Archive of Our Own

₊⋆˖⁺‧₊☽ ❀ ☾₊‧⁺˖⋆₊

It all started off with terrible coughing fits.

Right after the whole mess with Anuk-Ite, Stiles was finally free from the supernatural disaster of the month, and he could finally continue his internship just like he'd planned. For once, everything was finally going smoothly — even Scott said that everything seemed to calm down back home, so Stiles could actually focus on his future in the FBI.

But, unfortunately for Stiles, since the universe had a personal vendetta towards him though, that was exactly when everything went to shit. 

He really wanted to stress that it began with a simple cough. Something as harmless as that could've been taken care of with home remedies made out of honey, ginger, and garlic. When that didn't cure the cough, he moved to some over the counter medicine. Nothing seemed to be helping, though, as the simple cough seemingly worsened, making his lungs burn with each inhale.

Could Stiles catch a break for one day? Just one. That was all he was asking for!

Now, the coughing fits followed him until the rest of the academic year, turning both finals and his internship into the worst kind of hell. But, hey, he was trying to look at the positives — he was going back home, finally visiting his dad since Christmas. While there were no more supernatural disasters to take care of, it didn't mean that his life stopped being hectic. Trying to fit studying, his internship, some social life, and a decent amount of sleep into one week was much harder than people made it out to be. All of this left him with no possibility of going back during spring break, far too many things piling up at once.

As Stiles packed his bag for tomorrow's flight, another coughing fit overcame him. This one, though, seemed much more intense. His lungs squeezed uncomfortably, his chest tightened, and he could taste blood on his tongue.

Okay, worrying. Something was definitely fucking wrong.

Stiles rushed to the sink in the bathroom of his dorm room, gripping the porcelain to hold himself up. He squeezed his eyes shut, as he coughed and heaved, his mouth filling with blood and chunks of… something. Was he actually dying? He survived so much supernatural shit, only to get defeated by some fucking cough. Oh, fuck! Were his lungs collapsing? Were they filling up with blood?

He forced his eyes open, taking a careful glance at the white sink, before blinking quickly in confusion. The blood was expected, if the metallic taste was anything to go by, and he watched as droplets of the blood contrasted with the porcelain, lazily dripping down the drain. What caught his attention the most, though, were small lumps of flower petals.

Out of all the things, Stiles did not expect to see flowers.

This wasn't the first time he'd seen some bizarre stuff — being involved with werewolves throughout his formative years made him almost immune to all sorts of bizarre encounters. But this? Yeah, this was definitely new. He had yet to hear about a person coughing up blood and flowers.

Stiles leaned one hand against the tile wall next to the sink, holding himself up. His body became uncooperative, his legs barely holding him up, so he let his body fall uselessly to the floor. He put his face in his hands, trying to take deep breath, despite the burning in his lungs.

"This isn't happening. I'm dreaming. This is just a bad dream,” he mumbled in between wheezy breaths, his words jumbled. “You've gotta wake up, Stiles."

Hah! It'd been a while since he'd told himself those words. But after checking the time on his phone and counting his fingers, he had to admit to himself that he was, in fact, very much awake. 

When Stiles left Beacon Hills, it was meant to be a fresh start for him — this time for good. For once, he could live his life without turning over his shoulder, waiting for something to get him. It had been fucking forever since he could just live without dealing with whatever supernatural disaster the universe was about to throw at them. His life was more than just surviving and if that wasn't the most liberating thing in the world.

But, like always, the universe had a different plan.

Stiles wanted to yell and scream and complain about the unfairness of this all. He was just a human! He wasn't meant to go through whatever this was. And he wasn't supposed to catch some weird, supernatural disease that apparently made flowers spawn in his lungs — this didn’t happen to normal humans. A human like him was never meant to be in the middle of this supernatural mess in the first place. What had his life come to? 

It took him a few more minutes before forcing his body to move from the cold floor. With a groan, he held onto the wall, his entire body shaking with the effort to stand, his body shaking. Each little movement was seemingly putting pressure on his lungs, making it harder to breathe. In a way, he was still waiting for the moment he woke up, only to laugh about this fucking disaster.

But Stiles could still taste the blood in his mouth. A few droplets of blood got on his hand, already dried. And the petals kept mocking him, reminding him of the reality he had to face now.

It shouldn't be such a surprise that the universe was playing with him once more. Nothing was a better entertainment than throwing Stiles into yet another messy situation. Or, maybe, he was just cursed — this wasn't the first time he'd ever thought about it. Actually, his newest theory included that every person, who came from Beacon Hills, was somewhat cursed. It didn't matter how far away Stiles got, the supernatural had already sunk its claws deep into his bones, making itself known once more. He couldn't run away, no matter how much he tried. Not even living across the entire country helped.

He shook his head, as if to clear his head, trying to focus on the task on hand — cleaning the stained sink. With the help of some toilet paper and water, he managed to wipe the blood down to the best of his ability, before throwing the toilet paper in the trash.

Stiles could find a way to get through this fucking disaster. He'd dealt with so much worse over the years — werewolves, kanimas, evil fox spirits… he'd seen it all. What were some stupid flower petals, eh? He was capable enough to solve so many mysteries before, keeping people around him safe and sound, so he was just about to add another one under his belt. With the power of the internet and Adderall, he could do anything.

He just had to. There was no other way.

Being back in Beacon Hills was just as strange as it had been during Christmas break. 

Everything was the same, as if this whole town was forever meant to be frozen in time. The same could be said about so many small towns, as they opted for clinging to the past, seemingly allergic to ever changing anything. Somehow, it was both depressing and comforting at the same time. Stiles was fully aware of how stupid that sounded, but his feelings about this town were forever going to stay complicated. 

And while being back in Beacon Hills was bringing too many complicated feelings, stepping inside his house managed to bring in some sense of comfort. As he walked up the stairs to his room, he looked around. Nothing changed — the same pictures on the walls, the same dents in the plaster from playing lacrosse in the house with Scott, the same scent. 

His dad walked to the open door of his room, peeking inside with a small smile on his face. "I'm thinking we could order some takeout.”

Stiles only hummed in response, throwing his bag on his bed, deciding to take care of it later. If he was being honest, he wanted to start his research on what these flower petals in his lungs meant, but the last thing he wanted was to make his dad sad by not spending time with him.

The flowers could wait. He had yet to have a coughing fit today, and his lungs weren't even hurting that bad, even if trying to breathe was still a huge bitch.

"Dad, if you're gonna tell me that you've been only eating fast food while I was away, I'm going to be disappointed," huffed Stiles, as he looked at his dad with one eyebrow raised. "This better be a celebration thing and not just your casual Wednesday night."

His dad rolled his eyes, waving his hand as if to completely dismiss Stiles. "I can't believe my own son is accusing me of something like this in the first five minutes he's back home!"

"Uh-huh," mumbled Stiles, but decided not to argue with his dad. Again, he was back for two months; he could have this discussion with his dad later.

"Have you been doing alright?" his dad asked, his expression shifting. Stiles knew that expression too well, had seen it too many times over the years. The way his eyebrows pinched together, making a crease appear in between them and the wrinkles on his forehead more prominent. The ultimate face of a concerned parent that Noah Stilinski had mastered over the years.

Stiles really didn't want to get into that question or think too much about his current life and problems. He had never been one to dwell on such silly matters like his mental well-being — it'd been like that for as long as he could remember.

But he had been distant these past couple of months. It was hard to keep up with everything at all times, since no one bothered to inform him that trying to juggle university, an FBI internship, and still trying to keep his sanity intact was such a difficult task. So, of course, he neglected talking to his dad. Or even Scott and the rest of the pack for that matter.

He didn't really know what it was all about, at least, not at first. How could he possibly feel like he was forgetting all the people he held so dear for such a long time? Why was it that he was only overcome with this immense sadness only when he was around them? Well, according to many forums, YouTube videos, and random psychology articles he'd found, it was all because of his ADHD — because his neurodiversity simply had to include more symptoms than what met the eye at first.

Still, it didn't erase, or even excuse the fact that Stiles had barely talked to his dad since Christmas. A call twice a month that was usually initiated by the Sheriff himself, because Stiles forgot what day it was most of the time. His brain being wired differently wasn't helping the overwhelming amount of responsibilities he'd been facing, making him feel like his body was paralyzed — well, metaphorically, of course. Realistically, he knew he could make his body move, but his brain always had a different plan once getting overwhelmed.

Of course, there was also this tiny little problem with the flowers in his lungs. So very tiny, actually, it was no biggie at all. He could fit it into his very long list of being an adult, for sure. Because, realistically, he'd been dealing with things that were much more stressful these last few months. All the responsibility was now on his shoulders, no longer being able to ask his dad for help, or simply watch over his shoulder as he did all the adulting. So, yes, the flowers were just a tiny inconvenience. 

"I'm sorry," croaked Stiles, the words slipping past his lips.  It was easier than answering the question at hand.

"What for?" asked his dad, already taking a step closer. He put one hand on Stiles' shoulder, squeezing it. His look hardened, and Stiles fought the urge to squirm in uncomfort. The usual Sheriff look that his dad wore on his face would've been enough to make him confess a few years back. Well, it was definitely a good thing he managed to get immune to it. 

"Ah, you know," mumbled Stiles, waving his hand, hoping to dismiss the question completely. 

Why couldn't he ever talk about anything? Why were words so fucking hard during times like these? He was told he was a sarcastic asshole with a big mouth countless times, so why couldn't he express what was actually bothering him?

Stiles knew this dad would go to hell and back to help him — he'd made that crystal clear over the years. The man didn't even care that Stiles had killed someone, self-defense or not. Putting more stress on his poor dad would be unfair. Trying to explain there was something wrong with him without actually knowing what the fuck was happening seemed like an additional set of issues that his dad really didn't need.

"You have nothing to apologize for, okay?" said his dad, pulling Stiles into a hug. He tightened his embrace just the tiniest bit, before speaking up, "I'm so happy to have you back home. I just… I love you. You know that, right?"

Stiles allowed himself to relax for a brief while. During moments like these, he felt like a teenager once more. Nothing had ever changed — Stiles was back in Beacon Hills, and he was facing yet another supernatural mystery, as if he hadn't had enough of those for a lifetime. It really didn't seem to matter how hard he fought for a normal life; the curse of Beacon Hills was always going to follow him. But feeling like a teenager meant getting shielded by his dad from all the scary things, and for once, the monsters could just be the ones under his bed. Just for a moment, he let himself bask in the comfort of it all.

"I love you, too, Dad."

Stiles was desperately trying to remember how he'd once done this type of research on supernatural topics before. A long time ago, he could find just about anything with a few clicks of the mouse and a few hits against the keyboard. It seemed like the internet had failed him completely, not showing anything that could've solved his problem. Perhaps he could get rid of the flowers by inhaling some sort of weed killer? Some vinegar? That seemed like a good idea, no?

Stiles was far too stubborn to give up — there just had to be something to get rid of the flowers and the annoying cough they brought with them, he was sure of it. But maybe he just had no idea where to actually look. Was this disease actually out of his reach?

"God," groaned Stiles, slumping in his chair. He glanced at the screen of his phone, checking the time — the thing was definitely mocking him, as it showed that it was almost three in the morning. He had spent the entire evening with his dad, coughing every so often, as the petals scratched the back of his throat. Somehow, he convinced his dad that he just caught a light cold from the strong AC that was blasting on the plane.

Stiles was quick to get sick, after all.

Getting sick too often began shortly after the Nogitsune possession which he assumed had made his body weaker than ever before. These days, he was far too prone to sicknesses, turning even the smallest cold into the worst fevers. If that wasn't enough, he could never get warm, even despite Beacon Hills' excruciatingly hot summers.

After the whole Nogitsune incident, he searched for every possible way to get rid of the never-ending cold that had seeped deep into his bones, even having to go through Facebook groups that promised some obscure hacks on how to get warm. But to no avail, of course. As his last resort, he'd even come to Deaton, asking for some tips and tricks—

Oh. Hold on.

Deaton.

If there was anyone in this godforsaken town that would've known about weird flowers growing inside one's lungs, it had to be Deaton. And even if Stiles didn't know what it was exactly, Deaton would have way more resources.

Stiles snatched a marker from inside the drawer of his desk, rushing toward the whiteboard that was in the corner of the room, almost tripping over his own feet. He scribbled down his observations and symptoms about what was happening to him, his hand-writing soon becoming unreadable, looking for patterns and clues inside of this flower mess in ways that only made sense to him. His eyebrows were pinched together, as he bit down on the inside of his cheek, his eyes frantically darting around the whiteboard.  

He was going to figure out what this disease was. There was no need to rope anyone else into this — he'd been dealing with his own shit for the last year, what was adding one more to the list?

₊⋆˖⁺‧₊☽ ❀ ☾₊‧⁺˖⋆₊

Finding the ability to control one's wolf took a lot of training, patience, and, at times, losing sleep over trying to find a way to achieve this. It wasn't meant to be easy; that was the whole point, for it was meant to teach more than just keeping one's wolf calm. Apart from being able to control oneself, it also worked as a way to be taught patience and maturity.

At least, that was what Derek's mother used to say all the time (with Peter chiming in occasionally for confirmation).

When Derek was much younger, controlling his wolf had always seemed impossible — it almost seemed like Peter was going to give up on him at times, since the usual techniques simply weren't working on him. To say it was frustrating was an understatement. And he couldn't blame his uncle that much, because in comparison to Laura, who managed to find a way to control her wolf immediately, he was failing at the most basic task of them all. 

But, at the end, he managed to find to reach his goal by using a different method. While a lot of werewolves around him relied on finding anchors in their loved ones, Derek opted for choosing a sensation as his anchor that had been following him for as long as he could remember: anger. 

Somewhere deep inside his mind, he was capable of realizing that it wasn't exactly healthy — he wasn't relying purely on his strength in life, no matter what people might've thought about him. He knew it wasn't the best option, but he simply didn't care enough to look for something else. It worked, so why bother changing it?

Derek absentmindedly thought about Peter's warning a long time ago; how anger wasn't a reliable source of control and how it was going to bite him in the ass one day. Oh, and how he hated the fact that his uncle was right.

The changes went almost unnoticed, at first, but looking at it in retrospect, Derek should've known something was wrong. He knew he was becoming agitated, but he simply blamed the fact that the recent encounter with Anuk-Ite was still weighing on him. On top of that, there were still rogue Hunters roaming around, and Monroe had yet to be caught. Anyone would've been agitated. But the agitation soon morphed into… something ugly.

Derek was feeling like he was being forced to go through the werewolf puberty once more, desperately trying to figure out how his body even worked. Claws and fangs coming in during the most inconvenient times. Eyes changing color after getting annoyed over the smallest of things — spilling a drink, breaking a dish, or even accidentally tearing his shirt. If that wasn't bad enough, he had problems with shifting, too. It either happened completely out of his control, or he wasn't able to shift at all. Again, this hadn't happened in a long time.

For a while, he had hoped those loss of control was just something temporary — maybe it had to do something with the residue of Anuk-Ite's energy, but it seemed to be getting worse and worse, no matter how much time had passed.

It seemed like the universe was trying to prove to Derek over and over that he was cursed. He must've been, there was no other way around it. After all, why else would any of this be happening if it hadn't been for the fact that he was cursed? And not just this, of course, throughout his life, something kept sending more and more misfortune his way.

Shall we look at the facts, then?

First, he lost Paige, being forced to kill her to take her out of her misery. Then, Kate entered his life, made him feel like he could finally move on, only for the woman to kill most of his family members. Once he found the courage to return to Beacon Hills again, he lost Laura, feeling his world physically crumble underneath his feet, as the last bit of his support was now gone. After that, he managed to acquire a pack, only to lose it a few moths later — one by one. He could still smell the rotting flesh of Erica's body. He could still feel Boyd's warm blood on his hands. And, well, at least Isaac managed to get out. Oh, and he couldn't forget about his other ex-girlfriend being a serial killer. Yeah, the universe had definitely cursed him.

Derek remembered all the tales his mother used to tell him when he was just a boy; how The First Werewolf — Lycaon — came to exist through a curse and how he passed this gift through his sons. The First Werewolf supposedly watched over them until this very day, even from the afterlife.

Maybe Derek had somehow offended Lycaon when he was younger. Maybe he simply didn't pray enough or give enough offerings, and Lycaon had decided to punish him for his foolishness. Or, perhaps, Beacon Hills had cursed all of its citizens, in some way, or another — some were simply more unfortunate than others.

A curse would explain it, no? The Pack of Alphas that found its way to Beacon Hills, the Dark Druid, and also the whole situation with Stiles...

Ah. Stiles.

No matter what Derek might've said about him, Stiles was far from weak — for a human. Getting possessed by an ancient fox spirit and then getting taken by the Wild Hunt definitely wasn't for the weak. It was impressive, in a way, for the guy to be armed with nothing but a baseball bat and come out mostly unscathed.

"You know…" began Peter while lounging on the couch in the living room of Derek's loft. He was inspecting his nails and looking far too comfortable, despite Derek telling Peter many times not to barge into his space.  Apparently, his uncle had a terrible case of selective hearing.

"What?" huffed Derek, irritation already prickling under his skin. Alright, that wasn't that out of the ordinary, since this was Peter, and he could easily push all of Derek’s buttons at once.

"You've been acting like your teenage self these days," noted Peter, pointing at Derek. 

His uncle looked so fucking pleased with himself, too, as he spoke those words into existence, acting as if he was above everyone. Derek could already feel his claws coming in.

"See that thing?” added Peter, pointing at Derek’s hands. Derek glanced at his palms, frowning at wounds that his claws left there. "Yeah, that's what I'm talking about, 'Rek."

"Stop calling me that," muttered Derek, shifting his gaze to his claws. Ugly and stained with blood — nothing new, quite frankly.

"I ought to bring the nickname back for old time’s sake. You’d better get this under control, you know? A man your age shouldn't let… whatever is going through your head bother him this much."

"I'm not taking advice from a fucking lunatic like you, thank you very much."

Derek finally willed his claws back, sighing with relief. Everything was fine. If he repeated that to himself over and over again, it would come true. Manifestation, or whatever it was called; Erica used to say that a lot.

Peter rolled his eyes, but still looked amused, as he stood up from the couch. He walked to the front door before pausing, glancing over his shoulder. "Did you notice? Stiles is back."

Derek only hummed in response, his eyebrows furrowing. He did notice — it was a strange sensation. The presence of those from the pack who decided to leave and came back were far more prominent, at least to Derek. In a way, he assumed that being left without a pack for long made him more sensitive to these things. He noticed the same thing when Stiles came back during winter break. It had always been easier to pick on the other man’s presence in the midst of other people.

"Peter?" Derek called out, despite his better judgment. "Have you ever heard of Lycaon cursing anyone?"

Peter tilted his head from side to side, as if he was pondering over the thought. "Not personally, but The First Werewolf was… well, something. He was cursed to become a wolf, was he not? Perhaps, we all carry some curse because of his actions."

"Right."

"But if you believe you’re cursed by the big bad wolf himself, try some offerings, yeah? Talia used to believe in all that. It might help you." With a chuckle, Peter finally left, leaving Derek alone.

The words were enough to further confirm his suspicions about being cursed, and so Derek started looking into offering for the First Werewolf that very evening, all while ignoring the agitation radiating from his wolf. Oh, and if Peter's confirmation wasn't setting him off, the persistent presence, that was now in Beacon Hills, sure was. 

Could he not have just one moment of peace? Just one.

₊⋆˖⁺‧₊☽ ❀ ☾₊‧⁺˖⋆₊

Stiles didn't really know how to feel about seeing Deaton again. On one hand, he was excited to see the veterinarian, hoping to perhaps catch up with him, but on the other... he'd been having this strange sensation of something ever since he'd entered the town the other day. 

And so, when he was dropped off at the animal clinic by his dad, he had to pause for a minute, or two. It wasn't the first time he'd found himself standing before this building, seeking help from Deaton. In a way, it seemed like nothing had ever changed, and he was fifteen once again, facing yet another supernatural crisis. 

This entire town was causing him to drown in so much nostalgia and for a moment, he didn't even know what was worse — the flowers in his lungs, or the ache in his heart?

Now, it was far more complicated, though. He didn't miss Beacon Hills, but he also didn't not miss it. There were good things, so many of them actually, but over the years, he had buried so many pieces of himself in the soil of this town that it was impossible not to be bitter about it.

Finally, Stiles forced himself to open the door, stepping inside the clinic. He heard Deaton calling out to him somewhere from the back of the clinic, telling him to wait just a second. Once the veterinarian emerged from the back of the clinic, Stiles watched as he smiled — soft and warm — before stepping closer to him. 

"It's good to see you, Stiles," said Deaton, as he wrapped one arm around Stiles, pulling him into a quick hug. "I heard from the Sheriff you were finally coming back home. I guess, I just didn’t expect to see you here. I wasn't aware that you had a pet. Or a supernatural crisis on hand."

Stiles waved his hand dismissively, coughing once when he felt the petals scratching the back of his throat. "No, no. Nothing like that," he reassured, leaning against the counter, his arms crossed across his chest. "I had some time to kill before Lydia finally comes from college today. And Scotty still has my Jeep, so for once I'll be the passenger princess."

Deaton chuckled, "Must be nice not to be the designated driver all the time, huh? Well, come on in," he encouraged Stiles, before they both walked to Deaton's office, in the back of the animal clinic. 

Stiles sat on a nearby chair, shifting in his seat to get comfortable. He cleared his throat when he felt the scratching sensation, hoping to push it down. He watched, as Deaton walked to a small coffee machine, turning it on. "So, how have you been? Any disasters happening?" 

"No, actually, apart from some rogue Hunters, things have been rather calm," replied Deaton, while the coffee machine was humming quietly in the background. "Ah, but I have been in contact with my sister these days. We're... trying to work on our relationship, it's actually a nice change."

Stiles smiled as he listened to Deaton talk about his sister, before accepting a cup of coffee that the veterinarian handed to him. "That's good! I'm happy for you, man."

"I'd say it's a bit strange to talk to her casually almost every day, but yes, it's good," agreed Deaton, walking up to his desk and leaning against it with his own cup. "How's life outside of Beacon Hills?" he asked with a soft smile. 

"It's..." Stiles trailed off, suddenly unsure what to say. 

When he first left for his internship, he'd never been happier. Being away from the mess was the exact change he needed in his life. But, in a way, it seemed like Beacon Hills had always followed him, even across the country. He still remembered being shown the footage of Derek running through the woods on the first day of his internship. 

"It's different," Stiles said in the end. 

"Good different?" asked Deaton, taking a sip of his coffee. 

Stiles nodded, his lips curling up in a smile. "Definitely."

"Then I'm happy to hear that," replied Deaton.

"Oh, I've been meaning to ask," began Stiles, but cut himself of, clearing his throat. The fucking flowers were messing with him more and more today; it was becoming the biggest pain in the ass.

Deaton raised his gaze from the mug of coffee he was holding in his hand, tilting his head to the side. "What is it?"

Stiles licked his dry lips, trying to ignore the metallic taste in his mouth.  "I somehow ended up in a rabbit hole," he rambled, “and I started reading up on different curses, like people getting punished for different things they've done wrong in life. And one in particular caught my eye."

Deaton narrowed his eyes, but hummed, as if to encourage Stiles to keep talking.

"I couldn't find the name, or why it even happens. I just know that a person starts coughing up flowers? Or something like that? It's been—just fucking bothering me this whole time, and I know that you have all the knowledge on these things."

Deaton listened intently, his brows furrowed, pressing his lips into a thin line. He set the coffee mug on a nearby cabinet before opening one of the cupboards where he stored his books with all the supernatural knowledge.

"I’ve heard about this condition," said Deaton, as he started flipping through one of the leather-bound books, squinting at one of the pages. "I actually witnessed it once during a visit to Japan when I was younger."

"Oh, come on!" snorted Stiles, rolling his eyes. "You're still in your prime! I bet all the ladies wanna get a piece of you! Or gentlemen. We've never had that talk before, actually," he added, frowning.

Deaton looked up from the book, raising both of his eyebrows and blinking slowly.

Stiles nodded, pursing his lips. "Noted."

"Ah, here it is." 

Deaton stepped closer to Stiles with an open book in his hands. He tilted the book to the side, pointing at one of the pages. "It's called Hanahaki byō in Japanese. The literal translation is ‘flower vomiting disease.’ However, that definition didn't describe what I saw."

Stiles swallowed around nothing, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, as he dared to glance at the pages, already feel the unease crawl up his spine. Multiple x-rays with flowers blooming inside one's lungs, and photos that included a person's dissected lungs with the roots buried deep inside the tissue were staring back at Stiles, making his stomach churn. Was this the fate that was awaiting him? Were the roots slowly taking over his lungs with each passing second? Was that the reason why every inhale seemed more and more difficult? 

"It wasn't a pretty sight. I met a young man, who fell sick seemingly out of nowhere, before he started coughing up flowers. The disease progressed too far  — the flowers suffocated him. It is a horrible way to go, as the flowers make your lungs collapse completely. I heard some people describe it as the most beautiful disease in the world, but…" Deaton trailed off with a sigh, shaking his head. Stiles' head snapped up from the pages before him, looking at Deaton with wide eyes. 

"Why—why does it happen?" stammered Stiles.

"And so, Ōkuninushi and Inari Ōkami come together as one," said Deaton, his eyes skimming the text written in Japanese, "bringing punishment… hm, I believe this passage can be translated as to the one who has caused another person's heart to wither."

"What the fuck?" hissed Stiles, scrunching his nose. "What does that even mean? Is the curse referring to murder?"

"Ōkuninushi is deemed as the kami of love and prosperous marriage, while Inari Ōkami is the kami of agriculture. I believe the translation is referring to breaking someone's heart."

Oh. 

Well, shit.

Stiles had never considered himself to be a heartbreaker before. His love life wasn’t exactly prosperous.

Sure, he dated Malia for a short while, but he hadn’t been a good match for her. In some ways, he always believed she deserved more than just a relationship — the girl did spend most of her life as a coyote, she needed so much more than just being someone's girlfriend. And Malia actually agreed with Stiles, even called him smart for that.

With Lydia, he'd been chasing after her for so long, thinking she was exactly who he needed in his life. Then, they got together, spent six months in a semi-long-distance relationship… and then they broke up.

Because it seemed like Stiles was incapable of maintaining an actual relationship. The initial rush of finally getting the one who was meant to be the love of his life was wearing off. And, now, do not get him wrong, he felt like an absolute dick for it. Spent night after night, simply pacing the halls of the university dorm. He couldn't help but feel like as if he'd wasted Lydia's time. But despite all that, the point was, they broke up with no hard feelings.

Or was Stiles completely wrong about that?

When he was younger, his dad used to say all the time that people hinting on their emotions used to fly over his head. Did that happen once more? Was Lydia actually heartbroken?

Stiles swallowed, wincing at the scratching in his throat. The petals were persisting, alright.  "And how can you… undo the curse?" he asked, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt.

Deaton looked back at the book, squinting at the book, seemingly searching for the answer in the text. After a moment, he pointed at one of the sentences, reading, "The one whose heart has been withered away holds the answer to breaking the divine punishment."

"Can the book stop speaking in riddles?" muttered Stiles, rolling his eyes. "Fucking hate these riddles."

Deaton only snorted before closing the book, tucking it under his arm. "I believe the book refers to forgiveness. The bearer of the curse must be forgiven by the one whose heart has been broken," he explained. Then, he raised one eyebrow, looking at Stiles intently. "But I do wonder... why suddenly such interest in these things? I assumed you wanted to keep this part of your life behind you?"

Clever bastard.

Stiles uncurled his fists and sucked in a shaky breath. 

He should've known Deaton was going to find all of this strange and eventually start asking questions. After all, the veterinarian was far too smart for his own good, but Stiles had already decided on not dragging anyone else into this. So, denying everything it was.

But his dad always said that he wore his heart on his sleeve, far too jittery to truly conceal the truth. Something about him was unable to hide his facial expressions. In the same breath, though, he'd been to hell and back, his very core changing in ways that no one could possibly understand. He tried to explain it to Scott once, but gave up somewhere in the middle — he was just grateful that his best friend didn't try to pry the truth out of him.

Stiles was changed. He buried who he was in the soil of this town.

"I told you I went down a rabbit hole," said Stiles, with his chin tilted up. "I can't stop my brain from what it chooses to focus on. You might not be a therapist, but you know how I am."

For a brief moment, it seemed like Deaton wanted to say something, perhaps push a bit more, and Stiles was already bracing for it. But, in the end, simply nodded, the movement almost hesitant.

You see, Stiles wasn't the self-sacrificial hero of the story, like Scott was — he didn't need constant supervision, or check-ins like his best friend. He was capable of taking care of himself. After all, he even managed to get all the information he needed out of Deaton, without raising too much suspicion. He was going to figure this out, or so help him God.

Lydia was already waiting for Stiles at the parking lot of the animal clinic, leaning against her car while looking down at her phone.

Once he got closer, she looked up and swiftly pushed her sunglasses up on top of her head. Even with a few strands of her hair sticking out, she still made the move look practice and  perfect — Lydia Martin, everyone.

"Took you long enough," complained Lydia, even as the corners of her mouth curled up. She reached her arms out, bringing Stiles into a hug. "It's good to see you."

Stiles hugged her back, wrapping his arms around her waist and allowing himself to savor this brief moment.

After such a long time that he'd spent trying to get her love, he didn't think that he would rather have Lydia as one of his best friends, and yet here they stood. It was different from Scott — the relationship he had with Lydia. Sure, his acquaintances back in university were poking fun at him for being best friends with his ex-girlfriend, thinking he wanted to somehow save their relationship. But, truth be told, he had yet to find a person whose mind was capable of keeping up with him, even on those days when he didn't make any sense.

Because where Scott was all about emotional support and offering a shoulder to cry on, Lydia always had a solution to any crisis Stiles was going through. It was if just by looking at him, she knew exactly which way his brain was going. Their minds moved equally fast, even though Lydia was far more eloquent about it.

"Missed you," confessed Stiles before he could stop himself.

Lydia tilted her chin up, looking far too pleased with herself. She lightly patted Stiles' cheek, the gesture teasing. "Of course, you did. Who wouldn't? Now, get in, loser. We're going for a ride!"

"Are you really quoting Mean Girls?" asked Stiles, chuckling despite himself.

Lydia only waved him off with a hand before they both got into the car. Once she started the engine, she left the parking lot and got them on the road in a record time, and Stiles could feel his body getting pushed into the seat.

They quickly caught up on their lives, both talking about their respective adventures on trying to navigate through their new lives. Lydia talked about a recent internship she did, before adding she was also doing a few other projects at once, looking so incredibly unbothered it made Stiles snort. They both agreed on how weird it was, not having to deal with supernatural drama every week — though, they would've traded finals for any supernatural danger in a second.

"Scotty’s supposed to get back on Friday," commented Stiles as skimming through the latest text message from his best friend. "Maybe we can all hang out."

Lydia hummed, watching Stiles from the corner of her eye. "Good. We can have a girls' night at my place.” She grinned. "I'll call Malia to see if she's free."

Stiles nodded, putting his phone away. He let himself bask in the comfortable silence that stretched in between. This was yet another perk of being only Lydia's best friend. Now, he no longer needed to fill out the silence with never-ending quips, simply because he wanted to impress Lydia. Oh, and he was definitely enjoying the fact that he no longer needed to make a fool out of himself to get her attention. 

And just like that, suddenly, he could taste blood in his mouth. He could also feel his lungs squeezing uncomfortably. And this time it wasn't just the pressure on his lungs. No, something else was digging deep inside them, probably attaching to the walls of his lungs.

Stiles coughed once. Twice. And soon enough, the light cough turned into a coughing fit, and he curled into himself. He pressed his fingers against his chest hard, as if that would stop the flowers from growing.

"Stiles?"

Lydia reached one hand out to firmly squeeze his shoulder. "Stiles!" she exclaimed.

The car stopped abruptly on the side of the road, the sudden movement making Stiles lurch forward, only getting stopped by the seatbelt.

"Hey, what's wrong? Are you okay?"

Stiles licked the roof of his mouth, tasting the blood. The coughing fit thankfully subsided then, enough for him to inhale deeply, even though his lungs still hurt like a bitch.

"Yeah," he croaked out, leaning back in his seat. "I'm okay."

Lydia handed him a bottle of water, and Stiles took it with a grateful hum. The water was warm from being in the car too long, but he couldn't find it in him to care too much, as it still did its job at fighting against the annoying scratching in his throat. He took a few gulps before setting the bottle into a cupholder in between them.

"Are you sick?" asked Lydia, her eyebrows knitting together in confusion.

Stiles shrugged vaguely. "I think the AC on the plane fucked with me. And my allergies are starting, too, but I'm fine. Sorry for freaking you out."

Lydia huffed, but her tone morphed into something more worried, "This is what you get for not taking care of yourself properly. I keep telling you to stop neglecting your health, Stilinski!"

Stiles let out a weak chuckle, tilting his head back against the head-rest of the seat. Ah, it'd been a while since he'd gotten scolded by Lydia. She used to do it a lot when they were still together, and always for a good reason, too. Was it a strange thing to say that he missed these little things? Not their romantic relationship, no, just these small moments he could no longer experience on a daily basis.  

While Lydia wasn't one to express her worries out loud as she usually opted for a good scolding, she still cared so deeply about her loved ones. And she did sound pretty concerned just now with Stiles accidentally freaking her out.

After a beat of silence, he spoke up again, "Listen, when we broke up—"

"We're not getting back together," she instantly cut him off.

He clicked his tongue, opening one eye to look at her. "That's not what I was trying to say," he mumbled, letting out an annoyed sigh.

Lydia arched an eyebrow, as if waiting for him to continue.

"Did I hurt you? You know, when we broke up?" Stiles tried again, his voice quieter this time.

Lydia hummed, tilting her head from side to side, as if deep in thought. Then, she said, "I don't think so."

Stiles fully turned to her, his brow furrowing. "You don't think so?"

"I think that entire period of our lives was needed," began Lydia carefully, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. "We both had to realize what we needed. We didn't need each other romantically — we needed someone who understood, and we needed someone to help us grow. We are who we are thanks to each other. But I don't think you hurt me. You inconvenienced me, if anything," she quipped.

"Uh-huh," mumbled Stiles, letting out a snort that hurt his throat more than he was willing to admit.

"Why do you ask?" asked Lydia, her voice soft.

For a split second, Stiles wanted to tell her everything. It would've been easier to have someone as smart as Lydia on his side. Someone who could easily pick up patterns his buzzing brain usually missed. But all the words died in his throat, leaving a bitter taste on his tongue.

"No reason," he replied.

Lydia scoffed, rolling her eyes, before starting the car once more. "You're lying."

"I am," whispered Stiles.

"I won't force you to talk," murmured Lydia, "but you're not alone. Remember that."

₊⋆˖⁺‧₊☽ ❀ ☾₊‧⁺˖⋆₊

After the fire and the death of most of his family members, Derek had never thought he was going to witness another family gathering ever again, but here he sat, anyway. This was all Peter's fault, actually. He'd decided to stop being a deadbeat father and include Malia in every possible activity. However, this also meant that Derek got dragged into some of these activities.

But, truth be told, he didn't exactly hate it. His loft became just a little less lonely on days when his mind got the better of him, making him rethink every single decision he'd ever made throughout his life. Malia liked to bicker with Peter over pretty much anything, just to see his reactions.

This time it wasn't any different, and Derek watched with quiet amusement as Malia kept on arguing with Peter. To be fair, he didn't even know what started the argument in the first place, but right now they were bickering about a jacket that Peter bought recently — it felt like those horrible soap operas Laura used to watch, but far more entertaining.

"Don't think you're off the hook," declared Malia, crossing her arms over her chest, as she shifted her gaze from Derek. It seemed like the argument over the new jacket was over. 

Derek rolled his eyes, slumping in his seat on the couch. "What did I do?"

Malia gestured at Derek's entire being, as if that was meant to explain everything. Actually, Derek was taking everything back — the more time Malia spent with her father, the more dramatic she got. He was about to put an end to those little gatherings.

"You have to be a little bit specific with him, Mal," mused Peter, having the nerve to look amused. Derek fucking hated this family — the only two remaining members of the Hale family, and they were both out to get his ass. Wasn't that just beautiful?

"You're doing that thing," mumbled Malia, narrowing her eyes.

"What thing?" asked Derek, raising both of his eyebrows. "You're not explaining anything here. Like, at all."

Malia groaned, shaking her head, as if she was disappointed — who raised that girl, anyway? Acting like she was the wisest one here? She spent most of her life as a coyote, after all, so what did she know, anyway?

"You've been acting weird," noted Malia, putting her hands on her hips, tilting her chin up, "for a few days now. And, yeah, you're always stuck in that strange, gloomy headspace of yours, but you're being extra weird."

Derek scoffed, his face twisting into a grimace. "I'm not being—"

"Oh, but you are," Peter cut him off, waving his hand, as if to completely dismiss whatever Derek was trying to say. On top of everything, he had this knowing look on his face — had Derek mentioned that he absolutely hated his uncle? If not, he was saying it now.

"Really?" deadpanned Derek, raising one eyebrow.

Peter hummed in agreement. "I mean, we all know why it's happening, don't we?" he mused, having the audacity to look amused. "You're being real stubborn when it comes to your feelings, 'Rek."

"The Hale family isn't exactly known for being emotionally intelligent, is it now?" Derek shot back, a quiet growl escaping his throat.

Could his wolf calm down for five seconds? Derek had spent years mastering his control over the most primal instincts of his mind, all for it to go down the drain simply because… Why exactly? There was no reason for him to be losing control. And if there was? Well, the metaphorical box with a title 'Problems for later' still had enough space.

Malia groaned, dragging her hands across her face. "Okay, this needs to stop," she hissed, "immediately."

Derek lazily pointed at Peter, raising both of his eyebrows. "He's the one insisting on being a dick and talking in riddles."

"And you're acting like a child," said Peter, not bothering to even look at Derek, instead inspecting his nails with an amused expression.

Malia stood right before Derek, and alright, it seemed like she took after the Desert Wolf when it came to being terrifying, based on some of the stories he'd heard over the years — he wasn't going to mention it, though, he doubted it was going to do him any good.

"Look," said Malia, her voice even now. It seemed like she'd been trying to work on her anger, and he was rather proud of her. "I feel like I've spent enough time around you and Stiles to know where the problem—"

"What does Stilinski have to do with anything?" huffed Derek, scrunching his nose. Truth be told, Stiles was the last person he wanted to talk about right now. For some reason, anytime the other man was mentioned, he could feel this strange nagging feeling in his stomach. He really didn't want to get into that, because adding yet another problem to the list seemed too troublesome.

"Because you're obviously pining after him!" exclaimed Malia, throwing her arms up in frustration.

Derek could only stare at Malia for a long moment. All the words that were initially trying to get out of his mouth died on his tongue, turning to ash. There was no fucking way she had just said that. Hah! Good one, honestly — she seemed to be getting some sense of humor, that was nice. She couldn't possibly be serious about this, could she? No, no, this was just some big joke.

Because Derek couldn't possibly feel any sort of affection towards Stiles. Nah. He fucking refused. Had he not mentioned that he'd already had enough problems as it was? He had his own wolf to deal with! That took up all the spots on the list, actually.

"You're joking," spat Derek, in the end, a dry chuckle escaping his throat. He shook his head, standing up. On auto-pilot, he grabbed his car-keys from a small bowl placed on a shelf near the main door.

"Oh, look, he's leaving," noted Peter, finally bothering to look up from his nails. "Have we not established that he's not good with feelings? You must be gentle with him, Mal. He has yet to get through his emotional puberty."

Derek gritted his teeth, digging his nails into the palms of his hands, slowly feeling them grow into claws. This time, he didn't even bother fighting his wolf that was just moments away from taking complete control over him. All of this was so fucking ridiculous, anyway. To even suggest that… Malia sure had some audacity.

Without even bothering to answer, Derek quickly opened the door, ignoring the blood stain he left on the door handle — the two freeloaders could take care of that.

Derek rushed out of his loft, reaching the parking lot near the apartment building in a record time. Somehow, he managed to calm down just enough to start the car without either breaking the car-key, or digging his claws into the steering wheel. For a moment, he closed his eyes, taking in a ragged breath.

This was so stupid — all of it.

Because he really wanted to stress the fact that he had no affection towards Stiles. How could he? And even if (the biggest if in existence), it wasn't like he deserved Stiles. No matter what the other man claimed, Stiles was a good person — deep inside his very core was someone so incredibly good and kind, even when he showed it in his own ways. Stiles looked out for those around him and managed to keep everyone alive. 

Well, almost everyone. But what was one death in comparison to all the blood that had stained Derek's hands over the years? How could he possibly touch Stiles with the same hands that had been responsible for the deaths of so many people? 

Derek was not worthy, and he wasn't scared to admit it. Because Stiles deserved someone less violent. Perhaps, even someone who would've been gentle with him — for Derek had not been gentle in years, and he wasn't sure if he remembered how to be. 

The initial plan of driving around the town for an hour or so had turned into an all-nighter, his eyes glued to the road. Derek had yet to figure out where he was even going. On top of everything, he'd been pointedly ignoring the texts coming from both Peter and Malia, debating on turning off his phone completely.

Despite that unplanned drive, it was actually a great decision. It was helping him to clear his head and all that. It didn’t matter what his two remaining family members might’ve thought about it — they had absolutely no idea what they were talking about. Derek had never made a wrong decision, ever.

The never-ending night slowly shifted into a pleasant morning, making Derek sigh, his shoulder slumping, as some of the tension left his body. It seemed like the wolf got just a little bit calmer during the day, as if getting ready to rest, leaving Derek finally in control.

He stopped by a gas station, getting something quick to eat and refilling the gas tank — the long drive had its consequences, alright. Once everything was in order, he sat back in the car, debating whether or not he should be going home already. That was when his phone rang, signaling a new notification.

At first, Derek wanted to ignore it, thinking it was once again just Peter, or Malia, demanding that he go home, but curiosity got the better of him, taking a glance at the screen — it was neither of the free-loaders, but instead Sheriff Stilinski, asking if Derek could stop by the police station whenever he could. Apparently, there was some news about a group of Hunters spotted near Beacon Hills.

It wasn't like Derek had anything planned, anyway.

The moment Derek walked into the police station, he wanted to fucking leave.

The scent hit his nose immediately, finding its way to him, even through all the people at the station, despite the early hours. It was one of those scents that he couldn't have forgotten, no matter how much he tried — the top notes of it had changed over the years, but the core remained the same: oranges. It must've been the mildest scent he'd smelt, and yet here he was losing his mind over it.

Just as Derek wanted to back away, leave the station completely unnoticed, Parrish was already waving at him, silently telling him to come closer. Well, shit. So much for staying unnoticed.

He walked closer to Parrish, his shoulders drawing closer to his ears. The scent of oranges was coming directly from the Sheriff's office, even as he was telling himself to ignore it.

Derek was pretty sure that Parrish was telling him something — he could hear the background noise of his voice, but it was far too difficult to register the full meaning of the words when his mind was going in a million different directions.

When he suddenly left his loft a few hours ago, it was to ensure he wasn't going to even entertain what Malia had suggested — the girl had some nerve, he was going to give her that, but still.

Derek wanted to stop thinking about it, perhaps even completely erase the thought from his memories, somehow, but the universe had never worked in his favor, unfortunately. Instead, the source of his so-called emotional outburst simply had to sit on the other side of a glass wall. Lycaon truly must've cursed him, huh?

The door of the Sheriff's office opened, making Derek turn his head. It was some strange instinct, but he refused to get into it. He watched as Stiles walked out of the room, still talking to his father with an easy smile on his face. It seemed like that, despite living in a big city now and doing an internship for the FBI, his style had yet to change — a hoodie that was just a little too big, an atrocious graphic t-shirt, baggy jeans, and sneakers that had seen better days.

Despite that, Derek found himself smiling ever so slightly. It was a nice sight — a scene that seemed to be forever frozen in time. For a while, he could pretend that nothing bad had ever happened to them. Just for a tiny second, they hadn't been through even more pain.

Finally, Stiles shifted his gaze to him, pausing for a second, nearly tripping over air, before he gathered his bearings once more, clearing his throat. "Oh! Hey!" he said once he walked closer to Derek. He leaned one hand against a nearby table, his lips stretched into a thin smile. "Good to see you."

"Yeah," breathed Derek, looking away for a brief moment, "good to see you."

Why was this even so fucking awkward? Sure, they hadn’t seen each other in a long while, but facing countless dangers side by side was meant to strengthen people's relationship, no? So, why was Derek fighting the urge to squirm? Was it because Malia's words were still replaying inside his head? Or was there a different reason? He really didn't want to think about it.

Stiles opened and closed his mouth before clearing his throat. "It's… yeah. I just, uh, I didn’t expect to run into you here," he said, his expression softening.

Derek was just about to reply, already opening his mouth, when he noticed a subtle smell clinging to Stiles — metallic and pungent, making his nose wrinkle in distaste. He was no stranger to the smell of blood, and he was able to recognize it quite easily. But as he looked Stiles up and down, there was no visible wound on his body.

What even was happening here?

"Derek!" the Sheriff called from his office, making Derek look away. "Thanks for coming in so quickly. Come in, come in."

"Well, I should leave you to it, eh?" mused Stiles, offering Derek a soft smile. He raised his hand, as if he wanted to perhaps touch Derek, before ultimately deciding against it, and only nodded quickly, before rushing out of the police station.

Derek couldn't help but look as Stiles walked away. It was some sort of impulse, or instinct, or some third option he wasn't even aware of. He just couldn't help himself. It took Sheriff a couple of more moments before he managed to catch Derek's attention.

He shook his head, finally forcing himself to look away, but only when Stiles' scent started to weaken. Even then, the metallic hint was still there, making him frown with worry.

What was that about? Was something wrong with Stiles? Far too many questions, and not a single answer. Derek hated how out of loop he was feeling — yet another reminder that he didn't seem to fit into Stiles' life, after all.

₊⋆˖⁺‧₊☽ ❀ ☾₊‧⁺˖⋆₊

While Stiles liked to ignore his problems until they eventually went away on their own, it seemed like his flower problem seemed to be far too persistent. He could've lived with coughing up the flower petals for the rest of his life — that wasn't the issue there.

The actual issue was the fact that it was getting harder and harder to breathe. So, the rest of his life didn’t seem that far away.

He'd seen the photos of how horribly the disease progressed so he could guess what was happening in his lungs — roots were finding their way through the tissue, making it impossible to take in a deep breath. And he didn't even want to talk about how much blood he'd been coughing up alongside the petals.

Whoever said that the Hanahaki disease was the most beautiful illness was a fucking fool. If Stiles were to survive this, he would've found the person and personally smacked them with a bat. That would've shown them.

Once Stiles managed to get over his first coughing slash vomiting slash not being able to breathe fit of the day, he noticed that Scott had already called him twice. So, his best friend was finally back in the town, and Stiles was feeling on the verge of death. Lovely.

Scott was meant to pick him up in less than an hour, so they could go to Lydia's place for a "girl's day", as she'd called it. Sure, Stiles could be one of the girlies, and Scott just liked being included.

But, hey, maybe with the power of friendship, he could easily overcome whatever hardship that was awaiting him — deadly illnesses might've been included in the package, no?

When Scott arrived in the old blue Jeep, Stiles couldn't help but smile. It seemed like his best friend had been taking good care of his poor car — it actually looked rather decent, despite the terrible shape it was in, when Stiles passed it to Scott. Huh, who could've known that all it took was actually taking care of the car.

Stiles sat down on the passenger's seat, shooting Scott a practiced smile. "Hey."

Scott opened his mouth, as if to say something, before wrinkling his nose. "Dude," he mumbled, "how much fucking cologne did you use? Last time I checked, there was no need to impress Lydia anymore."

Ah, yeah, that. Stiles had decided to be smart about this, actually — he refused to risk Scott smelling the blood, or maybe the flowers. He wasn't really sure which one was more difficult to explain, and so, he'd opted for spraying the cologne all over his body. The sharp scent did not help his breathing; he wasn't going to lie.

Stiles only shrugged, letting the conversation move forward, as Scott started to update him on all the things he'd forgotten to mention during the time they were apart. Ah, here it was again. That strange sense of guilt of being unable to keep up with those who were supposed to be important to him. What a fucking friend Stiles was.

When they arrived at Lydia's place, they were ushered inside by Mrs. Martin, who immediately called out to Lydia to let her know they were already there. Without waiting, they both walked up the stairs.

"Took you long enough," complained Lydia, instead of actually greeting them. She was sitting behind a desk, looking into a big mirror, while plucking her eyebrows with deadly precision. Stiles still had nightmares about the one time Lydia plucked his eyebrows — never again, please and thank you.

"Wow, what a warm welcome," said Stiles, even as the corners of his mouth twitched. "What's up with you today?"

Lydia looked at him in the reflection, raising one perfectly styled eyebrow. She even looked him up and down. What even was that for? "I just like being on schedule, and you love to ruin it, unfortunately," she replied, tilting her chin up. Then, she gestured at a stack of various face masks next to her. "Choose a mask, we're doing a spa day."

Stiles could get behind that. Was there a face mask that was somehow going to cure him of coughing up flowers? Skin care was a rather advanced thing, no? Use this mask to get rid of pores on your nose and the flowers in your lungs, two in one!

No? Okay, whatever, one could dream.

"Just how many do you have?" asked Scott, shaking his head, even as he started to already pick through them.

Lydia turned to Scott, pointing at him with the hot-pink tweezers. "Do you, or do you not want to be included, Scott?"

"I want to be included," sighed Scott, his lower lip sticking out in a small pout.

Stiles snorted, wanting to add a little quip, but the universe had different plans. His lungs constricted in a split second, making him double over. He could already feel the metallic taste in his mouth, but this time it was also joined by a strange, moldy aftertaste, and oh my God… Were his lungs fucking rotting? Were the flowers sucking up all the nutrients?

"Stiles!" exclaimed Scott, immediately stepping closer to grab him by his forearm. Stiles could see black veins spreading through Scott's forearm, and at first, he wanted to step away, not wanting to put his best friend through the pain he was feeling, but the grip on his arm was too strong.

"I'm…" Stiles trailed off when another coughing fit caught him off guard. He put one hand in front of his mouth, spitting petals into his palm. After a moment, when the coughing fit subsided a little, he pulled his hand away, just enough to take a look, his face twisting into a grimace.

There wasn't just blood this time, no. Blood clots, mucus, and tiny pieces of a pinkish tissue, all covering the petals. That couldn't be too good. But maybe some coltsfoot tea and honey could fix him right up. His mom always used to say not to underestimate Slavic home remedies.

"Stiles. Oh, darling," murmured Lydia, rubbing soothing circles in between his shoulder blades. Had Stiles been in a better condition, he would've made fun of her for calling him 'darling' again. Well, there was always later.

"I'm okay," mumbled Stiles, scrunching his nose. Well, maybe denying everything right now was not the best idea, but it had become his coping mechanism, okay? His comfort action, if you will.

"Okay? Okay?!" yelled Lydia, and by the looks of it, she was on the verge of smacking him over the head. He didn't blame her, though — it probably had to be scary to see someone in so much pain and even cough up blood. Oh, and the petals, too. And some lung tissue, he couldn’t forget about that. Minor details.

But that was exactly why Stiles didn't want them to know. He'd been so used to dealing with everything alone, and the last thing he wanted was to make his friends worry. Especially now, when they somehow managed to escape all that supernatural bullshit. They all deserved a fresh new start, no? Oh, but here came Stilinski, ruining it for everyone.

He truly must've been cursed, huh?

"Dude, you're in so much pain," whispered Scott, his eyes wide. The black veins kept going, and Stiles really wanted to tell him to stop — Scott was soon going to overdo it, he knew it. But, at the same time, it was so fucking nice to take in a deep breath for the first time in what seemed like forever. And, unfortunately, Stiles was an awful person, so Scott had to be stronger just for a second too long.

"It's… ah, it's not that bad," choked out Stiles, when both Scott and Lydia helped him to sit down on Lydia’s bed.

"Can you stop downplaying everything for ten seconds?" hissed Lydia, as she cleaned the mess of blood clots and petals on Stiles' palm, using wet wipes. Scott was still holding his other wrist, steadily taking the pain.

Stiles could feel his throat tightening, but this time, it had nothing to do with the Hanahaki disease. He'd been fighting for so long to get out of this town, leaving so many things buried in the soil of Beacon Hills, only to be right where he started. Oh, and how he missed it. He missed every single thing.

And he knew it made no sense, okay? He was fully aware of it. But, unfortunately for Stiles, he was forever going to have a complicated relationship with this town. It brought him so much misfortune and pain, changing him to his very own core. But, at the end of the day, Beacon Hills was his home. The home that held some of his dearest memories — meeting Scott, getting to help his dad at the police station, all the pack nights they managed to have...

Had there been a possibility to go back — just for a day, just for an hour — Stiles would've done everything to do it. It didn't matter how much he tried to convince himself, because he was forever going to crave being foolish and naive for just another moment. He wished to dig out those parts of himself, even with his bare hands, even if it were to make his fingers bleed.

Stiles was never going to be whole ever again. He couldn't go back. He could never go back.

"I'm sorry," choked out Stiles, "I'm so fucking sorry."

"Oh, and why are you sorry?" murmured Lydia, combing her acrylic nails through his hair. Stiles allowed himself to lean into the soothing motion, closing his eyes. Something too close to a whimper was threatening to escape his throat, and so he gritted his teeth, keeping the noise in.

Stiles only shrugged, feeling rather hopeless. He was sorry for so many things, regret staining his life for as long as he could remember. At this very moment, though? He wasn't too sure — perhaps, he was sorry about freaking his best friends out and putting them in such a terrible spot.

"We need to go to Deaton," decided Scott, finally pulling his hand away. It seemed like even for the true Alpha, this was far too much to handle. Stiles didn't blame him. At least now, the pain was somewhat manageable.

Stiles cleared his throat, almost gagging, when the moldy aftertaste came back in. "We, uh, we don't really have to," he mumbled, rolling his shoulders, as if to get rid of some of the tension there. "I already asked about it. Uh, he doesn't know that I’m the one who’s been affected, but yeah."

Lydia frowned, narrowing her eyes, even as she continued to play with Stiles' hair. "So? What is it? Speak."

Stiles huffed, rolling his eyes. "What am I? A dog?" he mumbled, but his lips curled up in a small smile. "It's called Hanahaki disease. Makes flowers grow in your lungs and all that. Apparently, you get cursed if you break someone's heart."

Lydia gasped, "That's why you asked me if you hurt me!"

Stiles grimaced, but nodded, nonetheless. "Bingo."

"Well," mumbled Scott, taking Stiles' hand into his once more, "how do we get you, ah, un-cursed?"

Stiles clicked his tongue, biting on the inside of his lower lip. "I have to be forgiven by the person whose heart I broke," he sighed. "How fucking cliché is this? I mean, honestly."

Lydia pursed her lips. "Well, you didn't break my heart, so we're clear there," she said, her face twisting into concentration.

"Malia?" offered Scott, tilting his head to the side.

"I doubt Malia cares about that stuff," noted Stiles, shrugging one shoulder. "I mean, she doesn't really do the whole emotions stuff, anyway, so I really don't think it's her heart I broke."

"Any flings? One-night stands?" asked Lydia, raising both of her eyebrows.

"Why do I feel like you're gonna judge me no matter what I say?" muttered Stiles, his lower lip sticking out in a pout, before heaving another sigh. "Nah, nothing like that."

"Then, we've gotta talk to Malia," said Lydia, nodding her head curtly.

"We?" asked Stiles.

"Yes, Stiles, we," replied Lydia, overpronouncing each word. "Because I know you, and I know how stupid you can get. So, we're all going to see Malia, since she couldn't join us today, anyway, and we're all gonna ask her if you have broken her heart. Because I'm sure that if we were to send you out to ask her, you would chicken out."

Stiles opened and closed his mouth, as if to defend himself, before scoffing. "I don't like you very much, right now."

Lydia laughed, letting go of Stiles' hair to instead grab her car keys. "You love me, let's be honest here. And I don't even need creepy werewolf senses to know that you're a big liar."

Scott sputtered. "Hey now! They're not creepy!"

Stiles ended up sitting in the back of the car, holding a plastic bag in his hands, because Lydia refused to clean the petals and blood clots. He wanted to be more mad about it, he really did, but she did have a point. Plus, she was doing all of this for a reason.

You see, people truly didn't give Stiles enough credit. He noticed far too many things, actually, his brain moving at the speed of light at times and picking up on things others didn't even bother to look at. Most people simply thought that Lydia was controlling, because she liked it when things were done her way, but that wasn't entirely true. When the world was crumbling around them, she liked to find things she could control, otherwise she would’ve lost her mind. 

He truly deserved a prize for the most hyperactive brain. And maybe some financial compensation for all the shit he'd been through. Was that so much to ask for?

Lydia parked the car right before the Tate household, turning around to look at Stiles with narrowed eyes. "No more flowers?"

Stiles scoffed, "No. Do I still have to hold the stupid plastic bag?"

"Yes," replied Scott, instead. His entire body had been tense ever since they left Lydia's place, and Stiles couldn't stop the guilt that was just about to eat him alive. See? This was why he refused to tell anyone anything. Because then you had the boy-savior Scott looking like a kicked puppy.

Who wanted to see that?

Lydia knocked sharply at the front door, tilting her chin up. Once Henry Tate opened the door, she simply walked past him, dragging Stiles behind her, while Scott was left to somewhat explain they were barging in without any invitation.

Sorry, Scotty!

They immediately spotted Malia in the hallway, as she watched with a frown on her face. "What are you—"

Before she managed to finish her sentence, she was getting ushered into her room by Lydia, as she kept dragging Stiles by his hand, not giving her time to even take in what was happening.

"Okay, what the fuck!" yelped Malia when Lydia shut the door behind them. "No, seriously? What is up with everyone?"

Stiles opened his mouth, wanting to ask what she meant by that, but Lydia was already sitting down on the edge of Malia's bed, crossing one leg over the other, raising both of her eyebrows at Stiles.

Okay, not losing any time, huh? Lydia was truly the most efficient person.

"I… uh…" mumbled Stiles, burying his fingers in his hair. Before he managed to continue, Malia was already stepping closer, sniffling him — okay, it seemed like all of the lessons on how to be a normal human that Stiles gave her were absolutely for nothing.

"You smell like death," said Malia firmly, wrinkling her nose. She whipped her head to look at Lydia, her frown deepening. "Why does he smell like that?"

Lydia licked his lips, cocking her head to the side. "Go on, Stiles."

Stiles groaned, sitting down on the floor, his body feeling far too heavy. The pain was slowly returning, bit by bit, seeping deep into his muscles and bones. Well, life without pain was nice while it lasted.

As he began to explain, Malia joined him on the floor, sitting cross-legged, as she leaned forward, completely in his personal space, even though she kept wrinkling her nose due to the scent of death clinging to him. In a way, it was nice that she still wanted to be around him despite that.

Oh no, was Stiles about to get emotional all over again?

Once Stiles finished, he took in a deep breath, only to wince, as his lungs constricted, making him cough. Malia quickly passed him a tissue, and he took it with a quick nod, before spitting out more petals.

"You really weren't kidding," mumbled Malia, gnawing on her lower lip. She shook her head, her shoulders slowly tensing, getting closer and closer to her ears. "You didn't break my heart."

Stiles heaved a deep sigh, folding the tissue as neatly as possible, ignoring as his blood seeped into the soft material. "I mean, are you sure?" he asked carefully. "You've never been too good with emotions."

Malia clicked her tongue, digging her fingers into the fabric of her jeans. She was quiet for a long time, as if actually debating herself on what to say — wow, she did make a lot of progress. Had they not been in such an awkward situation, he would've actually gotten all giddy about it.

"When we broke up," she began, "I was… well, maybe a bit angry, yeah, but you didn't hurt me, let alone break my heart. If I'm wrong about that, sure, then I forgive you, and we're cool. But I did spend most of my life as a fucking coyote, and I needed more than a relationship. Sure, I enjoyed it — it was nice, but it wasn't what I needed. And it wasn't what you needed, either."

Then, what did Stiles need?

It seemed like he didn't need Lydia or Malia. So, what was it really that he was craving? Maybe, the only thing that he actually needed was to dig out the pieces from the ground, somewhere around the Nemeton, and hope that it would give him the answers he was craving.

But was it even worth it?

Stiles nodded, forcing himself to stand up. He dusted off his pants, offering Malia a strained smile. "Thank you," he said, "and I missed you."

₊⋆˖⁺‧₊☽ ❀ ☾₊‧⁺˖⋆₊

Derek really didn't know when exactly he had stopped associating the sound of someone barging into his loft with a threat. It didn't seem like the best thing to happen, in case someone actually wanted to try and take his life.

But, no. These days, whenever someone barged into his loft, it simply meant that either Malia or Peter were coming in to be freeloaders. Sometimes both at the same time, because what did Derek need sanity for?

Buy one, get one for free, huh?

"What now?" asked Derek from the kitchen, opening the fridge and immediately wrinkling his nose at the empty state of it. "I have no food, so don't even try!"

"Oh, you act as if we're leeches," huffed Peter, peeking his head into the kitchen, raising one eyebrow.

Malia came into view right after, frowning more than usual, and… uh-oh, that couldn't be too good, could it? "We need to talk," she said, only further confirming his worries.

Derek sighed, but nodded, cautiously following the two of them into the living room. He couldn't even think of what she could possibly need to talk to him about, especially not when she looked that serious. If it was going to be again about Stiles, he was actually going to scream — it was bad enough he acted like a fool before him at the station.

"What? If it's about Stiles, I have nothing else to say," mumbled Derek, crossing his arms over his chest. He shifted his gaze to Peter, who only raised his hands in defense.

"Don't look at me," said Peter with a dry chuckle. "My dear daughter only called me, demanding that I drive her here. And, really, what kind of father would I be if I hadn't—"

"It is about Stiles," Malia spoke up, cutting Peter off — the outraged look on his uncle's face was actually rather satisfying. "But it's something else. And it's a bit of a problem, actually."

Okay, worrying.

Derek frowned, gesturing with one hand for Malia to continue.

"He's got this…" Malia sighed, pushing loose strands of hair from her face. "It's a disease. I—I don't remember the name, because I'm pretty sure the name is in Japanese, or whatever, but he's been coughing out flowers."

Over the years, Derek had heard all sort of crazy diseases, usually affecting the supernatural creatures, but he'd never heard of something like… that. And last time he checked, these things were not supposed to be a problem of normal humans.

But it seemed like Malia wasn't done yet, as she spoke up once more, her lower lip quivering, "He smells like fucking death."

Derek could feel his entire body lock up, feeling his nails elongate into claws almost immediately, digging into his bicep. There was a faint buzz somewhere deep inside his brain that was getting louder and louder each second. Then, through all the buzzing, a memory popped up in his brain, accompanied by the scent of blood he smelled, while talking to Stiles. Oh, now it all made sense, didn't it? His lungs must've been already collapsing at the time.

The thought of Stiles coming so close to death once again was making him sick to his stomach. He'd already seen Stiles on the verge of death before, during the whole Nogitsune situation  — it wasn't a sight that was easy to forget. Pale skin, blue lips, dark circles, and the smell of the impending doom that was following Stiles everywhere.

"How do you treat it?" blurted out Derek, before he could've stopped himself. "Could the bite get rid of it? And—and what the fuck do you mean by flowers? As in actual fucking flowers?"

Peter snapped his fingers, nodding his head. "Ah, the Hanahaki disease," he said with a hum. "Some say it's the most beautiful disease in the world due to the flowers that are growing inside your lungs. They show up very nicely on the x-rays. A magnificent sight, truly."

Derek could feel a growl clawing out of his throat, but he tried to suprass it. They had things to discuss, and his wolf wasn't going to be a productive participant in the conversation. "Now it's not the time to ponder over the aesthetics."

Peter only shrugged, but decided to shut up for now.

"How do you treat it?" repeated Derek, looking between Malia and Peter. "If Stiles needs… I don't know, money or resources, I'll give it to him."

Peter scoffed, raising both of his eyebrows for a brief second, "Go figure."

The growl finally escaped, and Derek could feel the fangs poking his lower lip. He grabbed a small glass statue from the table, before hurling it at Peter. His uncle dodged with ease, having the nerve to look amused. The glass shattered against the wall behind the other man, the shards flying across the floor.

"You think this is fucking funny?!" shouted Derek, standing up. He buried his fingers in his hair, ignoring how his claws dug into his scalp — he was going to heal, anyway, so who cared?

"What I do think is funny," began Peter, lounging in the armchair, "is the fact that you will be having such a strong reaction and still deny the fact that you're in love with the guy. That is hilarious, actually."

Derek pointed his finger at Peter, as if to say something, but he decided against it. Peter was in one of his moods again — because of course he was. Anything that Derek was going to say would've been used against him, so there was no point in speaking to his uncle. Instead, he took in a deep breath, trying to find something to anchor himself.

The anger had been out of the equation for months now, so he didn't even go there. When he closed his eyes, his mind started to lead him into a different direction. He could hear the faint laughter, see the crinkles around the eyes, feel the softness of the skin underneath his hands, and smell the scent of oranges.

Derek could feel his body slowly shifting back, making him sigh with relief. It'd been such a long time since he'd managed to shift this quickly. And no, he really didn't want to think about who what actually helped him this time.

"I'm asking one more time," Derek saidly slowly through gritted teeth, "how do we cure him?"

"From what Stiles said," spoke up Malia, "he needs to be forgiven. It's more of a curse than a disease, or something like that. Ah, but he has to be forgiven by the person whose heart he broke."

Derek stared at Malia, his face twisting into a scowl. "What kind of curse is this?" he hissed, dragging his hands across his face. "Okay, fine, whatever, let's find whoever this person is and make sure that they forgive Stiles. He couldn't have had that many… relationships, right?"

Oh, he hated how fucking bitter he sounded. Nope, he was not going there.

"If I may interrupt." Peter raised one hand, as if to bring attention to himself, before pointing at Derek. "Have you considered that maybe you're the one with the broken heart?"

For a long moment, all Derek could do was stare. And stare. And then stare some more. Okay, what the fuck was this family on? First, he was apparently in love with Stiles, and now he'd gotten his heart broken? Please.

"What?" was all he said, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Think about it," said Peter, leaning forward and for once, he even looked somewhat serious — oh, Derek did not like that. "How long have you been out of control?”

Derek opened his mouth to answer, but Peter waved his hand to stop him from speaking. Ah, alright, so it was just a rhetoric question, good to know.

“Yeah, probably about the same time that Stiles had been out of town, you guessed it,” continued Peter with a nod. “And we've established that you're in love—"

"I'm not," spat Derek, wrinkling his nose. "I didn't establish anything."

"We, as in, my amazing daughter and I," muttered Peter, rolling his eyes. He sighed, his face schooling into something more serious. "Just… think about it. Only for five minutes, that's all I'm asking for, 'Rek."

Derek let out a dry laugh as his body started to pace around the living room on its own. "Okay, let's say that you're correct — which, you're not, by the way," he added quickly, rolling his eyes.

"Why would I be heartbroken? Stiles deserves a good chance at life. He deserves to have a normal life, okay? And also," he continued, his breathing turning ragged. He ignored it, pushing through it, instead. "Let's say you are right, and I am in love. What does it change? Nothing. Because even if Stiles felt the same, there's not a single universe where I deserve him."

Malia opened and closed her mouth, as if to say something, before deciding against it. Instead, she pulled her knees to her chest, looking somewhere to her side.

Yeah, even she knew he was right. Because there was probably no one worthy of Stiles, anyway. And if there had been anyone at all, it for sure wasn't Derek. He was nothing but a curse in a human form, and he couldn't help but wonder if his existence alone was causing all the misfortune in Stiles' life.

Perhaps Derek should've just stayed away. He hadn't brought a single good thing into this town, only ever making everything worse. He had caused far too much misery by his actions alone.

But, at the same time, there was a selfish part of himself that was so glad he came back. Because he got to meet Stiles in the first place. That loud, scrawny kid who had a terrible talent for finding himself in the worst situations possible, and still facing them with a baseball bat.

This whole town made him feel so many contradicting feelings all at once. Nostalgia was mixing with bitterness, making him feel exhausted, deep inside his bones.

Derek regretted coming back to Beacon Hills, but also couldn't be more grateful, because the universe had allowed him to meet Stiles. He couldn't have him, for curses like him didn't deserve to have good things in life, but he could at least pretend.

No, no, no. No. Absolutely not. Nuh-uh. He was not even gonna keep thinking in the direction he'd been going. Nope, no—

"Derek," spoke up Peter, getting Derek’s attention. His uncle sighed, carefully standing up from the armchair and walking closer to Derek, putting one hand on his shoulder. "You have this terrible, terrible habit of thinking that every single thing that goes wrong is your fault. You believe that you carry the world on your shoulders, but you are not Atlas."

"Who am I, then?" asked Derek, hating how tight his throat felt. How small his voice sounded. 

Peter tilted his head from side to side, as if pondering over the question, before his lips curled up in a small smile. "How about making your own myth, hm? Doesn't that sound nicer?"

It did. It truly did. And, maybe, in this myth, Derek wasn't going to be the curse for once in his life.

₊⋆˖⁺‧₊☽ ❀ ☾₊‧⁺˖⋆₊

It wasn't the first time that Stiles had been under twenty-four-hour supervision — had we forgotten the whole Nogitsune situation? — but it still didn't make it any more bearable. He felt like he was getting babysat.

For the past four days, he'd either been spending most of his time at Lydia's, Scott's, or had both of them camp in his room. The whole time, Scott made sure to take as much pain from Stiles as he could, until Lydia was physically pushing him off — his best friend really had no idea how not to be a self-sacrificial idiot.

And Stiles couldn't help but wonder. Perhaps the universe would've been kinder to him had he been a bit more self-sacrificial. Yeah, the universe kept throwing the heroes into the worst type of situations, but they always managed to get out of them unscathed. On the other hand, the universe always needed a punching bag — Stiles just didn't understand what he'd done for it to be him.

Ah, great his brain was going into too many directions at once, unable to stay on the topic — dealing with the flower problem. If his erratic brain wasn't enough of a problem, he also had to deal with a very pissed Lydia. Honestly? He would've taken another curse over dealing with Lydia in that state.

"Can you stop downplaying the fact that you're dying," hissed Lydia, as she sat down on a rolling chair, crossing one leg over the other, "and start figuring out whose heart you broke?"

They'd been sitting in Stiles' room for what seemed like hours now, his whiteboard covered with every person that Stiles had ever talked to, arrows connecting them, even writing down a  whole bunch of question marks — that was how he was feeling, actually.

"Well, you still haven't had a vision, have you?" noted Stiles, shrugging one shoulder. "So, not dying."

"Yet," added Scott, rubbing his temples, as he frowned at Stiles — well, maybe the word 'frown' was a little generous here. He was looking like a kicked puppy, and somehow, that was making him feel much worse.

"Sorry," mumbled Stiles, forcing his body to stand up, as he walked up to the board. None of it made sense, if he was being honest. There was a pattern to everything in this world, but he couldn't find one in the mess of names and question marks written down.

"This is awful. Absolutely awful," muttered Lydia, looking two seconds away from screeching. He was sure the poor windows of his room wouldn't appreciate that. Plus, he didn't even have the money to fix them up. "And strange," she added, as she stood up from the chair to take a closer look at the board.

"We figured out who Peter was, the dead pool, the whole Nogitsune thing!" exclaimed Scott, letting his body fall on the bed. "Nothing about this makes sense. Nothing!"

Lydia bit on her thumb, not caring about chipping her red nail polish. "Strange," she repeated, narrowing her eyes, completely ignoring Scott's wailing in the background.

Despite the gravity of the situation, Stiles couldn't help but smile. Even though, he was trying to deny it, he'd been missing the thrill of solving supernatural threats and coming up with the craziest theories, even if it was on his own expense. Maybe coming back wasn't always so bad. Ah, fuck, was that nostalgia speaking? Bad, bad, nostalgia, get the fuck out of here!

"I should've known something was wrong when you started acting strange," continued Scott, this time opting for blaming himself, because it wouldn't have been Scott McCall without some good ol' self-guilt-trip. "But Derek was also being all weird, and I mean, weirder than usually, and then there was also the whole—"

Lydia spun around, her eyes wide. Oh, her brain must've picked on something that his erratic brain had definitely missed. Alright, Lydia, let's hear it.

"Weird? How weird?" asked Lydia, making Stiles frown. Why was Derek now part of the conversation? What was happening?

Scott blinked quickly before shrugging. "Out of control, almost?" he said, even though, it sounded more like a question, biting the inside of his cheek.

"He didn't really talk about it, but it was more than obvious that his wolf is all over the place. Kinda like Liam at the beginning, you know? Which… weird, right? Derek has been doing this longer than any of us. Well, maybe apart from Peter, but—"

Lydia gasped, cutting Scott off, as she turned to Stiles to shake him by his shoulders. "Derek! It's Derek!"

Stiles closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath. Maybe he understood her wrong. There was also a possibility his hearing was absolutely fucked, the roots progressing all the way to his ear canals. Or maybe the pain was messing with him completely, because there was no fucking way he heard her correctly.

No. He refused.

"What does Derek have to do with anything?" asked Scott, and oh, bless his heart. It seemed like he had yet to connect the dots.

Stiles opened his eyes, only to see the stern look on Lydia's face. "Nothing," he said, the words almost choking him alongside the petals. "He's got nothing to do with it. Come on, wonder girl, you can do better."

Lydia clicked her tongue, digging her fingers into Stiles' shoulders. "He's got everything to do with this," she retorted, narrowing her eyes. "He's the one with the broken heart here!"

"This is just… fucking ridiculous," hissed Stiles, stepping away from Lydia, pushing her arms away, even when he swayed from side to side, the pain quickly washing over him. "We didn't even date! There was nothing!"

Scott licked the corner of his mouth, frowning. "Are you sure?"

Stiles looked at Scott, his eyes wide. Why were both of his friends so adamant about going against him? This was uncalled for. And rude. Oh, the betrayal. He was going to faint out of pure spite just to make them feel bad about this.

"I mean," began Scott, tugging on a loose string of his jeans, "your relationship has always been a bit strange, but there were times when I thought that you liked Derek. And vice versa. I just assumed that it never really worked out, or something like that, and you were embarrassed to talk about it, so I never really pushed."

That was the thing, though. Nothing had ever happened between the two of them. And that should've been the end of the story, but Stiles could never have an experience that was simple.

Because, yeah, nothing ever happened, but every time they spent too much time in each other's presence, he'd always felt like the air around them was charged with electricity. He could feel Derek's eyes on him for too long — well, he wasn't any better with how he was ogling the other man.

But anytime it seemed like one of them was going to do something about the tension, they both backed out. Was it fear? Was it uncertainty? What the fuck was it?

Because Stiles spent too many nights awake, just replaying every single interaction with Derek for too long. He got too used to overanalyzing even the smallest detail just to make sure he wasn't making it up. What was stopping Derek from ever reaching out? And what was stopping Stiles?

Maybe Stiles was just too chaotic in nature. Too erratic, too anxious, and too much of a loudmouth — Derek deserved someone who would bring peace into his life. After so many awful experiences in the werewolf’s life, he deserved someone… calm. Someone who didn't make everything worse by just being around.

"Nothing ever happened," mumbled Stiles in the end. "And nothing will ever happen."

"Stiles…" Lydia reached his hand out to him, but Stiles took a quick step back. He could feel the pounding ache move from his lungs to his head, but he stood his ground, gesturing at Scott to stay fucking put.

"I buried so many pieces of myself," whispered Stiles, his throat closing. The words were so close to choking him, but he pushed through. He licked his dry lips, digging his nails into the palms of his hands. "All the things that once made me into who I was are all buried, okay? Somewhere around the Nemeton, because that fucking thing brought so much misfortune into my fucking life. And guess what? Some of the things that I buried are… those feelings," he added carefully.

The word 'love' felt too heavy.

Scott opened his mouth, as if to say something, but Stiles waved his hand to dismiss him completely.

"I buried them a long time ago," repeated Stiles through gritted teeth, "so now I might bury myself, too."

Stiles watched as Lydia stormed out of the room, trying to ignore how glassy her eyes looked, her entire body shaking. It was alright, though — once the Hanahaki progressed completely, he was no longer going to burden her. Or Scott. Or anyone else, for that matter.

Perhaps, he was always meant to bury himself next to the Nemeton, making it a full circle.

₊⋆˖⁺‧₊☽ ❀ ☾₊‧⁺˖⋆₊

The next two days were spent in a bit of a blur, if Derek was being honest. Being told that someone you love have affection for was dying, simply because you were being dramatic and got your heart somehow broken, was… well, a lot.

At the same time, though, this was just confirming all the worries that he'd been having — he truly was cursed by Lycaon himself, and it seemed like this curse was affecting others, too. It should've been obvious, actually, and he should've figured it out a long time ago, but he was holding out for that tiniest piece of hope.

Derek truly was a fool, huh? To ever think that the curse could've been lifted. He was the very reason why Paige was dead, why his entire family died, and why Stiles was dying.

He should've died in Mexico, honestly. But, no, it seemed like Lycaon had different plans; and a wicked sense of humor, too. God, the Greek heroes were so fucking annoying.

So, here Derek was. Because of very unfortunate circumstances.

What also wasn't helping was the fact that Malia was fretting around him, in her own frown-y and aggressive fashion. In a way, it was adorable as she tried to grasp how to be an average human. What was messing with Derek, though, was how Peter started being his old self. Not all the time — Lycaon forbid — but there were glimpses of the person that he once trusted so much.

"You need to cut it out," huffed Derek, watching Peter through narrowed eyes.

Peter stopped in the middle of his step, raising one eyebrow at Derek, as he put one hand on his hip. "I am not doing anything, am I?" he mused, pursing his lips. "If you're referring to my freeloader tendencies, I am rather hurt."

"No, not that," sighed Derek, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You're acting like your old self. And I hate it."

Peter clicked his tongue, averting his gaze. "Is it so crazy? That I might miss who I once was?" he asked, his voice uncharacteristically soft. "You believe you're the only cursed, but I believe that our entire family has been cursed long before we'd come to the picture. Maybe, it wasn't just the fire, but the curse, too, that made me into who I am today."

"I'm not interested in how fucked up we are," spat Derek, feeling his claws already pricking the skin on his palms. "Just answer my question."

Peter sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, even as his lips curled up in the softest of smiles. "I miss who I was. Before the fire. Before the death," he whispered, letting his arm fall next to him. "And I miss who you were, too."

Derek didn't answer; instead he simply stood up, walking to his bedroom. The last thing he needed was for Peter to get all sentimental on him.

Derek truly wished for just one day when people didn't just barge into his loft, as if they owned the place. It was enough that Peter was there early in the morning, and now he had more people in the evening? Really, it was getting old, while also getting on his fucking nerves. Could he not get one day of peace? Was he asking for so much?

"I will not be feeding people, so you better turn the fuck around," hissed Derek, opening the door of his bedroom. He was met with… far too many people. Malia and Peter were given — nothing new there, as those two became the most prominent people in his life. But he didn't expect Lydia and Scott, both holding one of Stiles' arms, stopping him from squirming.

"This is kidnapping! I have been kidnapped!" shrieked Stiles, making Derek wince at the sound. He was doing everything in his strength not to look Derek in the eyes, instead admiring all the little decorations that Peter had brought in over the last few months.

Just as Derek wanted to say something, the scent hit him with full force, and oh. Malia was not exaggerating by saying that Stiles smelled like death. The metallic scent was so much worse now than when they saw each other at the police station. The smell of metal was now mixing with something acidic and pungent, completely drowning out the usual smell of oranges that usually clung to Stiles.

Oh, and this was all Derek's fault, wasn't it?

"Okay, since the two of you are incapable of solving anything that has to do with emotions," began Lydia, glaring at Derek with such intensity it made him squirm in his spot, "we had to do this. Desperate times call for desperate measures."

"I hate each and every one of you," mumbled Stiles. "Unhand me!"

Finally, Lydia and Scott let go of Stiles, pushing him further into the loft. Derek only raised one eyebrow, shifting his gaze away from Stiles and instead looking at Lydia.

"What's stopping either of us from leaving?" asked Derek, raising one unimpressed eyebrow.

Lydia smiled, looking far too satisfied, and Derek already hated that look. "Oh, I'm so, so happy you asked," she said, pulling out a small pouch out of her pocket. "A normal lock at the door for Stiles and for you, some good ol' mountain ash."

Fuck.

Before he could react in time, Lydia was already making a line out of the ash, right across the threshold of the door, while the rest of the group was standing behind her, careful not to get trapped in with them.

"Have fun and talk," added Lydia, waving her fingers at them in that coquettish way of hers, before closing the door shut. All the mountain ash was stuck right under the door, making it impossible for Stiles to get it out and leave — amazing, exactly what he needed.

The silence that followed was suffocating. Neither of them dared to take a look at each other, even when Stiles started to pace around the loft, as if trying to figure it if a jump out of a window would've killed him or not.

Spoiler alert, it would have. Just in case anyone was wondering.

"I hate this, I hate this, I hate this," Stiles started to mumble, biting on his thumb, now opting for mindless pacing in circles, looking like a caged animal. He represented how Derek felt on the inside quite well.

Derek sat down on the couch, leaning his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands together. For a moment, he wanted to stop Stiles' relentless pacing, but it was more than obvious that if the other man were to stop moving, he probably would've exploded.

"Do you wanna talk about it?" mused Derek, almost offhandedly. As if there was no supernatural curse involved at all — well, at least Derek still knew how to keep his cool.

Stiles spun to face Derek, gritting his teeth so loudly that the sound made Derek grimace. His senses were still all over the place, so this was not helping, but he didn't even have the heart to snap at Stiles.

Look what these emotions made out of him. They made him into a fucking fool, that was what was happening in here, and if it wasn't the most annoying thing in the world. These irritating feelings made him lose his edge, too!

"There's nothing to talk about," mumbled Stiles in the end, his body tense. His body was getting paler and paler by second, and for a moment, Derek was convinced he was going to faint. Maybe then they would've let them go? Or was fainting not enough of an emergency to stop… whatever this was?

"You do know that I can smell the blood on you, right?" asked Derek, raising one eyebrow.

Stiles huffed, crossing his arms over his chest, "Fuck off."

"And the pain. And the distress. And the defeat, too. That one's the worst," added Derek, watching as Stiles flinched with each word. "I've never thought there would've been a day when Stiles Stilinski would've gotten defeated."

Stiles scoffed, biting the inside of his cheek — more blood. This time it was fresh, pungent, making Derek's nose scrunch. An apex predator who could barely stand the smell of blood of others, hah! Would you look at that?

Without any word, Stiles sat on the opposite side of the sofa, pulling his knees to his chest. Yet another beat of silence stretched in between them — long and uncomfortable, as Derek counted each shallow breath Stiles took. Had everyone forgotten that he had no idea how to comfort someone? How to help people? All he'd ever done was to bring misfortune upon others, making their lives miserable.

Paige. His entire family. Erica. Boyd. All of them gone, just because the curse named Derek Hale had been born.

"I missed Beacon Hills," spoke up Stiles, almost casually. Derek turned his head, just enough to glance at the other man, watching him look out of a window. "I never thought I'd say it, but I did miss it. I guess I wasn't really made for big cities."

"Is DC too much?" asked Derek, picking on the skin around his nails. He doubted that this was what Lydia meant by them talking, but she never really specified what they were meant to talk about, no? "Is it scary?"

Stiles hummed, rubbing one hand over the lower part of his face, before letting his hand fiddle with loose threads on his jeans. "I guess? The first few months were horrible, honestly. Sure, I've left the state before, but never for so fucking long, y'know, and I just kept getting lost over and over again, even with a fucking map, and—" he suddenly stopped himself, his face twisting into a grimace. "Sorry. Talking too much."

Carefully, as if not to startle Stiles, Derek scooted closer, still leaving enough space in between them. "Tell me everything. It's been forever since I've had someone ramble to me. And I refuse to count Peter," he added.

Stiles laughed, looking almost surprised by the sound, but nodded, nonetheless. "The internship was a pain in the ass at the beginning," he admitted, rolling his eyes. "Who would've thought there are so many rules? Rules are like piñatas, you know? Meant to be broken and all that. Oh, or glow sticks! See? And people keep saying nothing is ever meant to be broken. Bullshit!" 

Derek only nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching, as he fought the urge to smile like an idiot. He'd almost forgotten just how much Stiles always had to say. Or how weirdly passionate he could get about things. It was nice. Oh, it was so nice.

"And also," added Stiles, before a coughing fit cut him off. As Derek wanted to reach his hand out, Stiles only shook his head, sucking in a shaky breath. He cleared his throat, not quite meeting Derek's gaze, as he continued, "The people are pretty boring, actually. I mean, they're probably not that boring, but I'm used to being surrounded by supernatural creatures, you know? And I guess it's also better to have people that just... understand."

"Do you still have nightmares?" asked Derek, carefully choosing his words. "After… well, everything."

Stiles hummed softly in response, finally stretching out his legs. "Yeah. Not—not always," he added quickly, folding his hands in his lap. "Some nights are really bad, and I woke up my dormmate too many times to count, honestly. I took Zolpidem for a few months, but I would get so fucking dizzy," he groaned, rubbing his eyes, before looking at Derek with a raised eyebrow. "You?"

Derek shrugged. "They come and go now. Some nights are better, some are worse, but I guess I’ve gotten used to them now."

"Do you see your family?" asked Stiles, his voice turning quiet.

"Not so much," replied Derek, rubbing the back of his head. He couldn't even remember the last time he talked to someone about this. In a way, he'd always felt like these nightmares were his to deal with, hating to bother anyone else. "I'm not lucky enough to see my family, not even in my nightmares. And, well, if I do, they're already dead."

"I'm sorry," murmured Stiles, scooting just a little closer. He was quiet for a moment before licking his dry lips and speaking up, "I can sometimes see Allison. And everyone whose name I didn't even get to know. The ones I killed while I was possessed."

"It wasn't you," countered Derek, even as he kept his voice soft. "You weren't in control."

"But I was still here," said Stiles, tapping his finger against his temple. "I wasn't blacked out, you know? At least, well, not completely. I felt like I was half-asleep, getting certain flashes, usually of the worst moments."

"It still wasn't your fault," Derek said softly.

Stiles nodded, biting the skin around his thumb. After a moment, he spoke up again, "What about Donovan? I killed him. I actually killed the guy!"

"I've heard about that from Sheriff," admitted Derek, tilting his head back. "Still not your fault. Self-defense."

"If none of it is my fault, then the death of your family isn't your fault, either. Or Erica's. Or Boyd's," said Stiles, firing his words so quickly it became almost difficult to keep up. Ah, there was that erratic brain.

Derek heaved a deep sigh, rolling his shoulders to relieve some of the tension there. "Okay, let's say you're right," he mumbled, looking at Stiles with narrowed eyes, "what about Paige? I killed her."

"Out of mercy," murmured Stiles, the words making Derek freeze for a moment. "Peter told us that story. She would've died either way. You granted her a painless death."

"You don't… You can't…" Derek took in a deep breath, swallowing around the lump in his throat. He closed his mouth with a click, shifting his gaze away from Stiles.

It was strange to hear those words from someone who wasn't family. Because, in his case, the pack must've always stuck together, for they had no one but each other. It'd always been the universal truth for wolves. But for Stiles to say it with such confidence… fuck, what was he supposed to even think? How could Stiles be so convinced of it?

Did Stiles not see the curse right before his eyes? The very same curse that caused all of it? Stiles was dying, all thanks to Derek, because he couldn't stop fucking everything up.

"I'm sorry," whispered Derek, forcing the words out of his mouth. In the corner of his eye, he could see Stiles raising his head, and he could imagine the confused expression, but he didn't allow himself to look properly. Instead, he kept looking at the wall in front of him, focusing on a small dent in the plaster.

"Why?" asked Stiles, and oh, his voice sounded so fucking small. The thing about Stiles that not so many people understood was the fact that he was everything, but that. The man was loud, anxious, erratic, and deep down so very angry.

Was that why Derek had been so drawn to him in the first place? Did their anger mirror one another?

"Because," began Derek, swallowing around nothing, "it seems like with my presence alone I'm causing your death."

Stiles let out a dry chuckle, nudging Derek's thigh with his foot, finally making him look at the other man. "Stop stealing all the credit for my fuck-ups," he mumbled, his lips curling up in a crooked smile. "And, well, if anyone should apologize, it's me."

Derek tilted his head to the side, his brows furrowing together. "Huh?"

"I broke your heart," murmured Stiles. 

Oh, not this again. No, no, absolutely not. He didn't get his heart broken, since for that to happen there needed to be some failed relationship. But there was none — just stares that got too intense and touches that lingered too long.

"I'm pretty sure my heart is still working, so, nothing's broken," mumbled Derek, pinching the bridge of his nose. "And, really, it wasn't like we dated, or anything."

"Would you?" asked Stiles, the words seemingly stumbling out of his mouth. "Would you ever date me?"

Derek blinked slowly, letting the question slowly settle. It was such an innocent question, and for a moment, Stiles looked much younger — his eyes were open wide, his mouth stretched into that boyish smile, and his hands kept tugging on the sleeves of his flannel. And Derek felt younger, too. It was as if none of the tragedies had ever happened, as if some of the weight had been lifted off of his shoulders, making breathing easier.

For once, nothing hurt. Their hands weren't covered in blood and their minds weren't riddled with guilt.

Just as he opened his mouth to reply, Stiles doubled over, covering his mouth, as a coughing fit overcame him once more, but this time it seemed so much worse. The smell of blood and tissue was rancid, even as the scent of oranges and flowers filled the room, too.

"Come on, up!" exclaimed Derek, already helping Stiles stand up, letting the other man lean against him. He led Stiles to the bathroom, watching as he coughed up blood clots and petals into the sink, staining it red. Carefully, he rubbed soothing circles in between Stiles' shoulder blades, keeping his touches as gentle as he could.

"I'm sorry. Fuck, I'm so sorry," whispered Stiles, tightly clutching the sides of the sink.

"Shh, you have nothing to apologize for," murmured Derek, sliding his hand higher and higher, before cradling his fingers through Stiles' hair. He took in a deep breath, as he started to take the pain from Stiles, bit by bit, not letting his expression falter — the last thing he needed was to make him feel guilty. "You didn't do anything wrong."

"I left. I left everything behind, and where did it get me?" Stiles lowered his head, trying to keep his heaving under control. Derek could see the tears forming in his eyes, but decided not to comment on it. "I hoped—I hoped that by leaving, I wouldn't be a burden anymore. I'm fucking cursed."

And wasn't that so ironic? For the purest man to ever believe he was cursed? Because that was exactly who Stiles was — a man with the purest heart that had ever existed. And yet, here he was, calling himself a curse, even as he stood next to Derek.

Maybe this exact belief was what made them get drawn to each other. Because they could pretend all they wanted, but they were two people whose hands were stained with blood and whose minds could never truly process what had happened to them. And Derek couldn't help but wonder if that had been the reason they never made the first step.

Because standing face to face felt like looking in the mirror. Because they looked at each other and saw themselves. Because seeing everything wrong with you in someone else felt so fucking terrifying.

"I would," croaked Derek, starting to feel lightheaded from the pain.

Stiles looked up, wiping the blood from his lips with the back of his hand. "Huh?"

"I would date you," whispered Derek, feeling his lips curl up in a soft smile.

He watched Stiles burst into a fit of giggles, his shoulders shaking with the intensity of it. "That means a lot, y'know?" he mused, pursing his lips. "A lot of people would kill to hear something like that from you."

Derek raised one eyebrow, his expression morphing into something almost amused. "Oh, really?"

Stiles nodded, trying his hardest to look serious, even as the giggles kept escaping his mouth, and Derek was sure he'd never seen anything that adorable before. "Hey, Derek?"

"Hm?"

"Again, I'm really sorry for breaking your heart. I should've treated it better," murmured Stiles, sighing softly. "It's not every day the Big Bad Wolf is willing to give out his heart, huh?"

Derek licked his dry lips before speaking up, "You could try again."

Stiles tilted his head to the side, his brows furrowing together. "What d'you mean?"

What did he mean? Oh, since when had Derek become such a fool? Or was it simply an effect that Stiles was having on him?

"You could try treating it better," explained Derek, swallowing around the lump in his throat. "I do forgive you, and I'll forgive you, even if you choose not to, but I'm giving you a chance at treating it better. And a choice, too."

For a long moment, Stiles simply observed him, and Derek allowed himself to actually look at him. The bathroom light was hitting his eyes in a way that made them seem much darker, while his eyelashes cast a shadow on his cheeks. He wished to trace every single beauty mark on his face. There was a light stubble on his jawline, and he wondered just how many days he had gone without the energy to actually shave. He kept biting his lower lip, leaving indents behind.

Truly, Stiles Stilinski was the most beautiful man with the purest heart of them all.

"I'll take it," croaked Stiles with a smile. "I'll take it if you have me."

Derek carefully wrapped his arms around Stiles, pulling him closer. He let Stiles bury his face in the crook of his neck, letting out a deep sigh, his body going slack. For a long moment, they simply stood in the middle of the bathroom, allowing themselves to lean against each other.

"It's gone," murmured Stiles against Derek's neck. "The pain. It's gone."

Derek looked at his arms, narrowing his eyes, as he tried to see any dark veins — nothing, not a single trace of them, either. He let out a soft chuckle, tightening his arms around Stiles. "How do you feel?"

"Fucking exhausted," huffed Stiles.

Before his words were barely out, Derek was already lifting Stiles into his arms, laughing quietly at the startled yelp and the string of protests that followed. Ignoring the insults, he carried Stiles to the bedroom, carefully settling him on the edge of the bed, so he could sit down.

"I'm not made out of glass, y'know?" said Stiles with a click of his tongue, rolling his eyes. Alright, it seemed like not even facing death on multiple occasions could beat that attitude out of him. Well, it wasn’t like he'd ever wanted to see Stiles change.

"You did smell like death just a second ago," quipped Derek, "you do know that, right?"

Stiles groaned, throwing his arms in the air. "Why must you bring up such a distant past!"

Derek snorted at the antics, shaking his head. "You're the worst."

"Maybe," agreed Stiles, grabbing the front of Derek's shirt, yanking him closer, "but I am also your problem now."

"I wouldn't want you any other way, just for your information," murmured Derek, his gaze shifting between Stiles' lips and his eyes. He was being indecent — Stiles was literally just dying a few minutes ago, he wasn't supposed to—

"Yes, you can kiss me," sighed Stiles, rolling his eyes. "I know you're too much of a gentleman to kiss me out of nowhere, anyway. Am I supposed to do everything around here?"

Derek clicked his tongue, "You're getting on my nerves."

"You better get used to it, because I intend to get on your nerves for as long as you have me, Sourwolf," chuckled Stiles, scrunching his nose, looking far too adorable for his own good.

Derek tilted his head from side to side, as if deep in thought. "And if I want to have you forever?"

"Then get ready for me to tap-dance on your last nerve," replied Stiles with a smirk, before finally pressing their lips together.

Their first kiss was messy, desperate, and far too uncoordinated, but neither of them seemed to get enough. Derek could taste the blood that clung to Stiles' lips, but it didn't stop him from trying to get more and more and more. Because he finally had Stiles just for himself. Derek allowed himself to touch Stiles with purpose now, letting himself drown in the sensations.

Derek could feel something settle deep inside of him. The erratic feeling of unease seemed to slowly dissolve into nothingness the more Stiles kissed him back. After so many months, the wolf seemed to be calm for once — almost pleased.

Lycaon had yet to lift his curse, Derek knew that much, but, perhaps, having someone just as cursed as him by his side was going to make going forward a little bit more bearable. And, maybe, being alive wasn't such a bad thing, after all.