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Scott shuffles, twitches, tugs on his sleeve. His mom puts a hand on his shoulder and shakes her head, sharp, once. Scott’s suit is stiff and he hates it but Stiles is sitting next to him, eyes blank and glassy, so Scott shoves it down and stops fidgeting. He cranes his head around to try to get a proper look at Stiles’ face, attempting to be subtle about it.
He knows when he almost falls over that he hasn’t accomplished it.
He hates seeing Stiles like this, quiet and ashen. Muted. He tries to slide his hand in between Stiles’ but he won’t untangle his fingers. Scott settles for wrapping his hand around the mess of tangled digits.
He wants to stamp his foot, make Stiles be Stiles but he knows that isn’t fair. He’s supposed to be the one taking care of Stiles this time. Only it’s always been the other way around and Scott doesn’t know how to do it the way Stiles does.
The man up front is still talking about changing seasons or something and people keep sniffling behind them. Stiles’ dad looks like a robot that hasn’t been programmed to do anything yet and Scott wishes there was a way to snap him out of it. It’s boring and sad and they’re burying Stiles’ mom in the ground while the flowers bloom and the grass grows thick and lush beneath their feet.
It’s all wrong.
Scott really, really wants to say the right thing when it’s time to speak again because he’s said nothing but the wrong thing since it happened. And Stiles looks miserable all the time now.
He doesn’t know if he’s supposed to talk about her or not. Tell Stiles he’ll miss her too, that she was a good mom, that her hair always smelled like oranges. He spent as much time with Stiles’ mom as he did his own. With the hours Stiles’ dad and Scott’s mom worked, she was the parent they both saw the most of.
He looks over at Stiles again and his eyes are red and dry and wide and Scott would give anything in the world to be able to take his pain away.
Finally they lower the casket into the ground and Stiles’ dad throws dirt on top of it and everybody files out with their shoulders pulled in and their heads a bit closer to the ground. Scott sticks to Stiles’ side even when his mom half-heartedly tries to tug him away. He rides back to Stiles’ house with him in the backseat of his dad’s car.
Stiles doesn’t talk, just stares down at his hands, and this time Scott digs his fingers in between the crease of them. He fastens his hand tight around Stiles’ bottom one.
Stiles blinks but otherwise doesn’t react.
Stiles’ house is full of people dressed all in black and Scott thinks about telling him he’s been invaded by ninjas who can’t figure out the dress code. He doesn’t think Stiles would find it funny now though.
Stiles doesn’t even pause before making his way up the stairs to his room and slamming the door closed behind him and Scott. He crumples down on the edge of his bed and Scott obediently sits next to him.
Stiles swipes at his nose with the back of his wrist and sniffs hard. His eyes look swollen from all the tears he hasn’t shed. Eventually, the only sounds between them are Stiles’ ragged breathing and the general rabble from downstairs.
Scott presses his knee to Stiles’, folds one of Stiles’ hands between his own and says, “What’s the right thing to say?” Stiles swallows dryly and visibly while Scott stares into his face. “I want to be good at this. At being the one who does things. But I don’t know how yet.”
Stiles blinks owlishly.
“You’re kind of the one who always figures this stuff out.” Scott shrugs his shoulders helplessly. “I just need a little push to get going.”
Stiles makes a choking noise that Scott discerns as a snort. He squeezes his fingers around Scott’s. “You don’t have to say anything.”
Scott nods a little and heaves out a heavy breath. “You should sleep,” Scott says. “You look exhausted.”
Stiles stares at him for a long moment and sucks in his lower lip. Finally he sighs and says, “Yeah.” He scoots back on the bed and curls in on himself without even bothering to kick off his shoes. Scott lays down next to him and lets the side of his hand brush against Stiles’ so he’ll knows he’s not alone, even in his sleep.
Scott’s still staring at the way Stiles’ eyelashes fan against his cheek when he falls asleep.
It’s dark when he wakes up and Stiles isn’t across from him anymore. There’s a blanket over him that hadn’t been there when he fell asleep. He rubs at his eyes and looks around. Stiles is a dark shape at the end of the bed and Scott shifts down next to him.
Stiles laughs a little and it looks like it winds him, it’s breathy and raw. “I got up to tell her I’d had a dream that she died.” His shoulders shake and he laughs that painful laugh harder. “I-I got up to tell her—”
Scott hugs him hard around his shoulders. “I love you.” He doesn’t know if it’s the right thing to say, mostly because Stiles hasn’t told him what is. It’s what he said to his mom when his dad left and it had seemed to work for her.
Stiles lets himself be hugged. He turns his face into Scott’s neck and he finally cries.
Scott holds him through all of it until he exhausts himself all over again and they both slip back into sleep. The next time he opens his eyes, the sun is peeking in through the blinds and Stiles is right there in his arms blinking wide eyes at him. Their hands are wrapped around each other’s and Stiles licks his lip. “I love you too,” he says.
Scott grins at him, noses against his cheek and presses his closed mouth to Stiles’. Stiles presses back, sucks Scott’s lower lip into his mouth and pulls away.
He smiles a little for the first time since his mom died and Scott feels something large and warm unfurl in his chest. He may not have said the right thing but at least he did the right thing.
He smiles back at Stiles. It’s good to know that he can figure out the important stuff too.