#pcssimism

It’s been months since Stuart has opened up to him, months since Noah’s son has come to him seeking guidance. It’s agonizing, watching his child slip away, not knowing how to reach Stuart. There had been a time that they had spoken about everything, a time that Noah had known exactly what was going on in his son’s life. 

What had changed? What had wedged itself between them and torn their relationship apart?

The urge to argue with his son flickers, to push Stuart to get his ass into bed and get the first good night’s sleep that he’s gotten in weeks. Noah has seen the bags under Stuart’s eyes, seen the way his mind drifts off during conversations, seen the toll exhaustion has taken on the poor boy. 

But what use is raising his voice? It will only push Stuart further away. So Noah lets out a sigh and lowers himself into the seat beside Stuart. 

Scott knew that Stiles had not told Stuart the truth of their road trip. Sure, in a way he understood his best friend and why he hadn’t shared it, but on the other hand he had looked forward to simply being on the road, the three of them with nothing to bother them. He hadn’t even be too eager about visiting the house because he knew that it would ruin the mood and cause dangerous situation.

Tomas was pretty sure what he’s having is close to a mid life crisis. He’s questioning if college was even worth it anymore, he’s losing his interest in the thing he loves to do, he’s running low on money and doesn’t want to ask for more from his caregivers (who would readily transfer in more from the trust fund they’ve had set up for each kid in the orphanage). He doesn’t need to work a double shift in the coffee shop he’s at, he knew that, but paranoia was hitting him hard to the point that he can’t sleep at night.

    anger  and  hurt  simmer  beneath  his  skin,  bubbling  through  his  veins  and  turning  his  skin  to  lava.  this  was  too  much.  too  much  to  pile  on  to  the  heap  that  was  his  life.  he  couldn’t  do  it  any  more.  he  wouldn’t  let  himself  do  this.  no  more  sitting  idly  by,  watching  as  someone  he  loved  tore  him  down  like  used  wallpaper.  again  and  again  he’d  let  this  happen.  but  not  this  time.  not  with  stuart.

    he  hates  it.  hates  the  words  falling  from  his  lips,  hates  the  iron  vice  of  anger  gripping  his  heart,  threatening  to  crush  it  if  he  bows  out  now  like  he  has  done  so  many  times  before.  the  words  stuart  had  spat  at  him  like  venom  were  so  familiar  that  it  broke  something  inside  him.  to  watch  those  words  leave  stuart’s  lips.  someone  he  thought  he  loved.  someone  he  thought  cared  for  him  and  understood  how  painful  something  like  this  was.  maybe  he  was  wrong.  it  wouldn’t  be  for  the  first  time.

   his  anger  doesn’t  show  itself  in  hard  lines  and  harsher  words.  no,  it’s  wet  cheeks  and  a  quivering  lip.  it’s  fingers  curled  so  tight  at  his  sides  that  he’s  sure  he  might  of  drawn  blood.