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“You smoke?” Less a question and more a shocked statement at catching the beta behind the McCall residence, hand curled over a beat-up navy blue lighter and a bent cigarette. Shoulders hunched against the wind, hoodie flapping over his temple, Theo briefly flicks golden eyes at Scott before returning to the futile attempt at catching fire.
“I learned nothing from my absent alpha. Struggled a lot.” Half the words lost to strong gusts, Scott is left filling the blanks. He thinks he got it right. His childhood friend rarely speaks about what it was like for him after being bitten. Without a Stiles, he can imagine it was unbearably scary. “Found out by accident that when I'm overwhelmed, I can light one of these up and it burns out my senses for a short time. Doesn't harm us either.”
Frustration wrinkles his brow. “If I can get it to light.” The confession is enough to draw Scott close, to huddle with Theo, who unconsciously leans into his presence. Hands cupped around Theo's, the flickering flame catches and cherry blooms bright and acrid at the end of the cigarette. Their eyes meet. Smoke curls around them. Nature nips at clothing, plucking at fabric like an incessant child vying for attention. Maybe the cigarette trick works. Or maybe it's something else.
The moment lasts too long, and Theo's eyes drop, cheeks pink.
Well-loved fabric, pulled from the depths of the messy closet, gently clutched knuckle deep in trembling hands. It faintly smells of smoke and the body spray Scott used the last time the hooded jacket had been worn. Though no one is in the house, the alpha still makes certain the door is closed before yanking his shirt overhead and replacing it with the dark grey hoodie. He could buy a whole pack of cigarettes, and the effect would not be the same. Ignoring the devastation the singular article of clothing will do to his mind later, in the moment it's a balm for him. And to a wolf missing a connection that was never really there. How little of it was true? His wolf does not care. And, sometimes, when Scott hates himself a little too much, he doesn't care either. Shrugging on the hoodie, or burying his face in the fabric to pretend that once more, his life has not imploded spectacularly.
“Geeze, stop that.” Hand smacked away from the plastic bit at the end of the string, Scott's face burns. “Did that heathen Stiles teach you those bad manners?” Afternoon light has turned the green of Theo's hazel eyes golden in a way not relating to the inner wolf at all. They are pretty. Like broken Christmas lights. Between thumb and forefinger, Theo twirls one of the hoodie strings, fingertips rolling over the aglet Scott unconsciously put in his mouth.
“Sorry,” is all he can manage, mind distracted by the beta. Amusement wafts off the boy he lays on top of. Both of them curled up and were comfortable on Scott's bed after a long day of not dying in Beacon Hills. So much has happened. So much more seems like it will. But Theo had pulled Scott away to 'take a break'. Pink, full, absolutely kissable lips curl into a smirk. Scott shoves that thought down, deep.
“Nah, it's ok. Just don't chew on everything you put in your mouth.”
Scott blushes again, and the rumbling laugh from Theo feels good in his chest.
Sometimes his side still pains him.
Sometimes, so does his chest.
Scott thinks more of him should ache.
Maybe all of him.
Blood drips from clawtips, a drip-drip tune only he can hear, ears tuned to the sound for no other reason than it's where his gaze is fixed. He's slumped sideways on some stairwell at the back of the high school. It is always school. Without usual teenage dramatics, this place might actually be the death of him. Not today. But someday.
Further down the steps is the week's enemy. Last one of his vacation.
What a summer.
His vision does some weird, wonky thing where it dims, and his head goes fuzzy, so he closes his eyes against the sting.
Scott is his own rock, Melissa made certain of it.
But.
Sometimes, he feels like a boulder plunging into the bottom of a pond.
Sinking.
Sunk.
Stuck.
To the left of the stairwell...
The encounter left everyone shaken. To no surprise, Theo has lit up the second he escaped the attention of the pack. He will not smoke around them, and Scott thinks he understands the reason. To admit what the nicotine and chemicals do is to admit he feels off kilter. It warms the alpha more than it should, that Theo feels comfortable showing him. As he does whenever he finds Theo like this—he does not seek him out, but manages to find him regardless.
The beta had taken a hard hit, thrown into lockers. Took a minute to get to his feet. Theo's favorite hoodie now sports a broken zipper, but Scott thinks they can fix it or replace it. That Theo has lit a cigarette means he is not okay, so Scott does not ask. Joins him instead, shoulders touching until ash is almost longer than the remaining stick. When Theo exhales, Scott looks at him.
Framed in hallway lighting, hair askew, and sporting light stubble and a fading bruise on his left cheekbone, Theo is devastatingly handsome. He flinches. The cigarette drops between their shoes, connected shoulders jostling Theo. He apologizes. “S'okay. I have more.” That Theo feels he needs a full one is telling. The interaction with the Dread Doctors really rattled him.
Like this, Theo is unable to pick apart his chemosignals, allowing Scott to look and look and look without discovery. Steady hands pop another cigarette from a crinkled package and pat the side pockets of the hoodie for the beat-up lighter. Walking over, Scott had seen him put it in his jeans.
With a boldness he's never felt, he reaches for the lighter. Right back pocket. Thumb hooking on stitching as fingers pluck the lighter free, Theo's expression has blown wide, mouth parted, and pulse pounding so hard Scott can see it thumping in his neck. He holds the lighter up. Theo doesn't even look at it. Shoulders squaring, cigarette and lighter drop with a clatter as their mouths collide.
Hands on his jaw, sliding down his neck, trembling and uncertain. Passionate. Theo does not kiss with confidence. He kisses like Scott is cherished porcelain.
“Got everything?”
“Uh, yeah. Just this last one.” Cardboard box slid into the last remaining space of the trunk, expression twisting into a grimace as the jeep groans.
“I'm sure it's fine, honey.”
Scott offers a smile to his mother. Goodbyes are never easy, is what he has found. Some, harder than others. He will be back when he can, when college has steadied out. Some of the pack is already gone, and the rest had a party for him the night before. He hugs his mother and heads on the road before anything more can stop him.
In the trunk is a box with odds and ends. Underneath it all is a grey hoodie with cigarette burns and half-chewed strings.
Woven into the fabric are pieces of his heart.