#a scrap

Shouta stills, glancing to the other side of the booth where Hizashi rests his head on his arm against the sticky tabletop. The blond’s blunt painted fingertips tap absently against the side of his beer.

“You probably don’t even remember...”

But Shouta does. With great clarity as if it had happened yesterday. On the rooftop, his mouth smacking into Hizashi’s upper line of braces at first. Fisting a handful of the other’s school blazer when he tried to withdraw in embarrassment. The trembling, shy, proper kiss that followed.

Standing amidst the decay

The falling and the cold.

The turning of the leaves and the

gathering clouds.

You ate up the sun and you are

Vibrant.

It hurts to look at you but

unrequited!stiles stilinski x reader. season 5

••

He sees Lydia first.

He bolts into the police station, an unsuitable amount of rage—fear. An ungodly amount of fear smokes up his throat, steals every inch of oxygen and leaves his lungs crippled, his chest aching.

She’s on the ground, body convulsing with shallow, wet breaths, and someone’s hand pressed to her wound, a deep gash flowing with blood. Her blood.

Ly-di-a.

He can’t see faces, can’t hear voices. Strawberry blonde waves crash across the floor of the police station.

Lydia is bleeding out! She’s dying, Scott!

He finally remembers to breathe again when at her side, finally able to touch her. Long, trembling fingers smoothe out wild, red hair in careful strokes. Stiles holds Lydia’s pale hand something fierce, and just begs.

Somebody needs to do something! Help her! Please help her!

They’ve been here so many times before—so, so many times. Stiles can’t take much more of it. These parallels leave an eternal question ringing around in his head, clawing at the curves of his skull:

Which of them will be the next to die?

When your eyes pry open, that small mole on his face is the first thing you see. Kira’s gentle prodding at your own wound pulls a sudden cry from you. Stiles’ head snaps to you with a sharp inhale as you lay curled and crippled, whimpering prayers to every god you know by name while Kira unsuccessfully attempts to console you.

Stiles doesn’t move; his nerves are too bad. He needs to touch Lydia, has to feel her pulse, hear her breathe, know that she’s alive—or he’ll lose his mind. Instead, he kisses you with words, caresses you with coos and promises of rewatching Star Wars and American Idol and—An ambulance is on the way! You’re going to be okay!

But finally, finally, his eyes are on you.

You are the best friend, and Stiles hasn’t looked at you like this, like he cares, in so long. It’s been so long. Your throat tightens, your eyes sting, the pain in your abdomen thumps dull, nearly forgotten in the wake of Stiles. Because Stiles does care; he always has. He always will.

“Okay,” you croak back helplessly, reaching your trembling, blood soaked hands out to him. A begging. A pleading.

Hold me, you crane your head up to gaze at him. Please. Stiles—

But just as the drop of blood slips from your fingers and splashes against the wooden floor beneath you, his eyes fall back to Lydia. He doesn’t see you anymore. How could he?

“Okay,” is what you settle for, cracked voice, burning eyes, and bloody palms. “Okay. Okay. Okay.”

Stiles doesn’t reach back because he sees her first.

“I picked up Steve’s glasses, too,” you whisper to Bucky. “Give ‘em to ‘im when you see ‘im tomorrow for me, please.”

“Alright.”

Your eyes tear back and forth between the movie, Anne of Green Gables, and Bucky’s sarcastic-turning facial expression. This movie’s been your favorite since it came out in 1934, eight years ago.

“Those things were expensive.”

“Ah,” he harmonizes, a warm palm on your cold thigh. “The price of having a medical condition beyond your control.”

“Only in Brooklyn,” you scoff. “Or should I say the U.S.?”

He shrugs, “Both apply.”

A beat of silence. You inhale sharply.

“Maybe we should leave.”

Bucky’s eyebrows scrunch together.

“Leave... what?”

“You know...,” you shift on the couch, bending one leg so you can face him fully. “New York.”

Bucky blinks. Once, twice. “What?”

You paw at his chest anxiously. “We could go to Paris. Eat French food. They have beautiful head scarves. Or maybe a different state? If you wanna try something smaller? But oh, wouldn’t it be nice? You, an’ me, an’ Steve in Rome. Spain. No, Shanghai—“

“Darlin’,” Bucky holds your fingers in his hands. “Our families are here, in New York.” He tries to talk you down, “We can’t just up and leave.”

“I know where our families are,” you seethe, shifting away from him. You want more to your name than a bill folder of $30. Does that make you so selfish?

Well, even if it does, Bucky isn’t about to tell you that.

“But if we could?” He glances over the side of your face, flicking his tongue over his bottom lip.

You’re an undeniable sort of beautiful.

“Indiana sounds nice.” He turns back to the movie.

You light up. “Indiana? For a city boy?”

He pokes your side. “The war will be over soon, anyhow. We can go wherever you wanna go after that.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Buck.”

He tosses you a sloppy grin, pulling you into his side. “You know I never would.”

Silence.

One heartbeat, two, three.

“I want a family, Bucky.”

He tilts his head. “Doll, you have a family—“

“I want a family with you.”

Bucky chokes, absolutely losing his mind. You want a what? With who?

“You mean...,” his voice turns to a whisper, “kids?”

He sounds terrified.

Your head stays rested against his chest, but you can’t bring yourself to even look his way, burning cheeks and hooded eyes focused intently on the television. Bucky’s too busy putting the pieces together himself to mind you much, anyway.

“What else could that mean, dumbass, of course she wants kids.”

“I want,” you begin, immediately pulling his attention, “I want—“

“Doll,” Bucky grabs your hands. His voice is softer now, a smooth timbre that holds weight. The voice of a man in love.

“Doll, you don’ have to worry ‘bout a thing. After this is all over, you an’ me? We’re gonna have the biggest family in Brooklyn.”

“I hope they get your eyes.”