Chapter Text
The sunset was beautiful. Orange-pink hues and bright blue sky being swallowed whole by the deep maroons and rich black of night, like a vicious bruise blooming across blue skin. Stars beginning to peak out like the unassuming shine off velvet.
Stiles hadn’t felt so relaxed and safe in years.
The boy felt the light touch of a strong calloused finger trailing against his skin. Setting ablaze the nerves along his exposed hip, up across his chest, joined by its palm along the curve of his neck and up into unruly hair.
A content sigh fell from parting lips as Stiles lazily pressed his scalp further into his companion’s grip, encouraging it to tighten as he further exposed the soft flesh below his sharp jaw and eyes flutter shut.
A pleased rumble could be felt through his exposed back pressed tight to the warm chest behind him. A warm nose teasing the area as a warm puff of breath allows the tiniest phantom pressure of teeth to skim by.
“Mieczyslaw,” his name sounds synonymous to ‘Beautiful’ so reverently falling from chapped lips.
Stiles turns to hunt those lips with his own but is held back by the grip in his hair.
“Wraith?” Stiles feels a hesitant worry as the sound carries lightly on his exhale, the boy had never denied him anything.
“Mica, oh my Mischief,” something about the long craved nicknames don’t sound quite right the closer attention he now pays. Hollow but young. “Who are we, now?” the tone feels unbalanced, sad and amused, leaving a melancholy nervousness buzzing through his gut.
The body behind him pulls away oddly, a melted stumble that doesn’t belong.
Stiles throws his hand out to chase and pull his warmth back. His eyes fly wildly open only to see an empty clearing.
The sun has fully set now and the forest is eerily silent. No scurrying wildlife, no wind through the trees, not even a single mosquito buzz.
A sharp weight under his other hand brings his attention to the stump he’s sat upon.
The nemeton’s colors are far more ashen than he remembers. A brown and dark red moss growing from deep, ugly gashes giving the wood a burnt bloody vibe.
Under his hand, where he rationalizes to expect finding his father’s beaten sheriff’s badge used in the ritual, instead holds up the warped remains of a necklace Stiles found in his attic many years ago.
Stiles is overwhelmed with the desire to break the stupid thing. He tries to smash the garnet center jewel down into the tree and, instead of making contact, falls forward as if sucked into the stumps core.
“Who are we?” A boy with wavy strawberry-tinted hair and white tips cries out at a fully bloomed, massive tree. “Where is he?” The boy weakly sniffles and sinks to his knees.
As Stiles gets closer the boy looks uncannily like his younger self. The few differences being his hair and clothes. The kid wears what may be a hybrid of armor and a kimono. His chest-plate looking obi-belt carved of the same wood as the tree. Barefoot as red mud clings to the long fabric.
Stiles feels untethered watching the display, desperate to go back. He hastily tries to scramble back and flails into the brush, catching the attention of the kid. His eyes glow a dark rich blue as he cries out at Stiles in rage, “Who are we now?!”
* - ~ ) |) O (| ( ~ - *
Heart stopping and breathe violently knocked out of his lungs, Stiles finds himself having slept walked out onto his roof and thunder striking the yard on all four sides of the house. The rose bush is fucked.
Stiles can’t bring himself to move, paralyzed in fear.
'Is the nogitsune back?'
'Who was that kid?'
'Why did he look like me?'
'How did I get up here?'
'What is going on?'
Trying to convince himself it was just a nightmare the boy counts his fingers. Ten, still only ten. He counts and he counts and he counts until he can climb back inside and count his toes. Goes into the bathroom and looks deep into his own eyes, not knowing what he’s looking for and both relieved and disappointed he doesn’t find it. He goes to the kitchen to make tea, cup clinking across the counter as he fails to calm the shaking.
His dad is at the station again, pulling another over-night shift with such little staff left. It’s too late in the night to try going back to sleep. Too early in the morning to call any of his friends. Aiden’s swept Lydia and Ethan away to London over Christmas break. Erica and Boyd would come if he called but their parents would defiantly notice. He is NOT calling Scott. Liam’s been subjected to enough of his craziness lately. Any of the younger Hales would think he’s just paranoid and clingy. Peter’s up in New York if his phone’s GPS and credit card statements are to be believed. Malia’s trying to rekindle her relationship with Papa Tate. Kira, who may understand but is just as likely to start trying to kill him, isn't back in town yet either.
He pulls the Chamomile-Anise tea from the far back of the cabinet on autopilot, surprised he still has any left being the only thing he can stomach when he’s sick or upset. AKA roughly two cups a day minimum for the last few years. He remembers hating the stuff as a kid, tasted like those black liquorice candies they’d give the team after a game.
* - ~ ) |) O (| ( ~ - *
His mom was so excited to have found it shopping one day. It was seasonal and rarely made the cut for their area's market.
She came into the house singing like she had before she’d started getting sick. Genuine smile on her face as she called up the stairs, “Boys! Pause your video game and come have a cup of tea with me! You’ll never believe what I found! I’ll put on The Fox and the Hound!”
Stiles came down the stairs slowly, confused shock on his face waring between the excitement of having his mama back for a moment or breaking down to cry. The moment she saw him her face scrunched together like she’d bitten something sour. “Who are you? What have you done with my boys?!” She shrieked, dropping the bag from her hand to wield a lamp in his direction.
Stiles doesn’t remember what happened next. The bag’s contents were put away by his father and the tea shoved to the far back corner of the high cabinet to be forgotten.
That is, until Ms. McCall came to watch over Stiles when he’d had a bad cold.
His father was at the station. His mother had officially passed. The nurse rummaged around in their cabinets and raved how good it would be for his sore throat. Stiles didn’t even know where it had come from, assuming she had brought it with her until his father saw the open box on the counter when he came home the following evening and promptly threw it away.
That was the day Stiles bit his father. On the left arm, almost drawing blood and tearing through the uniform shirt sleeve. He didn’t even register that he had as he dove for the can and salvaged the box.
Stiles still didn’t much like the flavor, but it did help.
It was the only thing that helped.
He was not letting it go.
Neither Stilinski noticed the nurse leave as they’d stared each other down. Father turning to open a new bottle of bourbon and son retreating upstairs with his prize, unspoken agreement that it could stay so long as it was never seen.
There were a lot of unspoken agreements after that.
'Don’t let me catch you and I won’t care.'
* - ~ ) |) O (| ( ~ - *
Another burst of bright lightning followed by the booming crash of thunder jolts Stiles out of his musing as his heart threatens to try stopping again. He doesn’t really know why he does what he does next. Stiles grabs his pillow from upstairs and pulls the old VHS from behind the stack of taped football games. Teacup empty on the floor he wraps himself in the rarely used blanket thrown over the back of their couch, a home-knit gift from some relative or family friend he can’t place. Falling back into a restless sleep to the low background toon to 'Lack of Education.'