#post 3b

Like after the lunar eclipse. For months, she was beside him in all her sleepy-eyed perfection – comfy pajamas, hair down, no makeup. She would rub his shoulder and hold his hand and speak to him in the softest tone, trying to keep him from drifting away… if he had just been smart enough to listen.

He wasn’t though, and everything after was dark and chaotic and wrong. And then he didn’t sleep at all. And then it’s hard to remember…

He was in the hospital. Three days of being poked and prodded, and white-knuckling it through tests and retests, and blacking out into oblivious drug-induced sleep. He went home. Three more days of waking and grieving and numbness and insomnia before the funeral.

His dad and Scott were there, as much as they could be. Lydia was there, sleeping in his bed, pestering him to eat and take his medicine, patiently waiting for him to return to the land of the living.

Eventually, and to his everlasting shame, he insisted she go home.

She tried to play it cool, but he knows his words hurt her. He knows because, even pursed, her lips quivered, and her fingers fumbled for her keys, and her voice cracked when she said, see you at school. He could hardly look her in the eye, but he swears he saw her shoulders shake when she walked out of the room, taking all the light with her.

He made Lydia cry. Something he promised himself he would never do.

He made himself cry too. Even though he didn’t think he had any tears left, he cried bucket’s worth. He hopes she never knows the level of self-inflicted pain he caused; how he ached for her, how his body violently retched, rejecting his betrayal from the inside out, how his mind tortured him with images of what could have been… if he had just been smart enough to listen to her.

The worst part is… He had to do it. Lydia was making him whole and human again. He doesn’t deserve to feel that way.

In her absence, he sat in silence, straining to hear the echoes of her voice. He stared into the dead spaces she had been filling with life – the empty chair at his desk, the grey hoodie she’d been borrowing, the left side of his bed.

But he couldn’t bring her back.

So he cleared the clutter from his wall, tried to wipe the slate clean. But the holes left by pushpins and the black newsprint that transferred onto blue paint told a different story. And the red string was tangled around his fingers…and he couldn’t let go.

He slept out of sheer desperation, and the dreams resumed. Every night, without fail. Always the same dream, down to the last detail. Always with the same abrupt, unsettling end.

Only he isn’t completely sure he’s dreaming, and she is no version of the girl with whom he grew up and into love.

Now he sees Lydia the banshee… the harbinger of death.

* * *

He’s in a forest. There is no moon nor any stars to guide him. It’s hopelessly dark, and cold, and damp, and…suffocatingly close. There is rushing water somewhere nearby, a stream or a river, he assumes. He contemplates following it, but something keeps him stagnant… an added layer of gloom hovering over his shoulder, this overbearing shadow-presence which he fears as much as recognizes as his own. It has a voice, and it whispers to him. Your fault your fault your fault…

He wants to cover his ears and close his eyes and shut it all out.

But he can’t, because that’s when he sees her.

She’s almost floating through the maze of trees, black hooded cape trailing behind her. Even from a distance, he can distinguish the sound of her ethereal sobs over the static noise of the current. She’s searching for something…or someone. He thinks it must be Allison.

He tries to get closer, heedlessly meandering along the bank of the river he can still only hear and smell. He’s clumsy, bare feet skidding on slack soil. It’s a struggle, but he keeps going, ignoring the talons of undergrowth that relentlessly snag his pajamas. With each step comes the sting of fresh cuts and scrapes… a sharp rock here, a gnarled root or a fractured twig there, every one of them seemingly aimed at his soles.

Somehow, he gets within arm’s reach of her, halting when he notices the mirrored representation of every cut he sustained, etched into her skin. She’s bruised and bleeding, and it’s the worst kind of proof of the damage he inflicts on the people he loves.

He feels sick. There’s too much blood. Maybe it’s a trick, a treacherous combination of shadow and mist. He blinks and sees the ugly truth. It isn’t the superficial cuts and scrapes making her bleed but rather the steel trap clamped around her ankle – just like the one that day in the preserve.

He never saved her. Not even that one time. He is always too late. And now—

She doesn’t deserve this. It should be him. Not her. He wishes it were his ankle instead.

Does she know that? Does she know he would bleed for her? That he would do anything – anything to take her pain away?

He scrambles to close the distance between them, but one leg is immobilized. He looks down, only to find that an identical trap has ensnared his ankle.

It should hurt.

He hasn’t forgotten that living nightmare… alone and cold and terrified in what he thought was the basement of Eichen House, the agony of steel teeth, biting clear through to the bone.

It should hurt, but it doesn’t.

Gathering every ounce of defiance left in him, he fights the restraint. His heart should be pounding against his ribs and his lungs should be panting for oxygen. Instead, he feels…nothing. Nothing but the dead weight of metal jaws and the unseen source of its will, dragging him further from where he wants to be.

He cries her name.

She turns, but her face is barely visible to him, just enough to see her stoic expression, just enough to witness the steady trickle of crystalized tears spilling from the corners of her eyes.

It’s always the same dream.

He prepares to make one final, frantic attempt to reach her, knowing this is when he’ll wake up.

Except this time, something feels different. This time, for the first time, he lets himself consider that the person Lydia has been searching for is him.

The moment he does, her tears begin to melt into droplets, and the drab cape that has been shrouding her small frame falls slowly from her shoulders, puddling on the ground, and then…

There’s light. Her light. A blinding, brilliant, beautiful light that somehow doesn’t hurt his eyes. It reveals everything to him... Waves of strawberry-blonde he knows to smell like crisp apples. Skin so pale it appears translucent, but which he knows to be a solid thing, soft and warm and real. Cheeks the color of rose petals. Lips he tasted once, sweet as honey. The entire forest around them – every trunk and branch, every scale of bark and newborn bud, every dewy leaf, cluster of moss, and speck of soil. A sky full of stars and a silver moon.

Her arms unfurl like wings, every inch of her flowy, white dress swirling like a cloud of gossamer.

She looks like an angel. His angel, who he sent away, pushed aside for her own good…or so he told himself.

Now, he can’t take his eyes off her. He’s afraid if he does, she will disappear, this powerful pristine beauty, glowing and radiating warmth, only evidence that she is anything more than a phantasm triggered by love and memory – her bare feet, stained by blood and earth.

He reaches again, confounded by the sight of a ghoulish, bandaged hand. His hand. One that played a part in Allison’s demise.

Lydia saved his best friend’s life, and he is the reason hers died. Him and his weakness.

He shouldn’t touch her, but he can’t stop himself from trying. He’s lost his mind, rabid with longing. It’s no use pretending every cell in his body isn’t drawn to hers. He needs her. He needs her to forgive him. So he flails, wretched fingers stretched towards her, pleading for absolution that only she can give.

And she doesn’t shy away. She reaches back.

This time, they touch, and the bandages start unravelling from his fingers, his palm, his wrist. They disintegrate into ash and disperse with the wind…

He’s mesmerized. Her eyes are gleaming like two sparkling emeralds.

Stiles… she breathes, delicate wisp of a voice filling the entire forest like a melody.

He feels his heart and his lungs again, thumping and swishing in tandem.

He can finally feel her again, skin on skin, fingers knotting together and tethered with red string. He follows the length of it…down…down…all the way to her ankle…and his.

There is no trace of blood. No cuts. No bruises. Only red string.

What do the different colors mean? she asks.

And red miraculously morphs into orange…then yellow…then green to match her eyes.

Green is solved, he answers.

Her other hand lifts to his face, fingertips tenderly grazing his cheek. So, what are you waiting for?

What?

Stiles, you have to wake up.

No, he shakes his head. No, I don’t wanna leave you. Not again.

Then don’t. Wake up. Come back to me.

Lydia…

Come back to me.

Come back.

I love you…

* *

* * *

* *

I love you. Stiles, you have to wake up. Please, wake up. Stiles, I’m here. Come back to me. Please, come back. I can’t do this without you.

His head feels…fuzzy. There is a disconnect between his mind and body; it takes a long time for the muscles that control his eyelids to respond to the signal his brain is sending to them.

Ultimately, they do open, and the space around him gradually comes into focus. It’s dark, but he isn’t in the forest. He’s in his room, tucked into his bed. Gone are the musky scents of river and moss. Now, there is only the crisp fragrance of apples, and a wonderful warm weight on his chest.

Lydia.

She is with him, and he’s relieved and happy. But she’s weeping, vibrations of her body transferring to his, cool moisture soaking his tee shirt. He strokes her crown, hair like silk gliding under his palm as he says her name.

She gasps, and the quaking stops, both of them frozen for a stolen moment. Then she lifts her head to look at him, blue luster of the moon filtering through the windows, illuminating twin streams of tears that cascade over her lashes. They glisten, refracting her radiant light like a prism.

“You’re here,” he stupidly remarks.

She says nothing, just looks at him with wide eyes and rosy cheeks, two tightly made fists still clutching the front of his shirt.

“What happened?”

“You stopped breathing,” she informs him in a whisper.

“How did you—”

“You stopped breathing,” she repeats, this time like an accusation.

“I didn’t know. I thought I was dreaming.”

But as he speaks, his fingers gravitate to his lips, sweet taste of honey that lingers there suddenly making sense.

“I thought I lost you.” She is still lying half on top of him, hiccupping over her sobs. “I—I—”

“Shh… You didn’t. I’m okay.” He gets his arms around her, hugs her close while the words she said in his dream echo in his mind, and his heart, and his soul…

I love you. I love you. I love you.

“I did though, didn’t I?”

He takes hold of her shoulders, putting just enough space between them so he can see her face when he asks, “Is that why you came here? Because you thought you lost me?”

She sits up, offendedly backing away. “If you want me to go—”

“No.” He rushes to stop her, but his system must be more shocked than he realized because it takes far more effort than it should.

Lydia sees him stumble, and she hesitates.

It grants him just enough of a reprieve to catch her hand. “That’s not what I mean. I don’t want you to go. I never wanted you to go.”

“But you said—”

“I know what I said. I didn’t mean it.”

“Well, you sure fooled me,” she snips.

“Lydia, give me a chance to explain.”

She quits resisting his grasp. “I’m listening.”

“I thought I had to.”

“Why?”

“Because...” His jaw involuntarily clenches. “Because it was my fault.”

The tension visibly leaves her, head tilting to one side, shoulders lowering. “No, it wasn’t.” She sits next to him, voice unwavering when she emphasizes, “It wasn’t.”

They idle in silence, joined hands nestled in a mound of sheets, shortage of light making it feel like there is nothing in the room but them.

“I’m still sorry,” he sighs. “For everything.”

“I’m sorry too. I didn’t mean to smother you.”

Her apology makes his already battered heart squeeze too tightly. It could never be like that. Not with her. But his actions made Lydia doubt herself. Something else he promised himself he would never do.

“Lydia, you didn’t. You were perfect.” He pushes her hair behind her shoulder so she can’t conceal her face. “Truth is…you were exactly what I needed. I still need you. It’s scary, how much I need you.”

“How much we need each other,” she revises with an almost inaudible sniffle.

“I know.”

“You hurt me.”

He’s aware of how difficult it is for her to admit this, the level of trust it takes for her to let someone in, to let them know her heart…and its vulnerabilities.

“I know that too, and I hate myself for it. But it’s the last thing I ever wanted. You’ve gotta believe that.”

“I do.”

“If it makes you feel any better,” he says, nudging her to make eye contact, “I hurt me too.”

She shrugs, but then she gives in to a small smirk. “How badly?”

“We’re talking devastated.”

“Be more specific.”

“Like…I’ve been going out of my freaking mind without you.”

Her smirk broadens into a smile.

“Like…I literally can’t breathe without you,” he continues.

“Stiles…”

“Too soon?”

“Much,” she glares. “But I get it.”

“Does that mean you can forgive me?”

“Of course I forgive you. Just…don’t do it again, don’t push me away when—”

“I won’t. I swear,” he assures her, leaning his forehead against hers. “We’re stronger together anyway.”

“Yeah, we are.”

Weeks’ worth of aching and regretting and missing reshapes into a hug. They hold on to each other for a long time. All the while, Lydia’s heartbeats fill the empty spaces between his.

He can’t let her go. This is how it’s supposed to be.

“Will you stay with me?”

She nods. “As long as you don’t hog the covers.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” he chuckles.

She kicks off her shoes, and they lie down together, and when Lydia rests her head on his chest rather than the pillow, Stiles feels closer to being whole and human again.

He twirls the ends of her hair like he did before, all those times they were sprawled on his bed with books and their thoughts, conversing and problem solving into the early morning hours.

Now, her voice breaks a little when she says his name, and for a second, he thinks she’s going to ask him to stop, tell him they can’t go back to the way things were.

But she doesn’t. Her fingers smooth over the place where the covers traverse his heart, and she whispers, “You know how I know it wasn’t your fault?”

“How?”

There’s a protracted pause before she answers, “Because it was mine.”

“What makes you think that? You tried to warn her.”

“It didn’t help.”

He loops his other arm around her, flattening his palm on her spine. “But that’s no one’s fault. Allison loves you. She was always going to try to save you. You would have done the same. You did do the same.”

“I guess. But…”

“What?”

“There was this moment – this moment in the tunnels when I knew one of us wasn’t going to make it out of there, and I thought… Not him. And then she…”

Her admission sends his heart racing; he can hardly hear his own reply over the ocean-like thrashing in his ears.

“You don’t really believe that’s what caused things to happen the way they did.”

“I know it’s not rational. But sometimes, I still wonder and, at the same time…I can’t.” She trembles ever so slightly when she asks, “Do you understand?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.” I can’t imagine my life without you either.

It gets quiet again, so quiet he thinks she must have fallen asleep until her knuckles begin raking across his sternum.

“How much of what I said earlier did you actually hear?”

He has a strong suspicion about what she is getting at, but he proceeds with caution. That’s how things work between them. Slow and steady. Take a breath before the leap.

“Um…I heard you telling me to wake up, to come back to you.”

“Anything else?”

“There was one other thing, but I was sorta in the middle of a dream so...”

“What was it?”

He inhales sharply, closes his eyes, and dives in. “I love you. I thought you said, I love you.”

And Lydia dives in with him. “I did. I do. I love you. So…you can’t leave me. You can’t,” she stresses.

He feels the heat from her cheek seeping right through his shirt. “I won’t,” he promises. “I don’t want to be where you aren’t.”

“Me neither,” she exhales.

For the first time in months, Stiles feels some semblance of peace. He knows Lydia feels it too. It’s in the way she snuggles closer and the relaxed cadence of her breathing.

He waits until she’s half asleep. “Lydia?”

“Hmm…”

“I love you too,” he tells her.

He knows she will hear him.