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Allison and Lydia are already asleep, curled up against each others like puppies and in the same position they were when they fell asleep awhile ago. Stiles doesn’t know what time it is. If he cared he’d bother to check his phone.
But he doesn’t care, because no matter how late it is, he refuses to sleep until Scott does. Instead of sleeping like Allison and Lydia, his best friend’s just staring out the window, a cold, hopeless look in his eyes.
"Hey," he whispers, placing his hand on Scott’s, too tired to think about the distance that best friends are supposed to keep. He can feel the shaking underneath his touch and wonders if Scott is still fighting back the wolf now after having his brain poisoned so badly. Scott doesn’t acknowledge him, but keeps staring out the window of the bus.
"I could have killed you all," Scott murmurs, the tremors underneath Stiles touch intensifying, “I’m…I’m…" He trails off, unable to finish his words. Stiles doesn’t know if he’s trying to apologize or explain himself. His best friend numbly bites his lower lip, leaning his cheek against the cold glass. “I saw Deucalion," he says, voice still flat, “I saw him kill my mom. I couldn’t stop him. His claws…" he puts a hand up to his throat, digging his nails in hard enough to leave little half moons behind. Stiles feels his stomach plummet at the words. He remembers watching his mother die, fading away slowly, watching her slip away...he wouldn't wish that on anyone.
Stiles grabs onto Scott’s hand, pulling it away from his neck. Without taking time to think about his actions, he presses Scott’s hand against his chest. Right over his heart. He knows that Scott knows everything about him, has everything from his smell to his footsteps memorized. But right now, he just wants the boy he’s known since they were six to recall the feel and sound of his heartbeat.
"I’ve known the rhythm since I was bitten," Scott says, sounding disgruntled but refusing to pull his hand away, “It’s the first one I memorized."
"I know," Stiles replies, “But I thought you needed a reminder that you didn’t kill us. You didn’t kill me." Scott closes his eyes, and Stiles can feel the fingernails tracing the outline of his heart; the sensation setting his chest on fire. He knows that Scott can feel his heartbeat speed up, and how could it not in this situation? Just hours ago they were on the verge of death; he’d stepped into gasoline with him and pulled a flare from his best friend’s hands, knowing full well that if he failed they would both go up in flames.
"Why’d you do it?" Scott whispers, his eyes dark and sad, as if to say ‘you should have left me alone.’ Stiles leans in closer to Scott, refusing to lose him to the cold glass of the window and the thoughts eating up his brain again.
"What’s the point of living without your best friend?" he asks, as if the answer is glaringly obvious.
Scott’s breath hitches, sounding like he’s tearing up, and Stiles thinks that he’ll cry. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d seen his best friend with tears in those big brown eyes, spilling down his suntanned cheeks. It wouldn’t be the last. Stiles tightens his grip on Scott’s hand, keeping it held against his chest. Ba-dum, ba-dum, he wants his heartbeat to act as a lullaby, brings Scott down from the mania, from the suicidal instincts that are undoubtedly still plaguing his mind.
The moonlight casts over Scott’s face, lighting up his eyes and pained face and Stiles can count the motions that lead to Scott falling against Stiles’ chest with his face buried in his neck. Face crumpling, shoulders dropping, body slumping forward. It’s a miracle that Stiles keeps him from falling to the floor of the bus. In seconds Scott goes from sixteen to six.
"I’m sorry," Scott chokes out, wrapping his arms around Stiles’ waist like he's afraid if he lets go for a second Stiles will disappear, “Please don’t die," he cries, shaking all over, “Too many people are dying, you can’t join them, not today, not ever…Stiles…don't leave me."
The words break something in Stiles and he wraps his arms around his best friend like they’re back in elementary school and Scott scraped his knees. Scott is warm, he’s always been warm, even before the bite, but now it feels like they’re both burning up as Stiles holds him.
"I'm not dying. No, scratch that, we’re not dying. We’ll survive. Heh, don't we always?" he says into Scott’s ear, keeping his voice down while still letting a mirthful chuckle out, “But you gotta remember something for me. Where you go, I go."
The meaning of the sentence goes unspoken, but the look on Scott’s face when he pulls away from the now wet crook over Stiles’ neck lets him know that he understands. Scott bumps his forehead against Stiles, and they’re so close Stiles could count every eyelash rimming Scott’s brown eyes if he wanted to. The warmth is reassuring.
"Love you, man," Scott whispers, and Stiles nods, expecting Scott to pull away after this Tender Bro Moment ® and go off to snoozeland. Instead he feels a pair of warm, soft lips against his, eyes going wide as he realizes Scott McCall, best friend of over a decade, is kissing him. There’s a lacrosse-calloused hand against his cheek, and another at the back of his neck and oh god he’s never been kissed like this in his entire life.
When he opens his eyes he can still see the tear tracks on his cheeks. In the morning maybe they’ll talk about this, maybe they won’t. It doesn’t matter, not as Stiles kisses back and presses himself so closely against the other boy that he can’t tell where he ends and Scott begins.
As exhaustion takes over and they fall against each other in the seat, Scott’s head on Stiles’ shoulder, he thinks that Scott and him walk the line between friends and lovers so carefully that they don’t even walk it at all.