#vanderlaw

They were sitting close—closer than they usually did. The kind of quiet between them wasn’t heavy like it used to be, not sharp with grief or silence or ghosts. Just soft. Familiar. Safe.

Stiles had said it so casually, in that way only he could—talking through a smile like he didn’t know he was setting off landmines in Boy’s chest.

❝ Your laugh makes me want to do dumb things just to hear it again. ❞

Boy’s breath caught halfway through his nose. He hadn’t even realized he’d laughed. It was rare, still. Foreign. It always startled him, like it didn’t belong to him at all. He didn’t move at first. Just sat there, staring at the floorboards like they might say something instead. Something easier.

His fingers twitched at his side before he lifted them slowly, signing with care. ❛ I didn’t mean to. ❜

There was a beat of quiet. He risked a glance at Stiles—only to find him watching, soft around the edges, like he didn’t expect an answer at all. Boy looked away again, heart thudding in that nervous, stupid rhythm he hadn’t felt since before everything fell apart. His hand hovered a second longer before he signed again—quieter, slower, almost shy. ❛ But … thank you. You make it easy. ❜

His ears burned. His whole face, probably. He turned further away, ducking his head, like the shadow might hide it. But he knew it didn’t. He could feel the smile creeping in, helpless and small. He signed one last thing, barely lifting his hand this time. ❛ I like when you say things like that. ❜

incorrect quotes generator:

Stiles: I want to wake up with you every day for the rest of our lives.

Boy: I wake up at 4:30 AM every day to train.

Stiles: I want to see you at some point every day for the rest of our lives.

Stiles: You know, Boy, when you generalize, you tell general... lies.

Boy: ...

Boy: Are you trying to teach me moral lessons through puns.

Stiles: I got us matching friendship bracelets, and you say I don't care about our relationship.

Boy: These are handcuffs.

Stiles: Yeah, 'cause we're partners in crime!

Stiles: I'm tired.

Boy: You slept for three hours last night! Why are you surprised?!

Stiles: I'm not surprised. I just wanted to complain about it.

Stiles: Don’t worry, I know exactly what I’m doing. Everything is going to be fine!

Boy: How can you still say that?

incorrect  quotes  generator

Stiles:  Fight  me! Boy,  standing  behind  him  and  holding  a  knife:  *mouths*  Do  not.

Boy:  If  I  die  first,  promise  to  wait  up  for  me,  okay,  Stiles? Stiles:  Oh,  Boy.  When  I  die,  I’m  taking  you  with  me. Boy:  I  can’t  tell  if  that’s  a  threat  or  a  compliment. Stiles:  I’d  think  of  it  more  as  a  grim  inevitability. 

Boy:  I  feel  like  I  can  be  myself  around  you. Stiles:  You’re  weird  and  quiet  around  me. Boy:  Yes.

Stiles:  Boy,  I  beg  of  you.  Please,  please  go  to  the  doctor. Boy:  Hey,  I'm  sorry.  Is  this  OUR  stab  wound?

Stiles was hunched over the table, surrounded by chaos—half-built bookshelf on one side, a pile of mismatched screws, scattered tools, and a notebook filled with furious scribbles on the other. He was muttering under his breath about "impossible timelines" and "how can a shelf even have six screws when it only came with four?!"

Boy stood silently nearby, watching. First the notebook. Then the upside-down bookshelf. Then Stiles. Eventually, Stiles caught the stare. ❝ Why are you looking at me like that? ❞ he asked, without looking up, more suspicion than curiosity in his voice. Boy crouched beside the shelf, tapped twice near a support beam, and signed: ❛ You're building it upside down. ❜

Stiles froze. He looked at the directions. Then at the shelf. Then slowly turned to Boy. ❝ You’re smiling. Are you smiling at me right now? ❞ Boy didn’t deny it. He just signed: ❛ You’re cute when you struggle. ❜ Stiles choked on his own breath, he wasn’t sure if he read the sign correctly. Boy stood up, looking smug, and wandered over to the table where Stiles had scribbled out a whole page of diagrams and notes. He tapped a finger on the edge of the mess, raised an eyebrow, and signed: ❛ Trying to decide if you're a genius or just really bad at math. ❜

❝ Excuse me?! ❞ Stiles sputtered. Boy tilted his head, unimpressed, then pointed at the jumbled numbers and equations like they were a crime scene. Boy leaned back, crossed his arms, and smirked again. ❛ It’s a good thing you’re cute, or I’d be worried. ❜

The man raised the gun, and Boy didn’t flinch. But Stiles did. The knife was already in his hand before he knew what he was doing. One step, one motion. Then the blade buried itself into the man’s chest with a sickening crunch.

He dropped instantly. And just like that, it was over.

The body hit the ground with a dull, wet sound. Blood spread across the dirt. Boy stared down at it. Blinked once. Then lifted his eyes to Stiles. No fear. No shock. Just something deep and cold settling behind his ribs.

He stepped over the body without a glance and closed the space between them. His hands came up — fast, angry — but not to hit. To speak. [ Don’t. Ever. Do that again. ]

Stiles froze, still gripping the knife, breath ragged. ❝ He was going to shoot you. What was I supposed to do? ❞

Boy’s eyes flashed. His hands moved sharper now, more frantic. [ Let me take the bullet. Let me bleed. Not you. ] He jabbed a finger at Stiles’ chest, hard enough to make him step back. [ Not. You. ]

Stiles swallowed, guilt rising fast. ❝ I couldn’t just watch you die. ❞ Boy’s jaw clenched. He shook his head, the grief catching up now, the anger folding under it. He stepped forward again, grabbed Stiles by the front of his shirt. Not to hurt. To anchor.

Then he signed slower, shakier: [ I don’t care about him. I care about you. You’re not supposed to break for me. ] His face twisted, raw with everything he couldn’t say out loud. He reached up and wiped blood from Stiles’ cheek like it sickened him to see it there. Then he let his hand fall. And something inside him crumbled — shoulders sagging, breath unsteady.

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