn't believe in werewolves until he saw one with his own two eyes. He wouldn't turn his back, he wouldn't confide in anyone. There was only his father and Scott, but they didn't know everything, either. A few times they even let him down. It seemed only fair, after all he let them down many times, too. Trust was tasteless, odorless. It was transparent. Sometimes he likened it to a spider's web, thin, but able to hold a great burden. But web, after all, seemed too weak, too brittle and fragile. Stiles didn't trust, because he didn't want to lose everything again. He wasn't a child anymore, he didn't believe in promises spoken solemnly, he didn't believe in blood brothers, crooked little fingers. He didn't believe there would be someone to catch him if he fell. Derek didn't trust him, he didn't trust Derek. A simple calculation. But the werewolf kept falling asleep next to him, didn't look around, ready for danger. Stiles had never felt safer but when the Alpha was behind him. His seventh devil was trust.