youshutupstilinski

hellschewtoy

@illuminatedfox

@yourresidenthuman

@theghostlyargent

"Do you want a ride? It's getting ready to storm."

I wasn’t quite expecting that, but all right! How do you mean, though? Like a twincest type of thing, or just brotherly? Ouran High School Host Club really corrupted me, so I’m not even bothered by the concept of twincest, but yeah. JUST WONDERING BECAUSE THERE’S BEEN NO TALK OF THAT.

My muse died in the hospital without yours knowing. Send me a “✉” for the letter they left for your character.

Stiles,

If you’re reading this, I’m dead.

I’m most likely completely lifeless right now. As in, dead. Like just about everyone in this town.

Okay, listen, idiot. I died if you’re reading this, and you most likely don’t know yet. So, there are about ten different reasons for it, at least right now as I sit here and write this. Some hereditary diseases you might want to get yourself checked for, internal damage to vital organs…But I think we both know what it is. I asked the doctors not to tell you or Dad in the event of my death, but I figure that someone’ll eventually figure it out.

If we’re never going to speak again, I suppose I should say this now.

I don’t hate you, Stiles. I know I act completely disinterested in your existence and never care when you’re in trouble, but I don’t hate you. I love you. I always have. And I know that I left when you needed me, and I pretend it doesn’t bother me that I basically destroyed our relationship.

Here’s a secret for you.

I absolutely loathe myself for doing it. For shutting down when Mom died, for leaving you and Dad so shortly after, for never returning your calls or texts, for locking myself in my room and ignoring your attempts at breaking the ice. Given the opportunity, I would most likely take it all back. Perhaps then we could be the way we were before. The truth is, caring…It absolutely fucking terrifies me. Because, for me, emotion spreads like a wildfire until I can’t control myself and act rashly. That’s why I walk away. It’s easier than trying to manage myself when I let myself feel. I care too much.

You’re probably rolling your eyes, and odds are you don’t believe me, but it’s true. I care too fucking much about way more than I know how to handle. I care. About you, about Mom and Dad, Viv, even your idiotic friends. Most of the time, I just find that pretending I don’t will make things simpler for me. But, when it comes to caring, my will can become quite weak. That’s the thing about pain. It demands to be felt. Why else would I make Dad go through the trouble of legally changing my last name to Mom’s?

Stiles…I’m sorry. For everything. I regret it entirely. Sadly, though, if we weren’t in this situation, I’m not entirely sure I’d be able to tell you this. That’s how death works, though; it makes us tell the truth. It’s inevitable at this point. I’m sorry. But, out of all of this…I do hope you’re not hurting to bad. Perhaps I’ve been successful in making myself so alien to you that you won’t care and you won’t have to go through the grief and panic attacks again. That’s what I really want. I suppose the really sick part of me was wishing that, if I didn’t care, maybe you’d get in touch with our twin-ness and not care, too.

I hope you’re not hurting. I don’t want you to hurt over me. I want you to be happy. Or, as close to happy as you can be. Don’t grieve heavily. If there’s such a thing as an afterlife, and I happen to stick around and find you crumbling again, not only will I judge you so severely you’ll feel physical pain, I’ll also kick your ass.

Got it?

I love you. Don’t forget that. I’ve always loved you. You’re my twin. My other half, I guess.

Always,