#*w:bthb

The message seems to be clear because Theo’s expression darkens with annoyance. But the worst part is, Theo still looks hot as hell and so much better than anyone Stiles has ever hooked up with in the past four years. “You don’t need the money,” he accuses in a hushed tone.

“And since when do you know what I need?” Stiles knows he’s right. After everything that has happened, he doesn’t have to lift a finger for the rest of his life — he doesn’t have any friends or family either. So, what good does all of this money do? It doesn’t erase the memories. It doesn’t stop the nightmares from finding him in the darkness. It doesn’t prevent people from whispering about him behind his back. “I haven’t seen you in almost five years, and now you’re here, acting like— acting like you’re my savior or some shit.” He’s been alone for too long now, he doesn’t need anyone; especially not Theo.

Drawing his brows together, Theo studies him for a moment. “You’re drunk.”

“Stellar conclusion.” Stiles rolls his eyes, “if only I drank alcohol.” And that’s true, although it’s not always easy as a bartender when everyone else around him is hammered.

Theo uncrosses his arms. The worry carved onto his handsome features makes Stiles want to punch him. “Did you take something?” As if he couldn’t be any more condescending. Looks like the past few years without him caused Theo to pick up some of his mother’s annoying mannerisms.

“I haven’t slept in 48 hours, I’m starving, and I just had mind-blowing sex—“ which isn’t entirely true, but Theo doesn’t need to know that “—not that that’s any of your business, by the way.” Although Stiles knows he doesn’t need to explain himself to Theo or anyone, really, he cannot deny himself the petty revenge — and he knows it hit home, can see it in the way a flash of pain cuts through the worry on Theo’s face. If only it would make Stiles feel any better or could undo what happened to and between them.

Unsurprisingly, Theo doesn’t deign this with a response. Instead, he doesn’t hesitate and wrestles Stiles into the apartment. It doesn’t take him a second to overpower him, easily forcing Stiles back enough so he can kick the door closed with his foot — like he owns the place.

“Get the fuck out,” Stiles snaps, nearly elbowing Theo in the face as he wrenches himself free from his ex-boyfriend’s all too familiar grasp. It’s a shame he missed.

The light flickers on. Theo neither moves nor reacts when he’s faced with a flight of stairs. He shoots Stiles a look before climbing them, making it abundantly clear he’s not going to leave any time soon. Because why would he? He’s Theo Raeken after all. Beloved and cheered on by his adoring fans. Everybody loves him. Everybody wants to be with him — even the person he hurt the most by breaking his fucking promise.

Stiles hates how much he still yearns for his touch.

Too tired to fight him or deal with the cops, Stiles shoves past Theo and hurries up the stairs. He hates them with a passion, especially after long nights, but they’re a pretty good advantage if someone decides to break in.

“So, what. You let random strangers fuck you for a few extra bucks every night?” There it is. Of course, Theo couldn’t just let it go. Five years, and the jealousy is still as strong as it used to be.

Stiles spins around at the top of the stairs. The moment Theo popped up at his bar, he should’ve had him kicked out. But that probably would have caused even more issues. “Are you pissed about me having sex, or are you pissed it wasn’t you who bent me over the bar and fucked me?”

Theo’s face darkens, which is already answer enough. As well as he may be able to hide his feelings, anger has never been an emotion he could control. “I’m not here to argue,” Theo tells him coolly as he steps onto the main floor. His gaze scans the room, slowly traveling from the immaculate and pretty much unused kitchenette, to the dining table with a bowl of fruit, the clean couch and empty coffee table, and the little office in front of the French windows.

Stiles can see the things Theo is seeing, the black exposed brick walls, the half empty shelves, the way his loft apartment doesn’t seem to be lived in if it weren’t for the clothes thrown over the steps of the ladder leading to the bedroom, and the mouth wash by the sink. No pictures. No personal items. Nothing that needs to be packed in case of a hurried departure.

“I’m going to bed,” he says, kicking his sneakers under the coffee table. “Make sure to be gone when I wake up.”

“You need help.”

Stiles whips around, and Theo can only consider himself lucky, he doesn’t own anything he could potentially throw at him right now. “No,” he snaps. “I needed you. Needed. You hear that? Past tense. So, you can fuck off.”

Theo’s anger visibly deflates. “Stiles—“

“You know what I needed? You, keeping your promise five years ago.” Stiles advances on Theo, and he’s never realized how much he wanted to get everything off his chest. “I needed you by my side, but instead you’re in your private clinic while I’m being stitched up and sent home. I was fucking alone, and you didn’t bother returning a single call or text. Instead of getting through everything together like you promised, I got a money-hungry guardian who sold the rights to my life to a journalist who gets off on other people’s trauma. I had to get a lawyer who couldn’t do anything to stop the publication of the book, but hey, at least I got a bunch of money while my worst nightmare is being read and discussed by people I’ve never seen. So, I was eighteen, and I was alone because my friends and family have been slaughtered by a fucking psychopath. I fired the person who got paid to make sure I stay alive, and the person who I thought loved me hadn’t bothered to talk to me in over a year.” Sties shoves Theo, and Theo doesn’t do anything. He merely stumbles back a couple of steps, catching himself on the railing. “I moved to LA only for your cunt of a sister to release the snuff film her psycho fiancé filmed. Just that he didn’t get to kill me like he wanted to. No, instead the world gets to see how I stab him twenty-five times. I packed my shit up again and moved to New York, and after I went through all of this by myself, you have the fucking nerve to come here, take one look at my life and decide I need help?” Stiles grabs Theo by the collar of his expensive leather jacket and slams him against the kitchen counter. “Your fucking family ruined everything for me. I’m 21. I should have a college degree. I should be on the way to the FBI, but do you think they’d hire the guy who stabbed someone over twenty times? No, they don’t. Not when the world doubts it happened in self-defense because Tara only released what she wanted the public to see.” Taking a shaky breath, Stiles yanks Theo closer. “So, get the fuck out of my life.”

Tears start burning in his eyes, but the last thing he wants is allowing Theo to see how he really feels. Stiles shoves him once more for good measure and turns around. Part of him hoped he would feel better after finally getting to tell Theo most of the shit he wanted to throw in his face for years. But he isn’t. Not even a little bit.

Stiles is about to climb the ladder to his bedroom when Theo finds his voice again. “I never knew.” His voice is soft, almost inaudible.

It makes Stiles stop in his tracks regardless. “I wonder why,” he mutters under his breath, fingers tightening around the ladder. Just move. Still, his body refuses to cooperate. Something keeps him drawn to Theo, like a part of him refuses to let him go. Stiles lets out a breath. “Knew what?” But he knows the answer, deep down, he knows exactly what Theo is going to tell him.

“That you tried to contact me.”

Stiles lets go of the ladder and decides to collapse onto the couch instead, face in his hands. He’s tired and exhausted and not even close to ready to have this conversation. His life got turned upside-down five years ago, but his wounds are still bleeding as if it happened mere hours ago.

Theo crouches in front of him, one hand gently placed on Stiles’ knee — a touch just as familiar as the pain. “You were the first person I asked for when I woke up. My parents said you didn’t want to see me, and when I finally got my phone—“

“I had changed my number.” Stiles crosses his arms over his thighs. “I didn’t want to believe your parents when they told me you thought it would be better to go separate ways, but the silence from you… it got to my head.” Perhaps he should’ve tried harder. Perhaps he was the one who broke their promise.

Theo is shaking his head lightly, gaze fixed on something over Stiles’ shoulder. “I never saw any calls or texts… I don’t…” He draws his eyebrows together and looks at Stiles again. “I don’t understand why they would delete them.” When it comes to trusting Stiles or his parents, Theo doubts his family.

It should make Stiles feel good, instead he feels hollow, like someone carved out every single emotion. Theo never particularly liked his parents because they had his life planned out for him, yet he never distrusted them, always believed that they wanted what’s best for him. Becoming a famous football player deviates from that what they wanted. So, his parents either changed their tune after almost losing him, or Theo stood up to them.

Stiles smiles, and he knows it looks as empty as he feels. The Raekens didn’t want their son to pursue a career in football, and they had very specific expectations for his partner — expectations Stiles didn’t even come close to. “Theo,” he says in a soft voice, cupping the other man’s cheeks, “your parents despised me.” While they never cared for Theo dating a guy, they very much disliked that said boy was not from the same social bracket and struggled with ADHD and anxiety, which was decided not up to their standards.

“They never said anything.”

“To your face.” Stiles bites his bottom lip and puts his hands in his lap, tugging at a loose thread at the hem of his hoodie. Swallowing heavily, Stiles looks down at his fingers. “Do you know why… he did what he did?” All those years, he can’t bring himself to say the name. It’s easier to think about him in describing factors.

Tara’s fiancé.

He.

The monster.

Theo grabs his hands, squeezing his fingers gently. The touch alone makes Stiles’ heart beat in a way it hasn’t in a long time — almost like it just now remembers how to be alive. “He had a criminal record.” Which really begs the question why he was welcomed into the Raeken family with open arms, after all, his criminal record was impressive. Then again, he came from a family with old money, and boys that age simply make mistakes. Nothing to worry about. Theo squeezes his hands softly. “People think he wanted to get back at your father… but it doesn’t make any sense because…” Theo trails off, unable to look Stiles in the eye any longer.

It’s something people tend to do mid-conversation when they suddenly realize who their bartender really is. Theo doing it hurts more than he’s ready to admit. He swallows the pain, something he’s accustomed to do. “Because why keep me for last?” Stiles finishes the question in a hoarse whisper. The tears threaten to return, and he pulls away from Theo, curling into the corner of his couch he’s always hiding in when thing become bad. His throat aches with unspilled tears, but he can’t stop. Not now. Not when he can finally say all the things he’s buried for too long. “Your mother knows the truth.” Stiles wraps his arms around his shins, pulling his legs to his chest. “You can ask her.”

“My mother?” Theo repeats slowly, drawing his brows together in confusion.

Stiles nods, staring at a single drop of coffee in the white fabric he’s never noticed before.

“Why would my mother know?” Theo stands up and sits down next to him, the dip in the cushion almost causing Stiles to fall into him.

He curls his fingers into his jeans, barely resisting the urge to get up and leave. Where would he go? Where could he go knowing exactly what’s going to happen in a matter of minutes? The dam broke open. This isn’t the first time. It won’t be the last. The memories will return whether Stiles says it out loud or not. “Do you remember Tara’s 21st birthday?” Every word feels as if it is ripped out of his throat.

Theo nods slowly. “You left that night. I still don’t know why.”

Taking another shaky breath, Stiles keeps his gaze fixed on the coffee stain. He can’t look at Theo, not now. “I excused myself to the bathroom because I needed a break from everyone.” Social gatherings still get to him. His job as a bartender doesn’t make it easy to deal with but the bar separating him from everyone else helps. “He followed me upstairs.”

Next to him, Theo stiffens — either because he remembers that night, or because he can tell where this story is going.

“I went into your room. I didn’t lock the door.” Why would he? Why? At that point, Stiles didn’t need to be afraid. He licks his lips, curls his fingers tighter into his jeans. “He found me there. At first, he was sweet and understanding. He tried to coax me back down… but then—“ The words get stuck in his throat, choking him; one of the dirty secrets nobody is allowed to hear.

“Miecio.” There’s a crack in Theo’s voice, cutting the nickname in half Stiles hasn’t heard in more than five years. Fingers dance ghostlike over Stiles’ back, waiting for a reaction, for permission. Theo understands what he’s trying to tell him.

“Your mother came upstairs. That’s when he stopped.” His knuckles turn white, his joints aching from the pressure. The coffee stain is the only thing he sees. “I tried telling her what happened. She told me to leave before I ruined her daughter’s party. So, I left, and I didn’t tell anyone, and eight days later, Melissa found her son’s body on the front porch.” Stiles wishes he could point a finger at Theo’s mother, blaming her for his secret, for the silence that killed everyone he loved.

Almost everyone.

Theo cups his cheeks again, gently tilting his head and forcing Stiles to look at him. “This isn’t your fault.” He knows him too well, knows the inner working of his mind — sometimes better than Stiles does himself. “You couldn’t have known.” But Theo doesn’t know the whole story, and he certainly doesn’t know the ending.

The memory hits hard, but it doesn’t come out of nowhere. It does, what it always does when his mind can’t stop wandering; wrecking him.

Stiles tears away from Theo and rushes to the sink, throwing up bile and guilt, but the memory claws itself into every fiber of Stiles’ being, refusing to leave, ready to make him suffer for the rest of his life. It burns his body with shame, and it’s something he can never purge, no matter how many strangers he’s going to fuck in the back of his bar.

In an instant, Theo is by his side, trying to calm and comfort him. But there’s nothing he can do, nothing to stop the memories from coming back, from reality crashing in on him like an avalanche.

When the worst is over, Stiles runs the water and rinses his mouth with the mouthwash until he can’t taste the bile burning on his tongue any longer. Then he collapses in the corner of his kitchen, the one space in his apartment that lets him see everything and pulls his legs to his chest again. He really hoped the high of an orgasm would help him through the night. It barely lasted long enough to get home.

Theo kneels next him, brushing sweaty strand from Stiles’ forehead. “Something else happened that night,” he says, and his voice is even, almost as hollow as Stiles felt mere moments earlier. “And my sister knows.”

For a long time, Stiles wanted to tell Theo exactly how fucked up his family is. Theo’s always been aware they’re far from perfect, but Stiles doubts he knew how far they’d really go to protect their reputation. Now, that he knows the truth, Stiles doesn’t feel any better — not with the flashbacks, and most likely not without them.

Stiles leans against Theo, pressing his face against his chest. Then he’s in Theo’s arms, shuddering, curling his fingers into his soft shirt. A strong contrast to the rough hands tearing off his pants and boxer briefs, rolling him round and pressing his face against the dirty floor, an arm’s length away from Theo bleeding out. He told him Stiles could save his life as long as he behaved. So, he whispered, “okay,” and didn’t make another sound, didn’t dare to move as the monster claimed his body, tainting him for the rest of his life. But that was okay as long as he got to keep Theo. Because that’s what he promised; Stiles’ body for Theo’s life. It seemed like a simple trade at that time.

Theo rocks him softly, protecting him from ghosts.

“We’re going to get through this,” he had promised, bleeding from his wounds. None of them lethal. They were supposed to kill him only if Stiles didn’t behave.

“You promised,” Stiles whispers.

Because he behaved. Stiles behaved. He said so too only to decide that Theo needed to die anyway. It would be better that way, he’d said.

To this day, Stiles doesn’t know why the knife was left on the ground next to him. Maybe he thought Stiles to be too broken to do anything. But he forced himself to move, and he got dressed, grabbed the knife, and hid it behind his back.

You promised.

The words ring in Stiles’ ears, making it impossible to understand anything Theo is saying to soothe him.

Because he’s stuck in the past, stuck with Tara’s fiancé crouching in front of him, smiling as if he’s won their little game. Stiles didn’t smile back. He rammed the knife into his throat instead. He still remembers the feeling of the warm blood on his face just as much as the rage that took a hold of him as he stabbed him twenty-four more times before he collapsed, unable to move for what feels like an eternity.

Just like he is now.

Theo kisses the top of his head. “I’m here,” he whispers reassuringly. “I’m not going to leave, okay?” It’s a promise he’s heard before, a promise that was broken by outside force — it’s a broken promise, nonetheless. But Theo’s arms feel safe, and Stiles wants to believe him, wants to trust that this time nothing is going to come between them again. “How about you go to bed, and I find something to eat for you?”

“Sure,” Stiles whispers, although he’s neither hungry nor tired, however, he’s aware when people need a minute to breathe. Theo’s life has been crumbling too when Stiles was having his mental breakdown. His life will be falling apart for a little longer while the truth carves its place.

Stiles gets to his feet, Theo’s hand secure at the small of his back, and then he crosses the room, alone and feeling just as empty as every single day of his life.

Upstairs, Stiles tosses his clothes in the hamper and slips into his sweatpants. He doesn’t go to bed though, instead he crouches by the opening, listening to Theo looking through his kitchen. For a few moments, that’s all he hears.

Then Theo’s icy voice cuts through the apartment. “I don’t give a shit about how early it is, Tara.”

Stiles swallows and backs away. He should’ve known. Squeezing his eyes shut, Stiles curls into bed, trying his very best to block out Theo’s voice. It should be easy. Theo doesn’t yell when he’s angry after all. But his cold tone crawls into his consciousness, and there is nothing Stiles can do about it.

“You know exactly what video I’m talking about.” A drawer slams shut, the only outbreak Theo will allow himself to have. A Raeken does not lose his temper. They are composed and always in control of the situation. That’s why Theo is made of repressed rage. “Tell me what he did, and don’t you dare lie to me.”

Biting back a sob, Stiles curls into a ball and pulls the blanket over his head. That’s how the monsters stay away. He covers his ears with his hands. That’s how Theo’s words won’t reach him.

That’s how he stays until the mattress dips.

Stiles lowers his arms, moving the blanket enough that he spots the sandwich Theo placed on his nightstand. He doesn’t say anything, neither does Stiles. Both waiting for what will happen next. Theo told him he wouldn’t leave, but that was something he said before he knew the full extent of what happened.

The mattress dips again. This time, Theo is crawling into bed with him, slipping under the blanket and back into his life as he wraps an arm around Stiles’ middle. His warmth and body are familiar, safe, a remnant from a time that was easier, happier, hopeful.

Sleep refuses to come regardless. Theo doesn’t fall asleep either, Stiles can tell by the way his body never fully relaxes, and how he tries to breathe softly enough as if not to startle him. With the truth out in the open, Theo considers him fragile. Stiles wonders what the world would think about him if they knew the whole story.

When the first rays of sunshine find their way into his bedroom, Stiles turns around only to find Theo already looking back at him. “Hey,” he whispers.

Theo’s eyes crinkle slightly. “Hi.”

Stiles watches as the soft morning light draws patterns on Theo’s cheek. He traces one, unable to stop himself, and smiles as blue eyes flutter shut. He looks peaceful like this, as if nothing bad ever happened in his life. But his body speaks a different language. Stiles trails his fingers down Theo’s chest, eyes never straying from his face when he finds his scars; scars he got because of Stiles, because he’s stubborn and needed to learn which battles to pick.

Before he can talk himself out of it, Stiles kisses Theo. Everything from the shape of his lips to the way they fit against his makes his whole body ache — and Theo kisses him back, arm tightening around his waist. The familiarity is breathtaking. Suddenly, no time has passed. They’re in Stiles’ bedroom, trying to be quiet, trying not to wake his dad.

But when Stiles slips his fingertips underneath the waistband of Theo’s boxer briefs, he grabs his wrist and stops him inches away from his dick. He doesn’t pull away. Not yet, at least. “What are you doing?” he asks, lips moving against Stiles’.

Drown out the memories. Reclaim his past, his body. Trying to be whole. “What do you think?” Stiles replies instead, casual, like this is something that happens every other day. It doesn’t. Not like this. People don’t usually stop him when he tries to hook up with them. Usually, they can’t fuck him fast enough. Theo used to be like that. He couldn’t get inside him fast enough, and usually, he enjoyed his afterglow still buried deep inside of him.

This is new.

Stiles doesn’t like new.

Theo pulls away, not far, just enough to study his face. “Stiles…”

“I’m not broken.” Stiles dragged himself out of the gutter too many times to be broken. He won’t deny that he’s damaged, but he is fine. After all, he has survived so far – and most of it, he did on his own. Stiles doesn’t need to be coddled, especially not by Theo; not years after everything has already blown up in their faces. 

Smiling, Theo brushes his thumb over the back of Stiles’ neck. A soothing gesture. The exact opposite of what he needs. “I know.”

“Do you?” Stiles yanks his hand free and sits up, anger and shame and desperation swirling inside of him. This is why he fucks strangers. Commitment causes issues. Commitment means people look at him and see him for how fucked up he really is. Commitment means allowing someone in the way he let Theo in, and Stiles can’t go through that again. “Maybe you should leave.” Stiles closes his eyes and falls back into the mattress.

Theo rolls over and leans over him. “I don’t think so,” he whispers before bending down again and crashes their mouths together. It’s too hard, a bit to clumsy, not the way Theo would usually kiss him. But there’s something desperate in the way clings to him; almost like he’s afraid that if he lets go, Stiles will force him out.

Perhaps he would.

But Stiles is just as desperate for this than Theo. “Good,” he mutters into the kiss, pushing a hand between them again. This time, Theo doesn’t stop him when he reaches for his dick. “Then fuck me like you mean it.”

Theo shudders above him, either because of his words or because Stiles is dragging his thumb over the tip of his dick. He still remembers what Theo enjoys, what gets him hard the fastest, how to wrap him around his little finger and make him cum so hard he forgets his own name. Today, however, isn’t about Theo.

And Theo is aware of that.

He pulls away and grabs Stiles’ waist, easily turning him onto his stomach. “Lube,” he commands in a low voice as he pulls him onto his knees. There’s nothing particularly gentle about it, not his touch, not the way he opens Stiles’ pants and yanks them over his ass, or the way presses a finger against his rim.

This time, Stiles shudders and closes his eyes. It’s easy to forget how well Theo knows his body too. He needs a few seconds to remember that he’s supposed to grab lube. Although Stiles doesn’t take anyone home with him, he keeps a bottle of lube in the box next to the bed. He pushes the lid open just enough to push his hand in, fingers brushing over pill bottles before he manages to fish out the lube, which he tosses unceremoniously at Theo.

The hands vanish from his ass, and Stiles uses the time to get rid of his clothes. In his hopeless dreams, his reunion with Theo always ended up being a bit softer, full of longing and love. There’s love still, somewhere deep inside of him, but as of right now, there’s lust and despair, the desire to drown with hard sex what he’d usually use pills for.

Theo’s hand returns, grip tight on his hip and stilling Stiles, as two wet fingers push against his rim without any hesitation. He pushes into him until his second knuckle, making a sound that’s somewhere between annoyance and want. It’s not too hard to figure out that Theo’s thoughts are wandering to what he saw earlier tonight.

‘Your fault,’ Stiles wants to say, but he merely groans and pushes his face into his pillow. “Warn a guy,” he utters against the fabric, sounding way too breathless already. They’ve barely started.

Theo huffs and pulls his fingers back. There is even less softness now that Theo is clearly pissed off at Stiles sleeping around – as if he has any right to be angry or hurt. Nobody forced him to watch. He’s free to leave. But he doesn’t. He stays and buries himself in Stiles with a quiet grunt. When they’re pressed together so close nothing could fit between them, Theo stills, and Stiles reminds himself to breathe because he forgot how good it felt to have Theo inside him.

There used to be a time when Stiles could relax like this after a stressful day. Sometimes, he even managed to fall asleep with Theo balls deep inside of him – for a while, at least. Usually, he woke up to his boyfriend’s resolve breaking.

Ex-boyfriend.

Stiles licks his lips and looks over his shoulder, watching Theo staring down at him. “Do you need any help?” he asks and quirks a brow. “Or are you going to fuck me anytime soon?”

For a few heavy heartbeats, Theo simply looks at him, eyes almost searching for something. His lips curl into a disapproving line as he isn’t successful – and then he pulls back, only to snap his hips forward in a way that’s so familiar, so achingly hard, so right. Theo fucks him confidently and without further hesitation. His mouth explores every inch of Stiles’ body he cans reach – as if he doesn’t know him inside out. His fingers leave marks, reclaiming ownership of something he thought has left him.

But it’s worse.

Someone stole it.

The desperation and anger are clear in every thrust, in the way his fingers press into his skin, short nails digging in enough to leave little half-moons.

It’s hurts just right. The edge of pain making him harder than he’s been in the past few years – since he’s lost Theo. There could probably something be said about him, said about the way this type of sex feels so much better than all the other random hook-ups with strangers in the back of his bar. Maybe it’s the pain, or maybe it’s simply Theo; his body remembering everything.

His name rolls over Theo’s tongue, and this hurts in a different way. It cuts deeper, memories cursing him, a future that could never be trying to drag him under.

Stiles bites into his pillow and squeezes his eyes shut, trying to match Theo’s thrust as best as he can. Although he doesn’t have to do much. The hands holding his waist in an iron grip are doing the work for him. They’re having sex, yes, but in a way, they both are chasing their very own needs that simply seem to line up in some way.

Theo keeps fucking him in the same all but violent pace. Hips snapping forward, slapping against his own with an almost obscene sound, and nailing his prostate with almost every thrust.

Stiles spits the pillow out, propping himself up enough that he can see. A gasp escapes him, every sound punched out of him by Theo's dick. He grabs his own, fingers cool against the hot skin. Opening his mouth, Stiles watches the muscles in Theo’s thighs work, how his fingers dig deeper into his skin – as if he’s scared, he might vanish. Theo is chasing something, something he lost years ago, something Stiles gave away to protect him.

Part of him hopes he’ll find it again.

Maybe it’s better if he doesn’t.

Squeezing his eyes closed, Stiles moves his hands up and down his dick, fingers tightening near the tip. He’s chasing his release, the moments of freedom it gives him from his thoughts.

His muscles tighten when Theo’s thrust turn shallow, more irregular, and he’s so fucking close to cum. But Theo beats him to it. He moans his name, a sound somewhere between a curse and a moan.

Stiles cusses under his breath, struggling to keep up on his legs and arm with Theo’s weight splayed on top of him. He’s jerking himself off, desperate for his orgasm. His brain all but short-circuits when it finally hits him. For a few blissful moments, Stiles is in heaven – no thoughts, no memories, just his body, unchained.

Perhaps that’s part of the reason he’s chasing this so much.

But the return to earth is never fun.

This time, however, Stiles feels Theo’s hands brushing over his sides, his mouth placing soft kisses over his back, on his shoulders, the very bottom of the nape of his neck. He’s also still buried deep inside of him.

Stiles lets out a breath. For the first time, he prefers that his hook up hasn’t moved an inch. He embraces the weight of his body on top of his, although he’s gained some muscles in the past few years while Stiles isn’t much more than skin and bones. “Theo,” he says anyway, trying to get the word ‘move’ out of his mouth but it refuses to pass his lips. Things can’t be like they were before. Theo can promise him to stay all he wants, too much has happened, too much has changed. Stiles is too much.

But he can’t bring himself to end it.

Very carefully, Theo eases them both on their sides without pulling out. “What happens now?”

Stiles closes his eyes. So much for his afterglow. “You go back to being a football star, I go back to fucking myself up further. Everyone’s happy.” The lie burns on his tongue, but it’s easier to pretend than to open himself up emotionally only to lose Theo again. He’s not going to survive that. It’ll be a miracle if he survives this night.

“What if I don’t want that?” Theo runs his left hand up his chest, resting it above his heart. “I didn’t come here to walk away from you again.” His breath is hot on the back of his neck, the arm around him pulling him closer. 

Despite himself, Stiles grabs Theo’s hand and intertwines their fingers. It comes so easy, so natural. “You don’t want that.” He would like to pretend it’s more instinct than his fear of losing Theo as well. Everything with Theo feels so natural, like nothing ever happened, like they’ve never been apart for even a fucking second. “My life’s a shitshow, and the world’s going to drag you into it.” I’m going to drag you into it a nightmare.

Theo kisses his shoulder. “I don’t care.”

“Don’t—“ There’s a part of him that wants to pull away, to get out of bed, but Stiles doesn’t want to lose the feeling of Theo against his back or his dick inside of him – despite a bit of cum sticking to his thigh, cooling against his skin.

“I promised we’d get through this together,” Theo whispers, running his fingers up and down Stiles’ sternum.

“It wasn’t your fault.” Even though it still feels like it. Five years of believing Theo simply dropped him aren’t going to vanish overnight. Stiles places his hand on top of Theo’s again, squeezing his fingers tightly.

Theo kisses his shoulder, lips curling into a smile against his skin. “I’m never going to leave you again.”

“It’s not worth it.” Stiles can see the headlines, can already tell what the world is going to think if their golden boy is seen with him. The stories they spin. They’re going to dig deep. They’re going to find out Theo’s been there too; keeping his name out of the media is the one thing Stiles and the Raekens could agree on.

But Theo pulls him closer, body so warm and safe and comforting. “You’re worth it. You’re worth everything and more.” 

Stiles hums and closes his eyes, allowing himself to believe Theo.

At least for one day.

---

the wake-up call

“You’re an FBI agent.”

Stiles blinks. “What does that have to do with anything?”

The deputy glances at his notes and then back up at Stiles, crossing his arms over his desk. It is the universal sign of ‘I don’t take you seriously’. Great. “You’re an FBI agent,” the deputy repeats, “and she’s a girl who’s not gotten over you yet.”

Stiles wants to punch him. It took him ages to admit that a restraining order might be the way to go, and now he is sitting in front of a fucking idiot. Even if Malia weren’t a werecoyote, Stiles would still like to do something about her stalking him. “She broke into my apartment,” Stiles reminds him, “twice.”

Deputy Dipshit’s smile turns a little condescending. “You should change your locks then.”

“If you considered your notes, you’d know I did that.” Stiles crosses his arms over the desk as well, leaning closer to the guy and raises a brow. “Twice.” It is hard to gauge if this dude does all of this because he hates FBI agents or doesn’t believe girls could be dangerous in any shape or form. The most likely explanation is that he’s a fucking moron.

The deputy, Stiles should probably remember his name, huffs and leans back in his chair, now playing with his pen. He couldn’t act more disinterested if he tried. “That’s not enough for a restraining order.”

“What more do you want?” Stiles straightens again. His patience is very close to walk out of the door, and it*s not going to be fun when that happens. “Does she have to try and rip my throat out before you even consider taking me seriously?”

“Listen, son—”

“Don’t fucking patronize me, Deputy,” Stiles warns.

A shadow crosses the man’s features so quickly, Stiles almost misses it. Looks like he isn’t the only person running out of patience. “I can’t do anything with this.” he slaps his notes with the back of his hand. “There’s nothing I can do for you, Special Agent Stilinski.” His voice carries venom enough for at least three people.

Stiles decides not to push it. “I want you to file a report.”

“A report?”

“Yes.” Stiles folds his hands on the desk and takes a deep breath. “I want you to file a report about this conversation because if something happens, everyone knows where to start.” Quirking his brows, Stiles a finger against the back of his hand. “Let’s go. Type.”

— — —

“What do you mean, they can’t do anything?” Isaac sounds absolutely stunned.

Stiles slams his car door shut and sinks into his seat, squeezing his eyes shut for a few seconds. “Yeah,” he breathes, trying his best to gather his thoughts to the sound of rain hitting the roof and windows. A shudder runs down his spine. He drops his phone on the passenger’s seat and puts Isaac on speaker. “The fucker thought it’s funny an FBI agent is scared of a girl stalking him.” He wrestles out of his wet cardigan.

“Bloody hell.” Wood cracks under Isaac’s movements. “What are you gonna do?”

That’s a good question. Stiles runs a hand over his face, watching the grey world around him with a heavy heart. As much as he enjoys complaining about New York, this is his home. His friends are here, his work, his apartment. His job isn’t even the biggest issue. As a profiler for the supernatural division, he can work from everywhere. But that doesn’t change the fact that he doesn’t want to leave this city. He doesn’t want to be chased away. Sighing, he grips the steering wheel. “Guess I’ll have to invest in a security system.”

“I thought you wanted to get dogs?”

Stiles huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, that’s the plan.” His and Malia’s relationship has gone on so much longer than it should have. There were many things going on, and it’s not just about her desire to have a child, however, that conversation certainly made Stiles realize that they’re nearing the end. The issue wasn’t her wanting a child. Stiles would love to have kids in the future, just not with her. Admitting that to himself caused an avalanche of realizations Stiles is surprised he didn’t see it sooner.

Bedding rustles, reminding Stiles that it’s already almost 1am in London.

“Do you want me to come over?” Isaac casks, making it sound like they’re neighbors instead of an ocean apart.

Stiles’ heart jolts as all too familiar giddiness takes over. He swallows, intending to stifle his excitement at the mere suggestion. “I can’t ask you to do that.”

“You’re not asking,” Isaac tells him, “I’m offering.”

“I—” But Stiles doesn’t know what to say. There couldn’t be anything better than having Isaac back with him. They stayed in contact after he left for France. Stiles was the one who told him to go to London to chase his job as a physician. But calls and facetime aren’t enough. It hasn’t been for a long time.

Isaac taps a finger against something. “You know I always come when you call.”

Stiles covers his mouth with one hand, glad to be sitting as a sob makes his whole body tremble. Isaac’s departure made him feel like someone ripped out his limbs one by one. There hasn’t been a day that passed when Stiles didn’t miss him, when he didn’t hope Isaac would come back — not just for a couple weeks but for good. But Stiles knows Isaac won’t uproot his life for the same reasons Stiles refuses to do so. 

“Stiles?” Isaac’s voice is unfathomable soft.

Before he answers, Stiles takes a deep breath. “What about your work?”

“Let me worry about my work,” Isaac replies. “Do you want me to—”

“Yes.” His voice trembles slightly when Stiles answers way too quickly. He’d never ask Isaac. Not for help with this and certainly not to stay, but he cannot say no. Not when Isaac offers. He’s too selfish for that. It’s going to hurt like a bitch when Isaac leaves again. Still, it’s a price Stiles is willing to pay.

— — —

When the doorbell rings late at night, Stiles rushes downstairs. Despite knowing Isaac will only arrive in two days, a stupidly hopeful part of him would like him to arrive sooner. Although Isaac is not above surprises, Stiles doubts he managed to convince his colleague to return to work three days earlier. It’s a miracle he got time off on such short notice in the first place.

Someone bangs their fist against the door.

Stiles slides to a stop, goosebumps creeping up his arms. Suddenly, the room is awfully silent, and he wishes he’d gone through with getting a dog instantly after all.

“I know you’re there,” Malia calls, voice slightly muffled through the door.

He takes a deep breath and crosses his arms over his chest. “Leave.”

“Why did you change the locks?”

Stiles’ hair stands on end at the sharpness of her tone. “Because you keep breaking into my place.” he darts his gaze around the room, trying to find his phone. As much as last week’s visit at the police station pissed him off, Stiles isn’t above calling 911 on her ass — something he should have done before.

Malia knocks on the door again, reminding him why he’s still living in an apartment complex, no matter how badly he wants his own house. “Open the door, Stiles.”

His neighbors don’t usually get involved in other people’s business, but they draw the line at missing out on their beauty sleep.

Finally catching sight of his phone, Stiles crosses the room. “Malia,” he says loud enough that people who might be eavesdropping know who this is, “get fucking list, I mean it.”

“I’m not going to hurt you.” Like that promise has ever stopped the little ‘accidents,’ as Malia kept calling them. There was a time it could be blamed on her struggling with control.

Stiles should’ve caught on earlier. “I’ve heard those words before.” He grabs his phone so tightly; his knuckles turn white. A smooch as he hates to admit it, he longs for Isaac to be here. He’d feel a lot safer with him around. For now, however, he has to get through with mountain ash on top of the doorframe, the threat of neighbors intervening, and being one phone call away from NYPD to get Malia to leave.

She pounds her fist against the door. It rattles in its frame, causing mountain ash to trickle to the floor.

Stiles takes a deep breath. His heart races in his chest, and he takes a single step away from the door. “For the last time, Malia,” he calls, voice steadier than he expected it to be, “leave me the fuck alone.”

Once again, his front door rattles as Malia slams her fist against it.

Someone yells from the other end of the hallway.

Stiles waits with bated breath and a heart trying to jump out of his body. Please, leave. Please, just leave.

Footsteps retreat to the left.

Sighing a breath of relief, he collapses into his armchair. He needs to move, there’s no way around that. Money won’t be an issue, luckily, but finding a house in New York isn’t exactly easy.

Isaac can’t come quick enough.

— — —

It’s still dark when his phone yanks him out of his sleep. He groans and winces a bit as he moves his head to the left. His neck and shoulders absolutely hate him, which is no surprise after falling asleep sitting up on his couch.

Yawning, Stiles rubs a hand over his face and feels for his phone with the other. It’s way too early, he just knows it. So, whoever woke him up better has a good reason, or he’ll unleash hell on earth. 

After finding his phone next to his dead laptop on the coffee table, Stiles is proven correct that it’s still way too early to be awake. It’s 4:17 in the morning. Who the fuck texts him at ass o’clock in the morning? Narrowing his eyes, he checks the text message. His heart pounds in his chest.

Isaac.

His fingers tremble slightly, and he tries his best to stifle his excitement. Stiles opens the text message, licking his suddenly dry lips. Isaac texted him this early because he’s on his way here. Judging by his message, he landed half an hour ago and should be arriving here in around fifteen minutes.

Stiles has never gotten ready as quickly as today. His hair is still wet as he all but falls downstairs to open the door. Stiles glances around his loft, grimacing a little at the chaos that is his office and living room area. There are papers and books and empty energy cans absolutely everywhere. Fuck. But there is no time to clean this up now.

His heart somersaults, and Stiles has to take a deep breath before he finally opens the door. “Hey.” Stiles breathes, feeling heat rising in his cheeks. He was hoping to be much more composed when Isaac arrived after not having seen him in person for almost two years, but that’s impossible — not when Isaac is standing right in front of him, hair messy, smiling, eyes sparkling and cheeks pink from the cold despite the thick coat and scarf he’s wrapped up in.

“Hi.” The sound of Isaac’s voice makes Stiles’ heart melt. “May I come in?”

Stiles blinks. “Sorry, sorry.” Once again, a flush is creeping up his neck. Fuck’s sake, he’s behaving like a middle schooler meeting his crush for the first time. This is ridiculous. “Come in.” He steps aside, ducking his head a little. If he can hardly get through half a minute without acting like a fool, Stiles has no clue how the hell he’s supposed to get through the next three weeks. “Sorry for the mess,” he murmurs as Isaac passes him, his suitcase clattering softly against his wooden floor.

Isaac laughs. “My flat has a bunch more dirty dishes,” he replies, putting his luggage next to the armchair. “Don’t worry about it.” He tugs on his scarf, studying his surroundings curiously.

Closing the door, Stiles can’t help but stare at Isaac. Although he looks exactly the same as he does on every video call, there is something very different about the way he holds himself in person. He seems taller, more confident with the space he takes up. He’s breathtaking.

Stiles is so fucked.

Isaac places his scarf over his suitcase and turns back to Stiles, now studying him in silence. His expression is unusually unreadable, but there’s something his eyes.

Stiles’ nerves are on edge. He has no clue if the tension building between them is wistful thinking or reality. The silence sits heavy between them, and for once, Stiles’ mouth refuses to fill it. He should ask Isaac how his flight was, if everything went well, how he’s doing, if he’s hungry. But his mouth is dry, his lips refuse to part, and all he is able to do is stare at Isaac, a mix of excitement and anxiety cursing through his veins that makes his head spin.

Get is together, Stilinski.

“Are you wearing my shirt?” Isaac asks, and those really aren’t the words to interrupt his particular silence.

Stiles looks down at himself. Sure enough, he’s wearing a dark grey t-shirt with the St. George’s logo — the university Isaac used to study at in London. “Yeah,” Stiles whispers, wishing he’d checked his clothes before rushing to open the door, “you forgot it at my dorm, and I…” he trails off and swallows. He could’ve sent it to him. He should have sent it to him, and yet—

Isaac makes a small sound that’s impossible to decipher, and then, before Stiles knows it, Isaac has slammed him against the door, and kisses him with an urgency that takes Stiles’ breath away. The kiss is electric, setting all his nerves on fire. Everything he’s wanted for years; it’s happening right now. Isaac’s kiss, the touch of his fingers seemingly everywhere — it makes Stiles’ skin prickle with want.

“I wanted—” Isaac murmurs between kisses “— to do this years ago.”

Years ago. A shudder runs down Stiles’ spine. “You should have,” he whispers, curling his fingers into Isaac’s hair. “But we can still make up for all that lost time.”

Isaac doesn’t reply. Instead, he crashes their mouths together again and lifts Stiles off his feet.

— — —

They spent the next three days in bed for the most part, only leaving to shower or grab some food. Although Stiles usually isn’t all that interested in wasting his time in bed, Isaac keeps his mind occupied — either with his mouth or his dick.

Stiles can happily admit that those three days have been the best of his life. Just the thought of Isaac leaving in three weeks breaks him. Waking up next to him makes him feel as if he can get through whatever the day might throw at him. Sleeping next to him, Stiles has never been calmer. Even falling asleep seems easier than normal.

Yawning, Stiles closes his eyes, curling against the warm body next to him. He smiles as Isaac makes a soft noise in the back of his throat and wraps an arm around him to pull him even closer. Stiles can’t help but smile into the crook of Isaac’s neck, staying as close to him as possible. Waking up, limbs tangled, Stiles never loved waking up as much as he does currently.

Until he’s torn away from Isaac. His scalp explodes with pain, but before he can do anything, his back, and head slam into a wall. He groans, pain all but immobilizing him. Dark spots appear before his eyes. His vision is blurry. Someone says something, but the words drown in the sound of his blood rushing in his ears.

Stiles blinks multiple times, trying to get his bearings, but his vision still is fuzzy, and his scalp burns. He reaches out a hand, trying to figure out where he ended up on the floor, hoping to find light, his phone, anything. Something hits him in the side of his face. Stiles yelps, slamming to the ground again. His chin hits something hard, teeth clacking together painfully. Tears spring in his eyes.

What the fuck is going on?

Someone grunts behind him.

Stiles fumbles for something familiar. A shoe, a book, anything that might point him in the right direction.

His fingertips brush against some papers. Good. That means he is next to the bedside table. He feels for it, finding the knob to the second drawer. He’s got his gun and ammunition locked away like a law-abiding citizen, but his paranoia refused to let him sleep without a weapon near his bed, especially since his break-up with Malia.

He rips the drawer open, not caring about the fighting noise behind him, and fumbles for his flip knife. Relief rushes through his body when he curls his fingers around the handle. He pulls it out and slams the drawer shut, now fumbling for the light switch.

Just as he finds it, he hears a yelp, followed by the sound of a body tumbling down the stairs. “Isaac?” Stiles turns on the light and whips around, panic constricting his chest.

“I’m okay,” Isaac calls. He’s standing by the stairs looking down into the living room, claws still out and eyes bright and yellow. His body stays poised for an attack.

Stiles stumbles to his feet, head screaming in pain. He flicks his gaze from Isaac, barely registering the bruised knuckles, to the bottom of the stairs, not surprised to find Malia there — knocked out cold, but far from dead. Carefully, he steps over the broken glass of wine on the floor; empty, luckily. It’s a bitch to get red wine out of the carpet.

Isaac wraps an arm around him, pulling him flush to his side. His body relaxes against Stiles,’ and he sighs. “I think moving should happen rather sooner than later.”

Grimacing, Stiles leans into the hug. As much as he hates to think about it, Isaac’s right. Malia is losing her patience, and once Isaac is back in England, there is nobody here to help him out. Stiles can’t tell where she draws the line. At this point, he’s sure she won’t stop at anything to continue their relationship.

“I can’t protect you when I’m working the nightshift.”

“I know,” Stiles mutters, “I know I need a—” Wait. Stiles steps away and looks up at Isaac in confusion. “What?”

Smirking Isaac runs his fingers through Stiles’ hair. “I’m staying with you, Pretty Boy,” he whispers, pulling Stiles close again. “I’ve got enough money to last me a while. We’ll find you a place, and wherever you wanna go, I’ll follow.”

Stiles’ heart leaps into his throat, making it impossible to speak. He can’t believe what Isaac is saying.

“How does that sound?” For a moment there, Isaac almost sounds unsure.

Stiles leans up and kisses him, smiling against his mouth. “I’d love nothing more.”

“Good,” Isaac mutters, “but before we celebrate that—” he pulls back, grimacing a bit “— we should probably deal with her.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees, but he’s not too disgruntled about that — nothing could take away the high of knowing Isaac is not going to leave him anytime soon - not even the prospect of dealing with the police again. He hides his grin against Isaac’s shoulder for a moment.

He’s staying.

Not that he can do anything about that right now. Although part of him hopes Malia will attach herself to one of the werewolves blatantly hitting on her. That’s what all these werewolf conventions are for, aren’t they? Politics and mating — or mating for politics. 

“You look as bored as I feel.” Theo collapses into a chair next to him, tugging on his tie. 

Stiles huffs out a breath. “I’ve been fighting the urge to pull a fire alarm for almost an hour now.” 

“Is that why you don’t move?”

“If I get up I can’t guarantee anything.” Stiles glances around the room, watching werewolves mingle, watching some looking back at him. “Besides, I don’t think I’m particularly welcome here.” Kira decided not to participate from the very beginning. A fox amid hundreds of wolves probably isn’t a good idea. Stiles tried to tell Malia that it’s more than likely the same applies to him. Naturally, she didn’t listen and dragged him here. If he trusted Theo and his motives a little more, he’d ask whether it’s obvious or not. As it is, he should probably keep that to himself. One person blackmailing him is more than enough. 

Theo crosses his arms on the table. “Your scent doesn’t match any of the packs here. It makes them nervous.” At least it’s not the fox thing. “The rumors going around probably don’t help either.” 

That’s not something Stiles wants to hear. “Rumors?” he echoes regardless, trying his very best to sound nonchalant. “What type of rumors about a human could possibly be concerning for werewolves?” Because it would be perfect if they stopped floating around. The only thing more worrying than being an outsider in the middle of a bunch of werewolves is being an outsider who makes said bunch nervous. Conventions like these aren’t always peaceful. More often than not, fighting breaks out. Stiles would prefer not to be in the middle of it. 

Theo’s gaze sweeps across the room, narrowing only slightly before he turns back to him. “It’s about what you’ve survived,” he says and, leaning closer, he adds, “what you might have become of it.” 

Stiles stares at him and clenches his teeth. If he says a single word, he might out himself. Other than Malia, Theo is the only person who knows what may have become of him. Maybe Theo is the only one who really knows him — even the parts Stiles is hiding from himself. 

“Kira is one thing, but you, Void?” 

Stiles slams his hands on the table. “Is that a threat? Are you seriously threatening me?” 

“No.” Theo doesn’t seem particularly bothered by the outbreak. He never is. For someone with a short temper, Theo has always proven to be very patient with him. “It’s a warning.” His gaze flicks back into the crowd. “Maybe you should get better friends because the ones you have are dropping subtle hints about what you are.”

Tensing visibly, Stiles narrows his eyes at Theo. “Malia probably doesn’t know any better.” The words are no sooner out of his mouth when he questions himself why he even defends her. She’s blackmailing him. She is actively fucking him over, and yet, here he is, protecting her image from Theo’s accusations. 

Theo barks out a laugh, humorless and dangerous and perfect in every way possible. With a smile as dangerous as his laugh, Theo leans even closer. His breath brushes over Stiles’ cheek and chin, like ghostly fingertips tickling all those buried feeling back to the surface. “Do you really think,” he whispers, placing his hand on Stiles’ thigh, just high enough to be considered intimate, “that Malia is smart enough to blackmail anyone? Let alone you?” Theo leans even closer, pressing his mouth against the shell of Stiles’ ear. His hand moves higher, crossing lines and boundaries he shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near. But Theo doesn’t care. He never cared. Instead, he places his free hand on the side of his neck. “Let alone you, Void?”

Stiles pulls back so fast he almost slips off the chair. “Do not—“ he bites out and grabs Theo’s hand, not pulling it away, just holding them in place “— call me that.” 

Theo’s smile only widens. “How do you think Malia knows about the video Agent McCall keeps hiding to protect you?” 

Stiles can feel his blood run cold. This was supposed to be a secret only Stiles, Rafael, his dad and Scott know about. That footage will put him in prison faster than anything else ever could. There’s no convincing anybody that the person on the tape is a thousand-year-old fox demon wearing his face. Stiles thought it was destroyed, but if Theo’s telling the truth then— he furrows his brows. Wait. “How do you know about that?” 

“That’s the question, isn’t it?” Theo squeezes his leg and gets to his feet. “If you come to your senses, Satomi always has a place for strays.” He nods toward the other direction of the room and leaves. 

Heart pounding in his chest, Stiles watches him walk away. He’s probably more than aware of the damage he just caused. As per usual, Theo dug his fingers into all of Stiles’ biggest insecurities and tore him apart. The blackmail, his being a nogitsune, the friendship with Scott, and his feelings for the chimera. Theo knows him better than anyone, that’s why he can hurt him so much. But Theo also understands that Stiles needs this pain to start helping himself or accept another person’s help. 

Stiles pulls his phone out of the pocket of his jacket and heads in a different direction. If anyone can get rid of this video footage, it’s Melissa — and the best person to talk to her is his father. 

- - -

The good thing about his father dating Melissa is that they’re basically attached at the hip, so Stiles does not have to worry about his dad being alone again. Stiles could also hear the beginning of what would undeniably become a rather uncomfortable conversation for Rafael. The footage most likely will be deleted before the day is over. 

The bad thing about his dad and Melissa dating is that they will end up in the crossfire of what’s going to be the end of Scott-and-Stiles, no matter how much they’ll try to keep them out of it. When Stiles told them about the blackmail, Melissa was sure there had to be a good reason or a misunderstanding. Stiles is sure Scott thinks he has a good reason, but it’s not a misunderstanding. 

Stiles pushes his phone back into his pocket and returns to the main hall. He’s not going to stay long, all he’s wanting to do is briefly talk to Satomi. To be fair, he’s not sure if he actually wants to join her pack, but he’d at least would like to talk to her about what’s going on with him before she hears it from anybody else. He’d also like to talk to Theo again. Maybe. He doesn’t know. 

“Hey.” Malia appears in front of him, stopping Stiles in his tracks, “where have you been?”

Although it’s really none of her business — now even less than before — Stiles decides to tell her. He’s going to leave anyway. She might as well know why. “I was talking to my dad,” he explains and crosses his arms over his chest. 

She furrows her brows. “Where are you going now?”

“Satomi.” Stiles nods in the direction of her table, watching as Brett beckons Theo over. 

Seeing him is probably what tips her off. Despite everything, their non-existent relationship wasn’t entirely a secret. People picked up on something between them. Malia noticed it too. “If you go over there—“

“Then what?” Stiles snaps his gaze back to Malia. “You’ll ruin my life?” The only person he was worried about knowing the truth about him already knows everything, and Scott turns around to blackmail him with it. Stiles should have never returned to the McCall pack. He was better off on his own. It certainly would have spared him a lot of pain and heartbreak. 

Malia flashes her eyes. Once again, control is slipping through her fingers. It’s nothing new. She’s never been trained well. The only time she stayed mostly in control was when Stiles acted as her anchor. Maybe that’s why Scott wanted Stiles to date her again. It makes life easier for him. “You can’t do that. I’m going to tell everyone the truth about you.” 

“Awesome, and while you’re at it,” Stiles says in a low voice, “tell Scott Melissa wants to talk to him. She didn’t sound particularly happy about the whole blackmail thing.” Smiling at her, Stiles turns on his heels and walks away. He’ll quickly talk to Satomi then he’s going to leave. Simple as that. He’s over all of this bullshit. 

“I’m pretty sure,” Malia calls, her voice trembling noticeably, “the people here would like to know a fox is hiding in their midst.” 

Although everything in him wants to stop and turn around, he forces himself to keep walking. If he pretends she isn’t talking to him, he might make it out of the room before the others are putting everything together — if they even care. It’s hard to tell with werewolves. There might be a lot who are just like Satomi and don’t care about foxes. There might be a lot of other wolves who consider the complete opposite. He works his fingers through his hair and catches sight of Satomi getting to her feet. The rest of her pack follows. Well, everyone but Theo, who is already right in front of him. 

Smiling softly, Theo places a jacket around his shoulders. “Hey babe,” he says in a low voice, “let’s head out.” 

Stiles narrows his eyes. “Excuse me?” He wants to brush off the jacket, but Theo keeps it firmly in place by grabbing his upper arms. 

“I said let’s head out.” Still smiling, Theo places a hand on the small of Stiles’ back in an attempt to move him. The hand around his right arm tightens a little. 

“No.”

Surprisingly, the smile does not slip from Theo’s features. Instead, he leans closer, pressing his mouth against the shell of Stiles’ ear again. “If you don’t want me,” he whispers, and it’s the most threatening tone Theo has ever used on him, “to throw you over my shoulder and carry you out of here, I recommend you come with me.” Gently tugging on the jacket, Theo stands back again. 

Stiles wants to smack him. Hard. He curls his fingers into tight fists. 

Theo’s hand slides down to his wrist, and he tugs him closer. His smile turns sharper. “Don’t even think about it.” 

Grinding his teeth, Stiles glances over Theo’s shoulder. Oh, but he wants to. So desperately. Because it’s easier than leaning into the other boy. However, people are watching. Most packs wouldn’t dare to make a move on someone from Satomi’s pack whether she’s in the room or not, but the chance is not zero. Not at all. Theo, as of right now, is his shield and most likely the only person standing between him and being pounced on by a werewolf who thinks he’s sneaked into his place. Theo is putting himself at risk. 

Stiles licks his lips. “Why are you doing this?” The last time Theo protected him, the whole thing was a setup. Theo used killing Josh to blackmail him. “You don’t care.” He wants something from him… unless he’s doing it for Satomi. 

Furrowing his brows, Theo pulls back. For what it’s worth, he looks actually offended at the statement. “Of course, I care.” 

“No, you don’t, and don’t give me that—“

Theo leans closer. This time, he’s not aiming to whisper in his ear. His warm breath brushes over Stiles’ cheek. It smells sweet like the stupid white wine Theo’s been drinking all evening. Gently, Theo nudges their noses together. The simple gesture feels too intimate to move, to breathe. 

And then Theo kisses him. His lips are gliding against Stiles’, one hand cupping his jaw, the other pulling him closer. He’s kissing him, and his eyes are closed. He’s kissing him, and Stiles’ heart sings. 

He wraps his arms around Theo’s waist, curling his fingers into the soft shirt. He’s holding on a little tighter than he needs to, but now that he has Theo exactly where he’s wanted him for years, the thought of letting go again makes his stomach turn. 

The jacket slides from his shoulder, but Theo catches it with ease. His lips curl into a smile against Stiles’. When he wraps the jacket around him again, he uses it to pull him closer. His chuckle ripples through Stiles’ body, making him shudder, and press closer to Theo. 

“Now that I’ve proved my point,” Theo whispers against his lips, “we’re going to make our exit.” 

Stiles shakes his head, but he can’t help but laugh. “You’re a jerk, you know that?” 

Theo hums. His fingertips run down Stiles’ arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. “You love it.” With a small grin, he intertwines their fingers. “You look good in my jacket.” He slips an arm around his waist, pulling him to his side. When he leads him towards the exit this time, Stiles doesn’t even think about fighting it. 

“Looks like I have a habit of dating people ready to blackmail me.” Stiles glances at Theo out of the corner of his eyes. 

“I’m a changed person.” 

“Right.” Stiles bites back a smile. 

Theo pinches his side. “Careful,” he whispers into his ear again, probably highly aware of the goosebumps he causes, “I can still be vengeful, little fox.”

Stiles presses his lip together and stares past Theo. The other boy has been trying to convince him for a couple of months now. He’s going to give up eventually. All Stiles has to do is endure — and beg that Kira is going to arrive soon. He needs to leave before he allows himself to talk to Theo and give him a chance to lull him back into yet another false sense of security. His head is on board with him, but his heart is a piece of shit.

“Babe, please.” Theo places his hands on the table, palms up, almost as if he’s hoping Stiles will reach for him. 

He doesn’t. He won’t. No matter how much his fingers itch to touch him. He purses his lips instead and narrows his eyes at a group of girls who are very clearly talking about them. Good thing he can’t hear them. The last thing he needs is an unsolicited commentary on his love life. He’s got Lydia for that, and she is really walking on thin ice. 

Theo draws his brows together. “Stiles,” he whispers, scooting closer to the edge of his chair, “have I ever told you that you are the best thing that ever happened to me?” Flattery, that’s what he’s going with knowing very well it does not work on him? 

One of the girls makes a sound, and Theo’s expression hardens as he’s staring her down for a few seconds. She’s just managed to climb his shitlist faster than Tracy ever could. But he takes a deep breath and returns his attention to Stiles. His expression once again softens. “I mean it, babe.” 

Stiles would like to point out that Theo lost all of his ‘babe’ privileges, but that would mean he’s talking to him again, and that would defeat the whole purpose of this silent treatment. 

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” Theo continues in a soft voice, “and you’re all I can think about. You’re everything I ever wanted.” He taps a finger against the table, biting his bottom lip. For what it’s worth, his expression seems to be genuine. But Theo has proven to be a master manipulator as well as a pretty good actor. 

Stiles is not falling for his shit again. 

The door to the coffee shop opens. Kira is finally walking in but stops when she spots Theo sitting with him. 

Stiles couldn’t get to his feet quick enough. Without looking at Theo, he grabs his coffee and rushes toward the other fox. “Please, let’s just go,” he mutters because he really, really does not want to be any longer in the same room as Theo as he has to. 

Kira grimaces a little. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Stiles nods for emphasis, “please.” They wanted to relax a little before she’d help Stiles figure out how to get in touch with his fox while he’s not being extremely angry. 

Smiling softly, Kira steps out of the doorway and points in the direction of her car. “Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine,” he replies even though he knows those two words are going to raise all sorts of red flags for his friends. They’re not wrong either. Stiles isn’t fine. He’s hurt and heartbroken, and he hates Theo for lying as much as he loves him for everything else. The short while they dated — are they still dating? They never officially ended things — it was great. Stiles has never felt as loved as he did when he was around Theo. Now? Now, it just fucking hurts even thinking about it.  “And I’m gonna be peachy once I bring as much distance between Theo and me as possible.”

Kira sighs but doesn’t say anything even though Stiles can tell she really wants to. He appreciates her silence for as long as it lasts because he knows this topic isn’t done. They’re going to talk about it multiple times today. 

-  -  -

Stiles stares at the beautiful red rose sitting on the table in front of him. It has been a beautiful red rose for longer than it was supposed to be. “It’s mocking me.” 

Kira sits down next to him, nudging his shoulder with her own. “Or maybe you’re just not in the right mindset.”

Groaning, Stiles lies down. “I don’t wanna hear it,” he mutters, knowing very well that he is about to hear everything about it because Kira has become much bolder after returning from the skinwalkers — and Lydia’s influence doesn’t help either. 

“You know,” Kira says, tapping a finger against her ankle, “he can’t stop talking about you?” The question is why is everyone chatting with Theo after learning he worked with the Dread Doctors? Did they all forget he is the enemy? 

Is Stiles the only one who’s feeling betrayed? Considering that he’s the only one who’s had his heart ripped out, that’s entirely possible. “He doesn’t love me.” Stiles throws his arm over his eyes, feeling like a petulant child. But it’s the truth. How could Theo love him if he kept something this huge a secret? Unless he was just scared of how Stiles might react to the truth. Well, he surely would have not been this pissed. It’s the lie that makes Stiles feel as if Theo never told him the fucking truth about anything. Now, everything Theo has ever said and done feels tainted. He probably shouldn’t have listened to his dick because then his heart wouldn’t have had a chance to get involved. After all, that’s when everything started to fall apart. He should’ve backed off when he caught feelings, but Theo has already gotten into his head at that point. 

“That’s not true.” 

“Kira—”

“No.” She flicks his arm and then lies down next to him. “You can tell he loves you. It’s so easy to see.” 

Sighing, Stiles pulls his arm away and looks at her. “There’s an accusation somewhere in there, and I don’t like it.” 

Kira understands that as her cue to continue. “I know what Theo did was wrong,” she says, sitting back up, “don’t get me wrong. It’s just—” fidgeting with her hands, Kira shifts into a cross-legged position “--- after you said you don’t trust him in the beginning, I decided to keep an eye on him.” She hooks a finger under her sleeve and sighs.” Every time, and I mean every time, you’ve entered a room, he turns to watch you. Whenever you talk, he watches you. And whenever he watches you, his eyes light up. He looks so genuinely happy even when you don’t give him the time of day… it’s like, I don’t know, like an invisible weight is lifted off his shoulders.” 

Stiles closes his eyes. The thing is, he noticed all of that too. He knew Theo was looking when he thought Stiles wasn’t paying attention. But he was. All the time. It’s impossible not to notice Theo. He’s ever-present, and he refuses to get out of Stiles’ head, no matter what. Kira telling him all that is not helping. Not even in the slightest. “So,” Stiles says, squinting at the ceiling, “you’re saying I should forgive him?” 

“I’m saying you should hear him out.” Kira tips her head to the side. “I think he deserves a few minutes of your time, don’t you?”

Groaning, Stiles covers his eyes again. He hates that she’s right.

-  -  -

Theo didn’t answer his phone, he wasn't home, and he wasn’t at school the next day. If it were anybody else, Stiles would assume they were moping because of Stiles’ not talking to them for a few months now. But Theo doesn’t mope, and he certainly doesn’t give up. That’s why he dragged Kira to the police station with him the second school’s over. Parrish was less excited but tracked the last known location of Theo’s phone anyway. 

Turns out, Theo is somewhere inside a warehouse in the middle of nowhere. The concerning part isn’t necessarily the location; it’s the flashing light and screaming that’s a cause for concern.

“Okay, Stiles,” Kira says, following him out of Roscoe as quickly as she can, “don’t let your emotions get the best of you. The nogits—”

Narrowing his eyes, Stiles throws his hands in the air. The door to the warehouse blasts open, flying off its hinges. 

Kira sighs and pulls out her katana. “Fine, let’s do it your way.”  

This fucking town and everyone inside of it are cursed. Every fucking year, like goddamn clockwork, something is going on. Hunters, supernatural fuckfaces, or teenagers losing their minds. The options are endless, and today it seems they’re going back to the roots after all the bullshit that was the Dread Doctors. 

The lights stop flickering, and so does the screaming. 

A man spins around. Something yellow clatters to the floor. But Stiles’ gaze snaps towards Theo, chained to the fence and wet to the bone — just like the rest of his pack. His hair and clothes stick to his skin, but his eyes are wide. Stiles can sense his pain from here. 

Stiles returns his attention to the man. “I know who you are.” Stiles tilts his head, smiling as he raises his right hand. “Schrader,” he says in a low voice, stepping further into the warehouse. “Never thought I’d see you outside of Eichen House.” 

Schrader looks around, panic flooding the room.

Part of Stiles hopes he remembers him, but he’s aware that it doesn’t matter in the end. Stiles isn’t here for petty revenge. A smile slips onto his lips as he stops walking, eyes still fixed on Schrader. He’s here to save Theo. “You should’ve stayed in Eichen.” Stiles raises both of his hands, feeling excitement rush through his veins as Schrader lifts into the air. The panicked shrieks are music to his ears. It’s always the same; hunters and bullies are cocky bastards until they meet someone they can’t pick on. “Don’t touch my boyfriend and his pack ever again.” He twists his left hand. Schrader’s neck snaps, and he crumbles to the floor like a broken doll.

“We talked about this,” Kura mumbles, elbowing him in the side. “You have to keep your feelings under control. This cannot keep happening.” 

Stiles ducks his head. “Sorry.”

“So,” Theo interrupts them, clanging his chains against the fence, “if you don’t mind?” 

His relief at seeing Theo alive clashes with his annoyance at Theo’s behavior. Remembering he worked with the Dread Doctors doesn’t help either. Stiles grinds his teeth, staring at his boyfriend — are they even still together after months of whatever this was? — and raises his hand. With a single snap of his fingers, four sets of chains open and clatter to the ground. 

Josh fails to catch his balance and is only saved by Hayden and Tracy from falling onto his face. 

Corey rubs his wrists, pulling a face. “Thank you,” he says softly and glances from Stiles to Theo, still chained to the fence, and back again. 

Finally cutting eye contact with a mildly pissed-off Theo, Stiles smiles at Corey. “Don’t mention it,” he replies, forcing himself to speak as lightly as possible. He’s pissed, but the other chimeras had nothing to do with any of this. They’re not at fault for Theo being a lying asshole. 

“Babe…”

Stiles turns away, grabbing Kira’s wrist. They are leaving, or he’s going to punch Theo in his smug, stupidly handsome face. He deserves it. 

“So, we’re not listening to him?” Kira asks quietly, dragging her feet a little as she goes. 

“Wait.” Another set of chains clatters to the ground. “Stiles, babe.” Theo rushes towards him, footsteps echoing around the warehouse. “Please.” There’s an odd crack in his voice, “please, please, wait.” 

Despite himself, Stiles stops and lets go of Kira. After exchanging a short glance, she leaves Stiles to his own devices. It’s probably better this way, even though Stiles doesn’t exactly feel ready to forgive Theo yet. Something has to give if he ever wants to figure out how any of this— how they can continue. Because they’ve lived in this fog for a couple of months. He either needs to listen to Theo and give him another chance, or he has to break up with him. 

But he doesn’t want to. 

He can’t. 

Theo runs his fingers through his wet hair, smiling ever so softly. “Thank you for…” he trails off then nods in the general direction of Schrader’s body and his pack. 

Stiles folds his arms over his chest. 

“And I’m sorry,” Theo adds, rubbing the nape of his neck. “I should’ve told you about my past with the Dread Doctors.” 

Stiles believes him, he really does — even though he tries his best to deny it. 

“Meeting you again changed everything.” Theo reaches for his hand and seems almost startled when Stiles doesn’t pull away for once. “I— I’m…” he trails off again, and after a few seconds of silence, Theo pulls him close — probably more than aware of what this does to him. 

Stiles has denied himself those touches for far too long, and maybe he could’ve spared himself all of this if he’d listened to his heart instead of allowing his anxiety to run rampant. He should know better than that. 

Theo licks his lips, curling his arms around Stiles’ waist. “I missed you,” he whispers, brushing their noses together. “I love you.” 

A small part of him is still hesitant about trusting Theo, or about letting him back in. The idea of having his heart ripped out of his chest and stomped on once more is more than a little terrifying — mostly because Stiles doubts he’ll make it through this again. Just imagining it makes him feel sick. He loves Theo, more than he’d ever dare to admit. It’s a scary thought, but, at the end of the day, it’s the truth. Plus, Theo did kill the Dread Doctors. He protected Lydia and helped get Kira back from the skinwalkers. Theo did a lot of shit wrong, but he does try to make up for it, but he still lied. It’s going to take a while to come back from that. 

“You’re not gonna say it back, are you?” Theo quirks a brow. His tone is amused despite his attempts to look annoyed. “Are you still not talking to me?” 

Stiles puts his hands on Theo’s shoulder, gently pushing him away. He’s going to hold out a little longer. Theo will survive it, and hopefully, learn his lesson never to lie again — especially not over something this huge. 

Theo slips his hands lower, pushing them both into the back pockets of Stiles’ pants. “You’re a stubborn ass, you know that?” He smirks, eyes darkening ever so slightly when he pulls him close while very pointedly squeezing his ass. “Which I love very much, by the way. You and your ass, that is.” 

Rolling his eyes, Stiles flicks Theo’s nose.

Apparently, Theo takes that as his cue to kiss him. Hard. And if the low rumbling in his chest is any indication, Theo might not make him talk any time soon, but he’ll certainly make him moan.  

--- --- ---

“What are you doing here?” Stiles asks, straightening his spine and shoulders almost instinctively. Donovan Donati is not supposed to be a part of his everyday life. Stiles made just enough room for his presence that didn’t interfere with anything or anyone else. That’s how his second shot at a normal life is supposed to work. It needs three pieces; the past he avoids, the present he tries to enjoy, and Donovan for when the darkness makes him feel too much or nothing at all.

Donovan’s grin is uncomfortably sharp. Then again, everything about him is, almost like he designed himself to hurt whoever comes too close. It’s enviable and pathetic. “You wanna come to a party later tonight?” It seems like all those unanswered text messages aren’t doing it for him any longer. 

Stiles didn’t expect him to care. “I hate parties.” Because joining Donovan and his gang has never been about socializing. It’s always been about feeling better. He couldn’t care less about it being Donovan. If he had a better option, he’d go for that. 

“Do it for me?” 

Stiles scoffs. “I hate you too.” But Stiles doesn’t need to like someone to spend time with them — as long as they prove to be useful. 

Donovan’s lips twist. 

“Hey.” Brett appears at Stiles’ side, one hand protectively curled around his shoulder. “What’s up?” Brett is polite. Brett is also the only person Donovan won’t cross. They are polar opposites, yet not impossibly different. Brett simply knows better than to go down the wrong path, probably because he has people who care about him. Donovan is surrounded by his little puppets.

Stiles shakes his head. 

Donovan sneers. “See you at school.” Without regarding Brett, he turns away, pointing the Twizzlers at Stiles like he would a loaded gun. Not even the most feral werewolf manages to make every single gesture look like a threat. Staying away should be easier, but Stiles keeps crawling back in desperate need to feel something — even if it hurts.  

Brett doesn’t look satisfied with the end of the conversation. “What did he want?” 

“Nothing.” Stiles shrugs his hand off, knowing full well he’s being a dick. “His usual bullshit.” 

“What’s his usual bullshit?” 

“Fuck, Talbot.” Stiles pushes his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Talking shit. Acting tough. The fuck do I know.” His connection to Donovan is not supposed to leave the shadows. They don’t have this type of relationship. Nobody hangs out with their dealer. 

Brett does not look like he believes him, but he drops the topic. “The girls are—“

“I’m sitting with Lori.” The girls are nice enough, but Stiles doesn’t have the energy for them. He also feels a little weird about joining them. He’s not part of the girlfriend group, and he doesn’t want people to dwell on his and Brett’s relationship too much. It’s enough that Stiles overanalyses absolutely everything. 

Brett smiles, features getting unbearably soft. “I’m glad you came,” he says, and for a moment, he looks almost sheepish. “It means a lot.” 

Stiles smiles, hating the way his heart grows three sizes. This is not going to end well.  Not at all. 

— — — 

“You look like you haven’t slept a second,” Brett comments, sitting down opposite him. His backpack hits the ground like a ton of bricks. “Nightmares again?” 

If by nightmares he meant the questionable decision to join Donovan’s even more questionable party, then yes. Stiles should’ve known better, really, but it is what it is — and his bruised ribs are going to heal eventually. Stiles simply did not expect Donovan’s fucking minion to hit that hard. Sighing, he pokes his milkshake cup with his middle finger and shrugs. “It’s easier to tell you when I don’t have nightmares.” 

Brett sighs, crossing his arms on the table. “Stiles.” His name sounds as if Brett wanted to say something entirely different, only to lose his courage before opening his mouth. It’s an odd sensation. Brett Talbot doesn’t usually lose his courage. He shifts in his chair, long legs bumping into Stiles’. A warm breeze rushes down the street, rustling the menu and Brett’s hair. He fixes it, frowning at himself in the reflection of the ice cream parlor’s large windows.

Two girls sitting inside watch him transfixed — Stiles stops himself from doing the same. Swallowing around the lump in his throat, he taps the menu. “I heard the banana split is great here.” 

Tugging on a strand one last time, Brett turns to look at him. “I don’t like whipped cream.” 

“Tell them you don’t want it.” 

Their legs are still pressed together.

Brett raises his brows. “Tell them…” he trails off, lips curling into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Such an easy solution.” His gaze darts over Stiles’ face while the wind is messing with his hair again. He’s not talking about the whipped cream any longer. Maybe he never has. Sometimes, he is as hard to read as Parrish. On other days, it’s easy to see more on his face than there really is. 

Usually, Stiles doesn’t have issues reading people, yet Brett still feels elusive. He’s never been able to look at Brett and feel like he knows him — unlike Brett is doing right now. And that’s the scary part. Although Stiles is not afraid of being known, he fears someone knowing him and leaving anyway. It’s not unreasonable. It happened before. It might just happen again. Perhaps that’s why being with Brett makes him anxious despite being unable to stay away. Losing Brett would break him all over again. 

Stiles licks his lips. “I died tonight,” he says then, knowing Brett would not drop the topic, “strangely enough, it helps feeling more alive in the morning.” It’s as close to the truth as he can get without telling Brett he spent the night at one of Donovan’s underground parties. It’s not the type of party someone like Brett Talbot would attend. It’s the type of party Jordan Parrish would shut down if he knew it happened right under his nose. It’s filled with drugs, with teenagers doing everything they aren’t allowed to, with people betting on others fighting in a cage, and with Donovan being the king of it all.

“How often does that happen?” 

“I think it’s easier to tell you how often I get a normal amount of sleep.” 

Brett shakes his head with a humorless chuckle. “I get it.” He stands up, now fixing his hair again. “You don’t wanna talk about it.” 

Stiles hums in agreement and sips on his milkshake, watching the other boy out of the corner of his eyes. He’d rather be open about everything he does. It would probably help to talk to someone about it — someone who isn’t Donovan, who deals in violence, or his therapist, who deals in prescription drugs. Neither is particularly interested in talking to him, much less listening. Maybe Brett would if he gave him the chance, or Stiles might ruin a perfectly good thing. 

“Banana split?” 

“Banana split.” 

Brett nods, pulling his wallet out of the pocket of his jeans. “You want something else?” 

“I’m good,” Stiles says around his straw and watches as Brett walks into the ice cream parlor. There are six people in front of him, all of them wanting to enjoy the last days of summer. He scrunches up his face when the cold shake touches his teeth and bites down on the straw for good measure before leaning back in his chair with a grunt. A dull ache echoes in his ribs. Touching the sore spot carefully, he shifts in his chair. As much as he loves this place, they need to upgrade their furniture. If it weren’t so crammed inside, Stiles would’ve chosen the more comfortable benches. 

Stiles closes his eyes, trying to enjoy the warm rays of sunshine. He’s not felt at ease like this ever since he learned about the scrimmage. Stiles was aware that he would have to confront his old friends eventually. It still messed him up. Seeing them. Watching how their world simply kept turning without him being there. They looked like he never belonged anyway, as if his absence doesn’t leave the same hole Stiles is so desperately trying to fill right now. It’s pathetic, really. If they can move on as if it’s nothing, Stiles should be able to do the same. 

Yet he finds himself at Donovan’s fucking parties more often than he can count. 

The chair next to him scrapes over the asphalt. 

“That was quick.” Stiles blinks his eyes open, but it’s not Brett who settled into the chair. It’s Donovan. His blood runs cold. This happens entirely too often for his liking. “What are you doing here?” 

Donovan tosses a small bag at him. “You won a bunch of money last night.” His leg shifts, pressing against Stiles’. 

“Why the fuck,” Stiles snaps, snatching the money from the table, “are you giving this to me here?” It’s not like the next party will be months away. Donovan never makes it longer than a few days, and even if Stiles didn’t appear, there could have been a more subtle way. But it seems like Donovan is done with being subtle. He wants something else. Something Stiles won’t be able to give him. “Don’t be a fucking idiot.” He pulls his leg away, hating the sensation of their bodies touching more than Donovan being here. There is something poisonous about the other boy, and Stiles doesn’t want to get it all over him. 

The response doesn’t seem to bother Donovan. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you don’t want your boyfriend to know about us.”

“He isn’t my boyfriend.” Because that’s the important part about everything Donovan said. But at least it’s the truth. Brett isn’t his boyfriend, and he most likely won’t be — not as long as Stiles doesn’t bother to get any better, and especially not as long as Stiles keeps a company like Donovan Donati. “And there is no us.” 

Donovan grins. It’s cold and calculating, and in a strange way, comforting. Because that is the Donovan Stiles is familiar with. “If it wasn’t totally unethical, I’d blackmail you with this.” That’s rich coming from the guy who makes sure to include a fight club in every single one of his parties.  

Stiles grinds his teeth before he forces himself to relax. “Because you’re a shining beacon of ethics, right?” Everything was fine for four months. Why does Donovan have to go out of his way to fucking ruin everything? “Just go away.” 

“Aw, Stilinski, you’re hurting my feelings.” 

“Good.” 

Something dark flicks over Donovan’s expression. His lips pull away from his teeth, and he leans closer. “I know what you want,” he says in a low voice. “Talbot can’t give it to you. Not the way I can.” His fingers creep towards Stiles’ hand and before he can pull it away, Donovan grabs it tight, squeezing it until his bones hurt. 

Stiles stares at him, eyes wide, heart hammering against his ribs, but he doesn’t struggle. It would only cause a scene. Donovan might be violent, however, he’s not stupid enough to pull a stunt on a crowded street. 

“I’ve let this slide for long enough,” he says through his teeth. His eyes narrow as he spits out his next words, “there is only with or against me. Make a fucking decision.” Without warning, Donovan lets go of his hand and gets to his feet. The chair clatters to the ground. Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t put it back up again and isn’t particularly bothered by the surrounding people staring at him. Some are shaking their heads, others look like they want to make sure Donovan doesn’t spot them. It’s how you can tell who knows him and who has never heard his name. 

Stiles wishes he could disappear. His chest tightens. He should stop. He should fucking stop. There are other ways to get through this. Maybe he should find a new therapist, or maybe he should toss his principles in the bin and take the shit he prescribes him. But Stiles doesn’t want to take drugs. He doesn’t want to drink. Donovan isn’t that kind of dealer for him. Stiles goes to Donovan to get rid of his rage. He goes to Donovan so his body hurts whenever he moves, to make sure he knows his body belongs to him. 

To feel something. To claim this body as his own.

Winning money is just the cherry on top. 

Stiles ducks his head and bends down to pick up the chair, but somebody else is faster than him. 

“Talbot,” Donovan sings entirely too happy, “fancy meeting you here.” 

Brett sets the chair down with more force than necessary. “Donati.” His wallet hits the table. There’s no banana split in his hand. “I suppose you’re leaving.” 

“Don’t know, man. A milkshake does sound good, doesn’t it?” 

Brett does not reciprocate the grin that’s plastered on Donovan’s lips. Usually, he is too calm to look dangerous, but right now, Brett looks every bit like the predator he is. “Then I suggest you get something to go.”

Despite himself, Stiles reaches for Brett. His fingers find his wrist, pulse hammering under his skin, and curls his hand around his arm. The touch is soft. Brett barely would have to move a muscle to break free, but he relaxes instead, turning to look at him. Not everyone knows Donovan, but people know Beacon Hills’ rising lacrosse star. The last thing Stiles wants is for Brett to get a dent in his reputation because of someone like Donovan. He’s not worth it. Neither is Stiles. 

“Fuck, Talbot.” Donovan’s dark eyes are locked onto the spot where Stiles touches Brett. It takes a long moment for him to look up again. When he does, his almost feral smile does not reach his eyes. Maybe Donovan knows because he flicks his sunglasses down. “You gotta lean to share your toys.” 

Brett’s muscles go taut under his hand, and Stiles squeezes his arm in warning. “Ignore him,” he says under his breath, staring at his milkshake. He can’t bring himself to look up, not while everyone is still looking at them. 

“Leave.” Brett pulls his arm free and crosses them in front of his chest instead. “Or I’m going to share something with you, you won’t enjoy.”

Donovan barks out a laugh, sudden and cold, like nails on a chalkboard. “Damn, maybe I didn’t give you enough credit.” Or maybe he simply didn’t look close enough. Then again, why should Donovan pay someone like Brett any attention? He doesn’t need popularity because he already has a crowd following him around like lost puppies. After all, Donovan can provide them with whatever they want. 

Even Stiles fell for it. 

“Is there something you want?” Brett inquires icily. 

Donovan tilts his head just enough to give the impression that he’s looking at Stiles. It’s not a great feeling. “There’s always something I want.” 

“Then get it somewhere else.” Brett sits down, turning his back partially towards Donovan. The conversation is over. So when he grabs Stiles’ milkshake and takes a sip, it’s more than obvious that he is very much trying to prove a point. It’s kind of sexy. 

If Donovan is in any way bothered by it, he certainly knows how to hide it. Which is unusual. He’s not exactly known to mask his emotions very well. Without another word, he pulls his phone out and turns away, blending into the crowd without much of a problem. 

A few seconds later, Stiles’ phone buzzes in his pocket. He ignores the itch to grab it. He doesn’t need to read it to know Donovan repeated his threat. There’s only with or against me. The decision should be easy. “You gonna finish that?” Turns out it’s a lot harder than he could have ever expected. 

“You gonna keep hanging out with him?”

Stiles lets out a breath. “I’m not—“

“It’s never,” Brett interrupts him, putting the milkshake down to grab Stiles’ hand instead, “a good idea to hang out with Donovan.” That’s not exactly a big secret. The guy comes with his very own warning brighter than any neon sign Las Vegas has to offer. It’s just that warning signs aren’t for everyone; some are blind to them, and others love to ignore them. Stiles belongs to the second category. “Donovan is… he is the opposite of friendly. As in, he is unfriendly. As in, don’t be friends with him!” 

Stiles blinks. “I’m rubbing off on you.” 

“Oh, shut up.” Brett huffs out a breath, sounding not unlike a laugh. His thumb brushes over the back of Stiles’ hand, causing a rush of goosebumps up and down his body. 

Stiles shouldn’t crave his touch so much. It shouldn’t make him feel like he’s wrapped up in a cloud of cotton candy. There is absolutely no reason for Brett to grab his hand either. There is even less reason for Stiles not to pull it away. “Donovan isn’t all that scary,” he says softly, trying his best not to intertwine their fingers when Brett starts playing with them absentmindedly. “I’ve seen worse.” 

Brett nods. “I know.” 

“I promise I’ll be careful.” It’s an admission. Stiles is aware of that, and so is Brett judging by the grimace on his features. “But, if it makes you feel any better, you’ll be the first person I’ll call if I ever need help.” He’d probably be the only person he’d call for help. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Jordan, but having a werewolf on speed dial is still the safest bet. Besides, Stiles knows Brett would drop everything to come and help him. 

Humming in what can only be agreement, Brett slides his fingers in-between Stiles’. He looks up and smiles. “Cocky bastard.”

— — — 

Stiles watches Donovan argue with two of his friends about what food to get, lips pressed into a thin line. He shouldn’t be here. The second he saw that tonight’s location was a hotel instead of an empty warehouse, Stiles should have turned around and left. Donovan’s parties don’t happen inside expensive hotel suites. This feels more intimate. It feels like he shouldn’t be here. But he can’t be home alone either. Meeting everyone again fucked with his head much more than it should have. 

He eyes the cocaine residue on the glass table. His phone screen flashes, catching his attention. Stiles snatches his phone as Donovan moves next to him, almost as if to grab his phone as well. Pulling a leg onto the couch, he unlocks his phone. To his surprise, it’s a message from Brett. 

> Want me to pick you up tomorrow? 

Stiles’ heart does a very complicated thing, and he has to take a very deep breath before replying. 

I’d like that <

> How about we grab some breakfast before school too?

Why does this sound so much more like a date than meeting up at the ice cream parlor does? Stiles bites his bottom lip.

Surprise me. <

> Believe me. I will. 

> Sleep well

Stiles twists his lips into a pitiful grin. Yeah, sleeping probably isn’t going to happen. Not that he’d get a second of sleep by staying home. The darkness is a lot darker than since the scrimmage against his old school. As much as he hates being around Donovan, it helps. He swipes his thumb to stop the screen from going dark. Sleep well. His chest grows warm. 

He’s so fucked. 

You too <

Stiles bites his cheek, thumb hovering over his keyboard. Just yesterday, Brett held his hand, played with his fingers, and protected him from Donovan. Maybe, just maybe, Stiles should take the leap and stop seeing Donovan. 

Can’t wait to see you again <

The message is being read almost immediately. Stiles’ throat closes up. Part of him wants to throw his phone to the other side of the hotel room, but his grip around it tightens instead. He doesn’t have the money to replace it anyway. 

Brett sends him a heart. 

He sends him a fucking heart. 

Stiles grins, pressing his phone to his chest. Maybe he isn’t quite as fucked as he thought he might be. Maybe this is his cue to finally stop destroying himself. Not for Brett but because of this. This feeling. This giddy stupid sensation wraps around him like a safety blanket. The nogitsune didn’t win. It didn’t break him. Not entirely. He isn’t too broken to be liked — maybe even loved. 

His dad would be proud of him. 

All he has to do is end this. For good. And that’s why he came in the first place, right? Stiles isn’t entirely stupid. He noticed the changes. He noticed Donovan changing his approach. Stiles would have put his foot down if he were a better person. Still, part of him needs this outlet. If he really wants to change this — if he wants to change himself — tonight will be the last night. 

Donovan isn’t going to like that. 

But Stiles doesn’t care. He’s going break this fucking habits once and for all. He is going to quit tonight. If he’s got a chance with Brett, he doesn’t want to ruin it. 

“Stilinski,” Donovan drawls, his pupils are blown as wide as he’s high, “you shitting me?”

Stiles glances at him out of the corner of his eyes. The guy really had the fucking nerve to lean close enough to read his messages. “Privacy, fuckface.” He elbows Donovan away, who bares his teeth in a terrible copy of a grin. Sometimes he wonders if Donovan is ever sober and if he’s being perfectly honest. Seeing that he had to repeat his senior year twice because his attendance was abysmal, Stiles very much doubts that. He’s probably failing the year again — not that Donovan is actively trying to change that. But why would he? If he can rent a suite like this— 

The door clicks shut.

Stiles whips his head around. 

The suite is empty. Donovan’s friends left the room without saying anything. Unless maybe they’re grabbing food and drinks? Maybe they said something, and Stiles simply didn’t catch it. That’s entirely possible… right? “So,” Stiles says, trying to stifle the panic swelling in his chest, “where’s the rest?” 

Donovan lets out a huff. “What rest?” 

Licking his dry lips, Stiles turns around. Something about the way Donovan leans towards him makes him feel highly uneasy. He should have never come here, and he shouldn’t have acted like Brett’s worry was exaggerated. It wasn’t. Stiles knows something is wrong with Donovan. That’s why he attends his parties. Still, a person who gets drugs as easily as Donovan and offers people a violent outlet is dangerous. Or maybe, just maybe, Donovan simply likes to watch other people ruining themselves. That still makes him dangerous, just not actively so. 

He’s being stupid. 

How the fuck could he risk ending up alone with Donovan Donati?

“Well,” Stiles says, tightening the grip on his phone — Brett is just a message away. One single message. “The rest of the party.” His eyes dart around the room. He can’t help it. Keeping track of ways of escape is a necessity when running with wolves and other creatures of the night. It’s probably smart to treat Donovan similarly. 

Donovan merely scoffs and crosses the room, leaving the entrance unguarded. That’s good. That’s good. “You think I’d pay that much money for the room to be trashed?” He grabs a bottle of water, tossing it at him without warning. 

Stiles catches it awkwardly. “So… what’s this then?” He gestures a little, still not entirely sure what to make of this situation. He doesn’t get it. Who rents a huge ass suite to pre-party with their friends? It doesn’t make any sense. 

“To chill,” Donovan says and reaches for his glass of whiskey. “To have fun.” Despite everything Stiles knows about him, he manages to look like a sleazy politician who only cares about his pleasure. 

Stiles twists his lips. What does that make him? 

“Nobody needs to rent something like this for fun.” He makes air quotes with one hand before opening the bottle. It’s almost entirely silent. This bottle has been opened before. It has been tampered with, his paranoid mind suggests. Stiles twists the cap back and forth. Donovan’s eyes are on him. He can feel his gaze like a spider crawling up his spine. This is wrong. Something is wrong. Everything is wrong. 

Donovan sets his glass down. His posture is relaxed, yet there is something off about him. “Not thirsty?” 

“Not really, no.” Stiles shakes his head and clears his throat, trying to figure out what to say without giving Donovan a reason to fly off the handle. “I should… I think I should probably… go.” Stiles puts the bottle down, ignoring the rise of Donovan’s brow. Every second he stays here is a second too long. Why has he come here? Why didn’t he just ignore Donovan like he usually does? He could have called Brett. 

Fucking dammit. He’s so fucking stupid. 

“No?” Donovan turns on the couch, now fully facing him. There’s no humor left in his tone. “You go on a date with Talbot, and suddenly — poof — your innocence is restored?” 

Stiles glances in the direction of the door. If his gut feeling is right about Donovan, he won’t make it to the door. “I never said I’m innocent.” But that seems to have been the wrong thing to say… which he probably should have expected. 

And yet— 

Donovan’s grin remains a grimace, but he reaches his hand and places it on Stiles’ thigh. His touch is strangely soft, his thumb dragging a small circle over the inside of his jeans. “I can give you everything you want. I can give you everything Brett Talbot can’t.”

But that’s not the point. The point isn’t about getting what he wants. Not all the time, at least. Stiles isn’t fucking stupid. Sometimes, he’s gotta keep in mind what he needs. And Brett? Brett is capable to give him both. Brett is who he wants, but Stiles is aware that he’s not the person to let him get away with his bullshit. That’s not who Brett Talbot is, and that’s what Stiles loves about him. 

Loves. 

Shaking his head, Stiles pushes his hand off. “Don’t be a fucking idiot.” 

But Donovan merely reaches for him again, moving closer in the process. His hand returns to his thigh — and this time, it’s a lot closer to his crotch. 

Stiles shoves it away again. “Stop.” 

“I think you owe it to me.” 

When Donovan reaches out this time, Stiles slaps his hand away. “I said stop.” He pushes his phone into the pocket of his jacket and gets to his feet. “I’m leaving.” Nothing in their relationship ever indicated that Donovan is interested in fucking him, and Stiles surely never gave him any reason to believe otherwise. 

“No.” Donovan jolts to his feet. “You’re not fucking leaving.” 

“Oh, but I am.” Stiles takes a step back, mindful of the table and the couch. If he stumbles, he’s— he doesn’t want to think about it. The last thing he wants is to get into a position of weakness in front of a pissed-off Donovan. “I don’t want y— this.” 

Without any warning, Donovan lurches forward. His grip is tight and painful, and so is Stiles’ back connecting with the wall. “I don’t care.” Sneering, Donovan forces a leg between his thighs, “it’s time to pay up.” 

Panic explodes in his chest when Donovan leans closer. He’s trying to kiss him. He’s trying to kiss him. 

No. 

No. 

It’s so much worse. 

“Stop.” His voice isn’t half as assertive as he wants it to be. It cracks as he turns his head away, merely avoiding Donovan’s lips on his. “Please, stop.” As if begging is going to lead to the desired result if struggling doesn’t do anything. As if Donovan fucking cares because he doesn’t. It’s like he doesn’t even notice Stiles trying to push him off. Maybe that’s why Donovan didn’t bother to grab his hands. He knew he was stronger. He knew he could easily overpower him. 

Fuck. 

Stiles wants to scream, but he can’t. It’s like the sound catches in the back of his throat, refusing to come out. He should have listened to Brett, but no. No. Stiles thought he knew better, and now this is what he gets; Donovan’s mouth on his neck. It’s a touch that makes Stiles’ stomach heave. “I said stop.” There. That came out a bit more assertive. 

But Donovan doesn’t back off. He doesn’t even flinch. He does, however, adjust his grip and places his hand at Stiles’ hip instead of his upper arm. 

And that gives Stiles enough room for a punch. 

So he does just that. 

The second his fist connects with Donovan’s cheek, a sharp pain jolts from his knuckles up to his shoulder. It feels like he’s punched a brick wall with full force. It’s a way too familiar feeling, and the shock freezes him for a moment. There is blood on his knuckles and blood on Donovan’s face. Stiles is pretty sure both belong to him. But that means… 

Donovan whips his head around, baring unnatural sharp teeth. Those aren’t what pushes Stiles to sprint to the bathroom. It’s Donovan’s silver eyes. 

Stiles rushes through the open door, almost sliding on the expensive tiles. His heart slams against his chest, panic making it hard to breathe. There’s no way out of this bathroom, but there is time to be found here. Stiles slams the door shut and locks the door. Nothing else but a small cabinet could offer any additional safety. It might only give him seconds, but maybe that’s everything he needs. 

With trembling fingers, Stiles pulls his phone out of his jacket. He doesn’t even think about calling the police or Jordan. He calls Brett. 

The doorknob rattles. 

“Hey, Stiles!” Lori answers in a singsong. There is soft music in the background and something that could be the soft rumble of an engine. 

Stiles swallows around the lump in his throat. “Is Brett there?” 

“Yes, sorry, I’m driving.” 

There’s a thump on the door, and Stiles covers his mouth to stop the panicked sound. It’s going to be fine. It’s going to be fine. He swallows, lowers his hand, and scratches his neck. “I fucked up,” he whispers, voice cracking all over again. There’s no way Lori and Brett haven’t heard that. “I need your help.” 

“Where are you?”

“The hotel downtown.” Stiles licks his lips, watching the doorknob wriggle again. “Brett, I’m sorry, I—“

“Stiles!” By the sound of it, Donovan slams his hand against the door multiple times, every punch feels angrier than the one before. “Open the fucking door.” 

“Is that Donovan?” Brett asks over the sound of his engine howling as he seemingly puts off changing gears in favor of gaining speed.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles whispers again, backing away until he bumps against the sink. “I thought—“ 

“Stiles, don’t apologize.” The engine quiets. Besides the music, Stiles can hear Lori talking to someone. Her voice is muffled enough that he cannot make out what she says, but she sounds hectic. “I’ll be there in ten minutes, okay?” Although Brett can’t see it, Stiles nods. Brett breathes in and out audibly. “Listen to me. I need you to find a weapon. Whatever you can get your hands on, you hear me?” 

Again, Stiles nods, frantically looking around the bathroom, while Donovan is trying his best to get through the door. But there is nothing in this bathroom. What did he expect? This is a hotel. There are no personal items. There is nothing he could use — and it’s not like it matters. Donovan isn’t human. “I can’t—“ Stiles cuts off, feeling his throat close up. Don’t panic. Don’t panic. “I can’t find anything. There’s nothing here.” 

“Where are you right now?” Brett’s voice sounds unbelievably soft given the current circumstances. 

Stiles can’t tell if this is relaxing or stressing him more. All he knows is that there is nothing in this room that is going to help him against whatever Donovan is — or what he’s got planned. There is only Brett, but Brett is not here. Not yet anyway. “The bathroom.” Stiles swallows, grabbing the sink to stay upright even though every part of his body wants to drop to the floor and hide in the corner. “Please, Brett…” he’s not entirely sure what he’s asking him to do. He’s on the phone with him. He’s on his way here. What more does he want? To get out of here. Stiles digs his blunt nails into the skin of his neck. To get out of here with his bodily autonomy still mostly untouched. 

He’s worked for months to remember that his body belonged to him. Every day, Stiles is still struggling with it. That’s why he goes to those parties. Because the bruises and the pain are his choices. They are a reminder that this is his body, and he can do with it whatever the fuck he wants. He can destroy himself. He can rebuild himself. 

The door shudders. 

“Stiles?” Brett calling his name drags him out of his head. “Talk to me, Gorgeous. What’s happening?”

His voice drops to a whisper. “He’s about to get in. Brett, please.” 

“I’m almost there. Just a little longer. I need to you—“

The door finally gives way to Donovan’s violence, and the small cabinet does nothing to protect Stiles any longer. 

“Please, come quick,” is the last thing Stiles allows himself to say before he drops two phones. If he wants to have at least a fleeting chance to fight, he will need both hands. “Donovan, I— let’s talk about this.” ‘Let’s talk about this’? Stiles wants to bang his head against the wall. He can’t believe that’s the first and only thing he came up with.  

Donovan rolls his shoulders. There’s still blood on his cheek. “You should know how this goes, Stilinski,” he says in a low voice, advancing on him slowly — like he has all the time in the world. Perhaps he didn’t hear his conversation with Brett. Maybe, just maybe, Donovan does not have super-hearing. “The more you struggle, the more it’s gonna hurt.”

The bathroom is in no way big enough to rush past him, Stiles well and truly cornered himself coming here, but he’s trying anyway. That way, he at least goes down fighting. 

Donovan doesn’t even have to put any effort into catching him. He simply grabs him around the waist. For a brief second, he lifts him off his feet like Stiles is nothing more to him than a little unruly child that needs to be put into a timeout. “We could have had fun, you know?” Donovan snaps, clearly nearing the end of his patience as he curls his free hand into Stiles’ hair. “But you had to make it difficult.” 

And just like that, Donovan smashes Stiles’ head against the sink. 

The pain doesn’t come immediately. For a little while, there is nothing. That’s what it feels like at least. There is no light. There is no pain. There isn’t even any sound. All of that only returns when he opens his eyes. 

Stiles groans, pressing his eyes shut again. Light explodes behind his lids. The pain makes him sick. There are hands on his body, cold and rough, dragging him over hard tiles. He should open his eyes. He has to open his eyes. But he can’t. His lids feel too heavy. His whole body feels so fucking heavy. But someone moves it. Someone moves him. His elbow connects with the hard ground. The pain shooting up his arm startles his brain into action again. 

He’s inside the bathroom. 

Those hands touching him belong to Donovan. 

He’s not wearing any pants. 

“No,” Stiles mumbles, trying to move as a cold finger hooks into his boxer briefs. “Stop. Please. Stop.” He twists his hips, but Donovan’s grip is vice-like. There’s no getting away. There’s nothing he can do. Stiles forces his eyes open. The lashes of his left eye stick to his skin. There’s blood on the floor. Blood on his skin. Blood on the rug in front of the bathtub. What happens here tonight will leave a stain. Eventually, the hotel will throw it out. Because it doesn’t matter. They might never know what happened here. If they do, they’ll hide it. Nobody wants to rent a room where somebody was raped. 

He sobs.

His stomach heaves violently when Donovan raises his hips off the floor. There’s a tug on his boxer briefs. 

Then his body collapses onto the floor. 

Something crashes behind him. 

“Stiles!” Feet appear in his vision. The tip of white sneakers dips into his blood. “Stiles. It’s me. It’s Lori.” She crouches down next to him, offering him a hand. His blood drenches her jeans. She doesn’t seem bothered. 

Stiles takes her hand. 

“Careful,” she whispers. Her touch is gentle as she helps him sit up. “Careful, your head.” She places a hand on his cheek, tipping his head just enough to study the damage better. “You should get that checked out.”

Nodding turns out to be a terrible idea. He closes his eyes, collapsing against the girl next to him. Another sob claws its way out his throat. It hurts. Everything hurts.

Lori curls her arms around him, pulling him as close as their awkward position allows. “It’s going to be okay.” 

It’s easy to say, and right now, it’s almost easier to believe. Stiles opens his eyes. His pants are lying in a heap next to the cabinet. His shoes have been tossed in the direction of the hallway. One has tumbled through the door. It’s now sitting next to Donovan and Brett’s legs. 

Donovan doesn’t move, pinned underneath Brett, who can’t seem to stop moving. He brings his bloody fists down and down again. There are no other sounds than Donovan’s near maniacal laughter and a fist connecting with somebody’s face. Over and over and over again. It’s a sound Stiles is more than familiar with. He’s caused it more nights than he cares to count. 

And it was all for nothing. All those fights didn’t mean shit in the end. All those nights he spent running with wolves, and he still couldn’t fight off a single supernatural creature. 

Stiles closes his eyes. 

“Hey, hey.” Lori jostles him. “Stay with us.” 

Slowly, Stiles blinks his eyes open again. His view is obstructed by a pair of legs. There is more blood on clothes, but this time, it doesn’t belong to him.

Donovan isn’t laughing any longer. 

“You gotta stay awake, Gorgeous.” Brett crouches down, smiling a little. If not for his busted knuckles and Donovan’s blood sticking to his skin, it would be easy to believe nothing at all happened.  “Can you stand?” He holds out both hands.

Stiles doubts he’ll be able to get to his feet without help, but he wants to get out of here. He needs to get away from Donovan. Swallowing dryly, he grabs Brett’s hands. They feel so different from Donovan’s. They’re so much safer, so much softer. His eyes burn at the thought of it. His throat closes up again, making it almost impossible to breathe. But he pushes through it and nods very carefully when he realizes Brett waits for his sign. 

Getting his feet under him is a slow process. Frustrating almost. His legs don’t feel like his own. The pressure in his head is sheer agony. When he stands, the world tips and turns. Stiles is pretty sure any movement might cause him to throw up. Concussion, the rational part of his brain suggests. 

“Look at that,” Brett says, the smile audible in his voice, “steady as a newborn fawn.” 

Despite himself, Stiles laughs. “Fuck you.” But the short feeling of happiness doesn’t last long. The second he takes a step forward, is the moment his legs give way, is the moment he starts sobbing again. “I’m sorry.” Stiles lets go of Brett’s hands and wraps his arms around the wolf instead, hiding his face. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve listened. I should have—“

“Hey, hey. Don’t.” Brett hugs him to his chest, his arms loosely wrapped around his shoulders, and kisses the top of his head once. “There is nothing you have to apologize for. This isn’t your fault.”   

Stiles curls his fingers into Brett’s shirt, holding onto the other boy for dear life. 

“It’s okay,” Brett whispers. “You’re gonna be okay. I’ve got you.”

---

"Stalkin’?"

"I don't understand the question," Stiles says, turning to Isaac, "you need me to give you a definition or something?" Shaking his head, he stabs his banana bread with his fork. Seriously. He may be a little paranoid at times, but he knows when he sees something or someone move in the shadows of their yard. He’s not blind, and he certainly isn’t fucking stupid.

Isaac taps his spoon against his teacup and leans back in his chair. “Why’d someone stalk you?”

Stiles huffs out a breath. “Well, I don’t know, but I make sure to ask them before they’re going to kill me.”

“No need to be snarky,” Lydia says from behind her complicated coffee order. “It’s a fair question. What supernatural creature did you poke now?”

Wow. Stiles slumps into the bench and folds his arms over his chest. That’s so rude. So rude. Fine, he may have annoyed a few not so cuddly supernatural creatures in his lifetime. That is true, but that doesn’t mean this is his fault. Because it’s not. For once, he didn’t do anything. He’s perfectly innocent. This time. "I did not."

"It's a big campus, innit?” Isaac raises a brow. “You sure someone’s stalkin’ you, Pretty Boy?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, drink you tea, Dr. Who.” Stiles pokes his mug with a scowl, trying to ignore Isaac calling him Pretty Boy like he’s done countless times before. They’re friends. Just friends. And because they are friends, he’s not drawn to Isaac and not at all surprised nobody’s taking him seriously, but he still held out hope that at least one of them would be a little more worried about this. There’s always the chance he unknowingly caught the eye of something supernatural. He’s too young to be eaten alive, and he probably doesn’t taste very well considering that he’s been running on black coffee and curly fries for the past week. He’s not very nourishing.

“Maybe it’s someone who likes you?” Kira props her chin on her hand, studying Stiles with a small smile. Her optimism is precious, but really not at all helpful right now.

Stiles scrunches up his face. “Stalking is stalking.” It doesn’t matter if whoever is stalking him likes or hates him. They’re still invading his personal space, and that of his roommate. He’s glad he’s not on the ground floor, but even the second storey doesn’t protect him from his stalker. He can feel them staring at him through the window.

Adding a bit more milk to his tea, Isaac frowns.

Lydia sighs. “Have they done anything else?”

“Anything else?” Stiles echoes, sitting up again, and bounces his leg against Isaac’s. Out of all the people, the guy is tolerating him constantly moving around. It’s nice not to be smacked every second of every day just because he can’t fucking sit still. “Isn’t following me around enough? Like, seriously, come on.” Sure, maybe it’s not totally dramatic, and perhaps it’s not entirely dangerous. Still, he doesn’t want someone following him around.

Kira twirls a strand of hair around her index finger. “Are you sure someone is stalking you?”

“We’d understand if you were a bit on edge.”

“I’m not on edge, Lydia.” But he is. He is always on edge. Not necessarily because of anything supernatural. Criminal Justice is no joke. The cases are wild, and his overactive imagination really doesn’t fucking help the whole situation. That still doesn’t mean he’s not being stalked.

Isaac tips his teacup this way and that. “You’re goin’ to be fine, mate.”

“Says the six-foot-two werewolf.” Stiles nudges his arm with a smile then grabs his coffee, sighing. Maybe it’s the big city. Maybe it’s his classes. It is possible that his hyper-vigilance, insomnia, high caffeine intake, and overactive imagination make him flinch at his own shadow. But, to be fair, it’s not like Stiles doesn’t have a reason to flinch at his own shadow. His shadow used to be a mass-murdering fox demon.

Lydia reaches for his hand, squeezing it tightly. “Sweetie, you need to sleep. You look like hell.” He feels like hell. “And if you want me to put some makeup on your pale face before your date on Saturday, feel free to tell me.”

Isaac almost chokes on his tea. “Date?” he asks between coughing and trying to stop tea running down his chin and dripping into his precious scarf.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, man.”

“That’s not—“

Lydia waves her hand, disinterested in whatever argument Isaac is trying to make. “Am I still coming over on Saturday?”

“So you can approve of my outfit?” Stiles curls his hands around his coffee and shakes his head. The last time he tried to argue that he is perfectly capable of dressing himself, Lydia turned his wardrobe upside down to prove her point. A day later, he went on a shopping trip. Apparently, he needed a complete overhaul. Society seemed to have agreed with her because it scored him two dates in a month and it got him a stalker too. Maybe he shouldn’t let her choose his outfit again.

Lydia pats his wrist. “Yes.” Clearly amused, she checks her phone and taps a nail against the table. “We gotta go. Study group starts in 30 minutes.”

Stiles groans.

—————

“They didn’t show up?”

“Nope.” Stiles tugs his beanie deeper into his face, shuddering in the cold fall breeze. “They’re a no-show.” It’s hard to tell if he’s pissed or disappointed. They’ve been texting daily for the past month. Fuck, two hours ago they told him how excited they were. Now, they’re not only nowhere to be seen, but they also don’t answer the phone. It’s like the past month hasn’t fucking happened.

Lydia lets out a breath. “I don’t understand.”

“That makes two of us.” What could’ve changed their mind within the span of twenty minutes? Stiles just doesn’t get it. Not after everything seemed fine. And it’s not the first time that happened either. Every single date he’s managed to score in the last five or six months didn’t show up and never talked to him again. Lydia read and reread their text exchanges a million times. She doesn’t have a clue either. It just doesn’t make any sense. They’re having a good time, he’s not using the pictures of another person. So it’s not like he’s catfishing them. And yet…

Shaking his head, Stiles looks over his shoulder. A couple walks behind him, not talking to but staring at each other with so much adoration Stiles wants to vomit. “I’ll call you when I’m home.” Talking isn’t on his mind right now. At all.

“Okay.” Lydia’s small smile is audible. “Love you.”

“Love you too.” Stiles hangs up and, after quickly checking his messages, pushes his phone in the pocket of his jeans. He pulls his scarf tighter around him, puts his headphones on, and drowns the world in fast beats.

At least, he’s trying to.

Stiles turns to look over his shoulder again. Something’s giving him the heebie-jeebies, and he doesn’t even know why. The couple is still walking behind him, not paying attention to anyone or anything but each other, yet Stiles can’t help but feel watched. But it’s just his imagination, right? Right. Has to be. He’s walking home alone at night. It’s not unusual that his nerves are working on overdrive. There’s nobody else around. It’s just the couple. Just the couple. The shortcut through the park is usually empty this time at night. People either don’t know about it, or they’re avoiding it.

They’re probably avoiding it.

Fuck.

Maye not hearing his surroundings isn’t a great idea right now.

Stiles pulls his headphones off and looks around again. This time, he’s alone. The couple must’ve taken the last turn. Great. Just great. Maybe he shouldn’t take a shortcut through a dark as fuck park when he thinks he’s being stalked. He needs to hurry up. He needs to get home right now. Then he can lock the door behind him and work on his essay for a little while instead of wallowing in panic and self-pity. Yes. Stiles nods to himself. Yes, that is a great idea.

He turns around.

And smacks into someone.

“Oh!” Stiles all but jumps a step back, pushing his beanie up. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t—“ Stiles blinks, relief knocking fear down. “Isaac.” Thank fuck. He presses a hand to his chest. “You scared the living shit out of me.”

Isaac chuckles, a sound Stiles never thought he’d love this much. “Aren’t you supposed to be on a date, Pretty Boy?”

Stiles licks his lips. Although Isaac has been calling him Pretty Boy for a while now, he’s never sounded so, well, serious about it. It was always some kind of joke, but Isaac doesn’t sound as if he’s joking now. At all. “Well,” he scratches the nape of his neck, “they didn’t show up. So I’ll start my weekend writing my essay instead.” Stiles shrugs and glances over his shoulder again. Being with Isaac makes him feel a lot safer but still. Someone did watch him.

“You good?”

“Yeah, sorry.” Stiles turns to look at him again. “I just— never mind. What are you doing out and about?”

Isaac shrugs. “Just felt restless. I ‘oped goin’ for a walk might do the trick.”

“Any luck?”

“Nope.”

Stiles licks his lips. Looking over his shoulder again, he pushes his hands in the pockets of his jacket. “You wanna watch a movie?” This may be a bit selfish because Stiles really doesn’t want to be alone right now, but he also wouldn’t mind spending the night— the evening with Isaac. In fact, he’d love that so much he probably shouldn’t even think about doing it.

Isaac nods. “Sure, why not.” Grinning, he steps aside and does a little bow. “After you.”

Stiles laughs, nudging Isaac’s side with his elbow. “We should get some takeout, too.” He’s starving. First, he was too nervous to eat, then he had to wait at a restaurant for almost two hours. He’s gotta get some food into him before he’s doing anything else. “How does Indian sound?”

“It sounds delicious,” Isaac says, curling an arm around Stiles’ shoulder to pull him close.

Despite himself, Stiles closes his eyes and breathes in Isaac’s aftershave. He’s gotten used to Isaac being around him, to the scent of something sweet, something spicy, and a hint of mint. It’s nice. Unusual but nice. And he’s so warm. Stiles never noticed how warm and comforting Isaac he is. And it probably would’ve been better if he never allowed this feeling to sink in.

Fuck.

—————

With his roommate gone for the night yet again — something he’s been doing ever since Stiles’ stalker started, well, stalking him — they huddled up underneath the blanket. Stiles propped the laptop on his nightstand, and an hour into the movie, he’s still not gotten used to Isaac’s body curled against his, his heavy arm around his waist, and his warm breath brushing over his neck. He’s never really allowed himself to think about Isaac that way. And it's not because he hasn't noticed how handsome Isaac is. Because, fuck, he's more than that with his curls and his lopsided smile and his bright blue eyes. But after Isaac came back from Europe, he's different. More assured of himself, his body, his accent. Stiles needed quite some time to get used to his Cockney dialect. Now that he's not trying to hide it any longer, even the sound of his voice seems to have changed.

It's haunting Stiles.

Sometimes even in his dreams.

Fuck.

"You good?" Isaac mutters, tapping a finger against Stiles' stomach.

"Yeah, fine. Why?" Stiles can see his reflection in the dark spots of the desktop, can see Isaac watching him in a way that sends a shiver down his spine. How long has he been watching him instead of the movie? How long did Stiles try his best to ignore Isaac’s body pressed against his, pretending to watch a movie he’s watched a thousand times before?

"Thought I was smellin' anxiety or somethin’,” Isaac tells him, dragging his hand down until it’s resting just underneath Stiles’ navel. It’s a werewolf thing, right? The lack of personal space? That’s most definitely a werewolf thing. Has to be. Stiles and Lydia don’t cuddle like that on movie night, but Isaac just laid down and pulled him close as if it’s perfectly normal. To him, it probably is. They’re not a pack, but they’re the closest thing to a pack Isaac has. He’s probably doing the same with Lydia.

Stiles’ stomach twists, and he swallows. "Oh." Focus, Stilinski. Focus on the normal things. Not on Isaac’s crotch against your ass, or on the hand way too close to the waistband of his sweatpants. Stiles flicks his gaze back to the movie, staring at Pennywise terrorizing the kids. That should work as a turnoff. That clown is fucking ugly. "Not a fan of clowns is all." It's not entirely wrong. He's not afraid of them, but he doesn't get how they're funny.

Isaac chuckles. “You chose the movie.”

Well, shit.

Stiles squeezes his eyes shut. “It is a good movie.”

Isaac nods. One of his long fingers taps against his hip bone, and Stiles wishes he would’ve stayed in his street clothes. He’s gotten way too comfortable. This— oh, stop thinking about it.

“At least you’re not worried about that stalker of yours with me around,” Isaac says in a low voice that has absolutely no business being this sensual.

And fuck. His stalker would've been a better explanation. A much better one. But his brain, of course, did not fucking cooperate. Why would it? It never works under pressure. Unless it's life-threatening. Luckily, his brain knows the difference. It’s impressive, really. “Pennywise distracted me for a moment.”

Humming quietly, Isaac draws small circles on Stiles’ stomach in a very non-platonic way. Yeah, that’s… that’s not exactly something friends do. Stiles is super close with Lydia, and perhaps they’re a little more tactile than other friends, but this? Yeah, no. But maybe it is a werewolf thing. Maybe werewolves are just a bit more… hands on. It doesn’t have to mean— “Stiles,” Isaac whispers, and his mouth is so close to his neck that he can feel his lips move.

Stiles swallows. “Yes?”

Isaac pushes up on his arms, and Stiles would like to blame the mattress dipping on him rolling onto his back. “Tell me to stop.”

Shit. Stiles licks his lips and opens his mouth, but he doesn’t say a word. He can’t. They’re all stuck in his throat. He should say no. He should stop this. They’re friends. Good friends. Very good friends. Stiles doesn’t want to ruin this. But Isaac’s lips are on his, and the world just fucking stops for way too long.

Definitely not a werewolf thing.

Stiles buries his hand in Isaac’s curls, shuddering when he hears the other boy groan in the back of his throat. That noise does things to him, things he never thought possible.

Not with Isaac.

But here they are. Isaac’s kissing him stupid, pressing against him in the most delicious way. He’s warm and soft and Isaac, just Isaac. His heart hammers against his ribs, and he’s still not entirely sure if this is a good idea. They’re friends. They’re seeing each other every single day. But he can’t stop. He doesn’t want to stop. Not when Isaac grinds against him, moaning in the back of his throat. Not when his hands trail over his body as if he learned to play him years ago. Not when all of this feels so fucking right even though it certainly shouldn’t.

Because they’re friends.

But friends don’t touch each other like that. Friends don’t kiss each other in those places. They don’t leave marks on each other's skins.

Yet, they’re doing all of this and more. So much more. Stiles bends his head back, feeling Isaac’s teeth against the crook of his neck, holding onto him as he’s moving above him, around him, inside him. He’s never felt like this before. He’s never wanted something more, never wanted this to go on forever, never wanted to fall apart in Isaac’s arm as much as right this second.

And he did. Right when teeth pierce his skin, Stiles cracks open with Isaac’s name falling from his lips.

—————

“Oh, fuck.” Stiles carefully poked a finger against the swollen skin, waiting for Lydia to answer this goddamn call. That’s a bite all right. A very non-human bite. What the fuck? He doesn’t own any turtlenecks, and he owns one scarf, but he’s going to have to wear either of those things for the foreseeable future because that bite cannot be explained away.

The enervating dial tone is replaced by Lydia’s sleep-deprived and more than a little irate voice. “If this isn’t important—“

“I fucked up.” Stiles turns around to his bed, watching Isaac bury his nose into his pillow still fast asleep. Luckily. Because Stiles needs to talk to Lydia. She knows what to do. Lydia always knows what to do.

She sighs. “What supernatural creature did you—“

“I slept with Isaac.”

The silence is loud for a few very long seconds. “You slept with…” Lydia trails off, and the quiet thunk sounds as if someone’s just banged their head against the wall of her and Jackson’s way too luxurious bedroom. “How… how did that happen?”

“Well, I ran into him when I walked home last night,” Stiles whispers, leaning against the wall and suppressing the urge to bang his head against the wall multiple times in a row. That certainly would wake Isaac. “We watched a movie and one thing le—“

“What do you mean you ran into Isaac?”

“What?”

Lydia makes an almost indignant sound. “I invited him over because… well, he said he was hanging with a few of his fellow students at a bar a town over.”

That’s not what Isaac told him last night. He said he felt restless and decided to go on a walk. “Maybe he canceled?” Stiles bites the inside of his cheek, carefully nudging the bite with his finger again without taking his eyes off the sleeping werewolf in his bed. Why would he lie? But canceling sounds like something Isaac would do. He’s not the most sociable person in the world. He enjoys hanging out with them, but if he had to choose, Isaac would choose to lock the world out.

“Yeah… maybe.” Lydia doesn’t sound entirely convinced, but it’s also five am, so Stiles isn’t about to judge her too hard. “So… you slept with him.”

“Yes.” And he fucking bit me. Stiles isn’t entirely sure if that falls under the category ‘too much information’, which doesn’t exist for the two of them anyway, but he decides to keep that information to himself for a little while longer. After all, she’s dating a werewolf and the topic of her being bitten never came up, so Stiles does not want to know what it means. Well, he does want to know, but he’d rather figure it out himself, so he can have a mental breakdown in peace.

Lydia lets out a long breath. “You’re aware he’s been crushing on you for at least the past six months?”

“He— what?” Isaac stirs and Stiles covers his mouth. Crushing on him? For the past six months? That’s a joke. That has to be a fucking joke. Isaac isn’t someone who’s passively watching from the sidelines while Stiles is going on dates. Not since he came back to the US.

Tell me to stop.

This time, Stiles does bang his head against the wall.

Isaac startles awake.

“I gotta hang up.” Stiles runs a hand through his hair, wincing quietly as the movement tugs on the bite.

“Is he still there?”

“Yes.” Stiles watches Isaac rub the sleep out of his eyes, and he looks painfully adorable with his messy curls. “I’ll call you later.” Tossing his phone on his chair, Stiles walks back to the bed. It’s hard to ignore the dread pooling in his stomach. He likes Isaac, and it’s not like he’s opposed to dating him. He’s ready to try. It might work out. It could work out. The attraction is there, they’re getting along really well, and the sex is phenomenal. But what if it doesn’t work out? Stiles’ track record in dating isn’t exactly great. He’s been ghosted multiple times in the last six months. So, clearly, something is going on he’s not aware of. And dating a werecreature isn’t exactly the same as dating a human. They’re a bit more, well, high-maintenance.

“Good mornin’, Pretty Boy.”

“Hey.” Stiles is not about to swoon. He is not.

Isaac scrunches up his face. It should be illegal to be that hot and adorable at the same time. “What’s goin’ on?”

Stiles sits down on his bed and pulls his right leg to his chest. “Just thinking about last night.”

Grinning, Isaac scoots closer and wraps an arm around Stiles’ waist, kissing his shoulder. “Only good things I ‘ope.”

The best things, if he’s perfectly honest. Stiles did have sex with a lot of people since starting college. The people in New York City are different, or perhaps he’s different. If he’s perfectly honest, the first dry spell he’s had has been in the last six months. Still, the sex with Isaac was on an entirely different level, and he really, really wants to repeat that. Many times.

But.

Isaac huffs out a breath and props his arms onto his bent legs. “I reckon Lydia told you about my crush.” His accent is thicker than it was yesterday. Maybe it's nerves, maybe it's just sleep. He clears his throat, tapping a finger against his knee.

Stiles hooks his finger under the cuff of his sweatpants. “Why’d you never say anything?”

“Didn’t plan on ruinin’ our friendship.”

“But last night—“

“I couldn’t control it any longer.” Isaac pulls his shoulders up, swallowing visibly. For someone so tall, he looks painfully small. It shouldn’t be possible. “I smelled us on the bed. I had you in my arms. I couldn’t…”

Stiles massages his shoulder, mindful of the bite. Surprisingly, it only really hurts when he touches it. He didn’t even notice it last night. Right now, it’s mildly uncomfortable. “You know,” Stiles mutters, cracking a small smile as he locks eyes with Isaac, “if you told me that earlier, I might not have gone through being stood up a billion times in the last—“ six months.

Isaac’s eyes widen slightly. He ducks his head, gaze darting to the sheets which seem to be particularly interesting all of the sudden.

“Isaac… did you, by chance, have anything to do with my date not showing up yesterday?” Or all the times before that? Stiles runs a hand up his neck and through his hair. Six months. Isaac has been crushing on him for six months. For six months, his dates have been no-shows. He’s had a stalker for almost six months. Isaac was supposed to be with a few friends at a bar a town over yesterday. Instead, he just so happened to go on a walk right where Stiles was.

Isaac purses his lips.

“Isaac!”

“I didn’t notice in the beginnin’,” he mutters, tugging at the sheets before shifting into a cross-legged position with a sigh. His shrug is a little helpless. “I reckon my wolf noticed my feelin’s for you a bit earlier than I did.”

Stiles quirks a brow. “And your wolf decided to scare off my dates?”

Isaac tilts his head a little bit. “Maybe.”

Huffing out a breath, Stiles collapses onto the mattress. “For half a year, I expected someone to kill me.”

“Sorry.” Isaac moves to lay down next to him. “I didn’t know ‘ow to tell you.”

That shouldn’t be enough of an apology for months of anxiety, but Stiles can’t blame him. Werecreatures are… not easy when it comes to emotions, especially romantic ones. Dating Malia was harrowing, and he swore never to date another werecreature ever again. But Isaac is nothing like Malia. Sighing, Stiles rolls onto his stomach and towards Isaac, who almost immediately wraps an arm around him again and kisses his upper arm.

“Sorry about bitin’ you too.”

Stiles tilts his head to the side. “It doesn’t hurt.”

Isaac scrunches up his face and rolls onto his back. “That’s it, innit?”

“What?”

“Don’t know.” Isaac taps a finger against his naked chest. “This feels like an end.”

Stiles lets out a long breath. They’re at a crossroads. Something does have to end. They either move on, or they try to develop this friendship into something else. If they stay here, that’s when they’re going to end. “Depends, you gonna keep creeping, Stalker Boy?”

Isaac’s chuckle is almost soundless. “Only if I can’t help it.”

Stiles huffs. “How about this,” he says, pushing himself off the mattress, “you call me—“ grinning, he straddles Isaac’s hips “— when you can’t stay away from me anymore—“ he shudders when Isaac’s gaze kicks off a wave of heat everywhere in his body “—and we’ll see where it takes us?” It’s not that he never thought about it. Isaac is his type, but he’s also his friend, and he values friendships over everything. They’re kind of a pack. Dating in the pack is usually not a good idea. Still, for some reason going down this route… Stiles got a good feeling about this.

A very good one, actually.

Fingers dig into his hips, and Isaac swallows heavily. “I don’t want just sex,” he says, yet his fingers drag along his thighs in the most sensual way possible.

How’s anyone supposed to concentrate like that?

Stiles leans down until they’re chest to chest and nose to nose and Isaac’s heart hammers in sync with his own. “I’m not talking about just sex,” Stiles whispers, brushing his lips against Isaac’s. “I’m talking about whatever you want… if you stop stalking me.” He pulls back a bit, quirking a brow.

Isaac flips them around, fitting between his legs as if he belongs there. “I promise I’ll try to be on my best behavior,” he whispers, hiding his face against the crook of Stiles’ neck, lips pressed against the bite. “I need you to be mine, Pretty Boy.”

Fuck.

Fuck.

Stiles’ feet carry him to the bus while Jordan is directing people away from the accident; the accident that doesn’t make any sense. Why would the bus just suddenly roll over while driving normally? There wasn’t a collision. It just did. If there’s another witch in town, Stiles is going to lose it. They came to a truce with the coven in Beacon County. He needs to inform Satomi of his suspicion once everyone is safe and the problem is dealt with.

“Sir?” Stiles places a hand on the shoulder of an older man to get his attention. “Sir, has everyone gotten out of the bus?” 

The man blinks multiple times, the colour of his face too white for Stiles’ liking. Eventually, however, he nods then waves his hand around and points a finger in the direction of the bus. “There’s still a young boy in there,” he says in a trembling voice as Stiles looks him over for any trauma to the head. “I think he’s trapped.” 

“Okay, thank you,” Stiles says, craning his neck to look around. Jordan is still directing traffic and people out of the way, but there’s a woman who is already looking at them. “Ma’am?” Stiles waves her over, and she follows his command immediately. “Ma’am, can you please keep him company? He’s not hurt, but I think he needs to sit down and drink something.” If there’s a kid in there, Stiles doesn’t have time to fuck around for long. If he hadn't come out, he might be badly hurt.

With a smile, the woman leads the old man away from him, and Stiles dashes into the bus. There’s a thin film of water on the ground already, but with the damaged water hydrant, it’s certainly not going to need a lot of time, until breathing can be difficult for everyone lying on the ground. 

“Hello?” Stiles asks, pushing through the damaged bus door. “Anybody in here?”

“In the back.”

For a second, Stiles thinks he knows the voice. Despite the pained grunt, it sounds strangely familiar to his ears. Then again, he grew up in Beacon Hills. It’s actually less likely that he doesn’t know a voice. Still, this one- the tone of it, something is different there. He pushes the thoughts to the back of his neck and scrambles over the luggage and broken chairs to get to the back. “I’ll get you out of there, okay? Hang on."

There's a laugh, followed by a grunt. "This is not how I expected to meet you again."

Stiles' foot catches on a broken part of a seat, and he almost goes flying. Pain shoots up his arm and into his shoulder. "Meet me again?" he asks, trying his best to keep his voice steady. Before the young man can answer, Stiles spots him pinned underneath luggage, the bus's roof and two seats. "Theo?"

Bloody lips curl into a smirk. "Hey."

"What are you doing here?" Stiles asks, trying to focus on the problem at hand instead of his ex-boyfriend, who he is still not over, even after three years, appearing out of nowhere. 

Theo closes his eyes and takes a breath. He doesn't cough, just grunts, so his lungs aren't damaged. That's good. "I missed you." 

"Then maybe you shouldn't have broken up with me." Because the end of their relationship isn't his fault. Not at all. It was Theo who crouched on his windowsill one night and told him that their relationship didn't have a future. It came out of nowhere and during a time Stiles didn't know what to do either. Theo just fucking pulled the rug from underneath him, and Stiles found himself in a new city unsure where to go from there until he found himself in desperate need of the help of a team of firefighters because his idiot roommate couldn't even smoke without setting something on fire. 

Theo looks at him. "I wanted to explain-"

"Can you get this off?" Stiles interrupts. This is probably not the right time to discuss the end of their relationship.

With a quiet grunt, Theo shakes his head. "I can't move my arms."

“Your legs?”

“I broke my neck. Takes a bit to heal.”

Shit. "Anything else I need to know about?" Stiles asks, pressing two fingers to Theo’s throat to check his pulse. It’s weak, but there. That’s at least something. But they don't exactly have a lot of time to get Theo out of here. An ambulance and the fire department will be here pretty fucking soon, and Theo having some sort of miracle healing is the last thing he wants to explain. The good thing is, Stiles doesn’t have to be too careful saving him. He only needs to get everything off him and figure out whatever causes the bleeding. 

Theo’s eyes rake over his cheek. “Did you make it in the FBI?” 

“I’m a firefighter EMT,” Stiles tells him, throwing the suitcases in the far corner of the bus. Glass is stuck in Theo’s side, but other than that, he can’t spot anything obvious that could’ve caused damage to his spine. Which means it must’ve happened during the crash. His body has suffered enough damage that it has trouble healing. This is the worst moment for his supernatural healing to go on vacation. 

"You always wanted to become an agent," Theo says, his voice more a drawl than anything else. 

That's not good.

"I wanted to start saving people," Stiles says, pressing two fingers against Theo's throat again, panic rising in his chest, "I didn’t wanna keep chasing monsters. So I dropped out of the program," he tells him, curling his fingers around the seat, and yanks at it. Luckily, the crash has damaged it enough that Stiles can bend it enough to free Theo from underneath it. 

Theo chuckles weakly. "Risking your life as per usual."

"Isn't that why you fell in love with me?" Stiles asks, ignoring how his heartbreak neatly fits together with the panic; a terrible combination. "Or is that the reason you broke up with me, I forgot." The topic sucks, but he's pretty sure that's what will keep Theo talking, and at this point, that is all he needs. It's too risky for him to pass out, he's losing a lot of blood and he doesn't heal. 

He doesn't answer either.

Stiles looks up. "Theo?" No reaction. Nothing. The blue eyes are closed, the body unmoving. "Theo!" Swallowing down the panic, he presses his fingers against his throat. "No." Stiles leans over his face to check on his breathing. No. No. No. Theo is not dying on him. He's not dying because of a car crash. He is not dying. Period. 

Kicking another suitcase away, Stiles shuffles next to Theo and interlocks his fingers. It's hard enough to do CPR on a human, Stiles has no idea if he has the strength to do it on a supernatural creature. He doesn't even know if it works in the first place. All he knows is that giving Theo an electric shock is the last thing that will help him. He's already not healing, any form of electricity will disturb it even further. Let's hope to do CPR on a chimera will be enough. 

His fingers tremble as he raises them off his chest and pushes down. This is what pressing against a wall must feel like. How the fuck is he supposed to move his chest like that? How is he supposed to save this asshole's life? His muscles hate him after only a few compressions. He's giving all that he has, and he can't even tell if it's helping at all. Theo’s chest is barely even moving. It’s not enough, not even close to enough.

"Asshole," Stiles spits, eyes burning with tears, muscles aching from the strain, "you can't just come here-" his voice is trembling, and he hates it, and he doesn't care "-tell me you miss me-" Stiles straightens a bit so he can use more of his weight "-and then die on me, you hear me?"

He doesn't get an answer, and he won't be able to do this much longer. How's he supposed to? Supernatural creatures are not usually having a cardiac arrest. They don't, because they have fucking supernatural healing. "Theo, please," Stiles pleads, his voice cracking. He can't lose him, not now, not when he's just told him that he missed him. "Don't do that to me. You can't-" A rib gives way under pressure. Stiles never thought the sound of a bone breaking would fill him with relief. But that means he's doing enough, that means- 

Theo's eyes fly open, bright and amber. The growl is stifled by sirens coming closer. Stiles pulls away as Theo bucks off the ground, a hand pressed to his chest, yanking the shard out with the other.

"Are you insa-" Stiles starts, reaching forward as if to stop Theo. The wound is knitting itself together before Stiles can even grab his wrist. He lets out a breath of relief and sinks to his knees. 

Theo eyes his blood on the glass. "That wasn't fun."

Stiles punches him in the shoulder, but his arm is heavy and the hit weak. "Asshole." 

"You broke my rib," Theo tells him, massaging the abused spot for a second, even though they both know it has already healed.  

"I saved your life," Stiles replies, wiping at his cheeks. Hearing a stupid comment about him crying although they broke up three years ago is nothing he needs. This day already sucks. No need to make it any worse. "On my day off, mind you. As per usual, your timing sucks. Not that I was expecting anything else." Grabbing one of the seats, Stiles pulls himself to his feet. He stumbles at his first step, exhaustion and a piece of luggage attempting to bring him back to his knees, but Theo grabs his arm and keeps him from possibly splitting open his head on whatever is lying on the ground.  

Something crunches under his left foot and it sounds like glass, but part of his brain connects that to the rip cracking under his hands. Stiles flinches despite himself. He should be used to the noise, to the feel, to what can happen when giving someone CPR. A rib fracture isn’t too unusual either, but it’s very different when it’s the rib of someone you love, and, fucking hell, Stiles still loves him more than he should three years after the end of their relationship. A world without Theo doesn’t seem right. 

He places a hand against another seat and squeezes his eyes shut. 

“Stiles,” Theo says in a low voice, grip tightening just a fraction, “I still love you, you know that, right?” 

Despite himself, Stiles chuckles, pressing a hand to his forehead. He shouldn’t be this affected, he really shouldn’t be. Not after the shit he’s been through. Not after the madness he’s seen. But this is Theo. Unbreakable, invincible, proud Theo, and yet, he almost died in a crash that left everybody else basically unharmed. “I don’t think now is the time to talk about that,” he mutters, tapping a finger against the seat. “But if it’s any consolation, I love you too, and I hate you for almost dying on me.”