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infinitelyweary · 2 days ago

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Louis/Grace and Motherhood

I always thought the purpose of Grace as a character was to represent Louis's connection to his human family/community, but I noticed on a recent rewatch how much their relationship is centered around children/motherhood. Every time he sees her after his turning, the theme of motherhood comes up.

Their first post-turning meeting has Louis able to sense Grace's pregnancy/incoming motherhood. He's obviously excited for her, but his first words are in relation to himself: "Making me an uncle". Her family growing means his is growing too. Her having children means he is going to have children around him. As a gay man (with Grace as his only remaining sibling), his sister having kids is the only chance Louis has to have children in his life he is biologically related to; her motherhood is the only motherhood he can access, even if only vicariously.

Also peep the framing of Papa Du Lac in the corner, the fallen patriarch whose absence forced Louis into the man-of-the-house role, hovering over this maternal revelation like a reminder that Louis's masculine social role means he cannot have what Grace has. Grace gets to be a young newlywed mother and Louis has to play the patriarch, providing her with money to see the children well-cared for because again the person who should be the man of the house (Levi) is insufficient just like how Louis's father was secretly running them into debt.

Also never noticed the way Louis's laughs at this but his smile quickly falls away :( Being reminded of his businessman role, and the knowledge that if Levi can't occupy that role, Louis will continue to be obligated to it.

The stills don't really do it justice, it's such a blink and miss it reaction. Jacob Anderson you are everything.

Next time he visits Grace it's to see baby Benny.

I love how soft and motherly Grace looks in her light clothes vs Louis this dark intruder. She almost blends in with the couch, she's so enmeshed in her domestic life, and Louis is just a guest here, a spectator to her motherhood. When she tries to involve him in it, handing him the baby, it's obviously disastrous.

I always wondered why Louis's bloodlust came out specifically for the baby. It's not like he isn't around humans all the time, working at the Azalea etc. But as we see in the scene with Jonah in the swamp, his fangs/bloodlust are tied to desire and...Louis wants a baby!

Look at his shitty posture in the above pic and how he perks up when it's baby time 🥺

Louis is obviously distraught by this, not just because he almost harmed his baby nephew, but because it drove home for him that a child/motherhood is not something he will ever be able to have. As a vampire, he can't even hold a baby.

It's interesting too the way Louis frames this inability to have children as a burden for Lestat. Lestat, who has no interest in children, who is more than happy to live as a family of two. But Louis sees children as integral to family ("No family of my own...no sons, no daughters"). He dgaf this gay found family nonsense, he wants to pop out some kids!!

He tells Lestat he should find someone else because Louis can't have children. Louis sees his inability to access motherhood as a failing so great he can't see his partner wanting to stay with him because of it. Louis has such an intense desire for motherhood and a nuclear family structure that it's a part of his identity, and he feels shame to the point that he thinks he should be killed for not being able to achieve it.

There's probably something here subtextually about Louis being a gay man and thinking bisexual Lestat should go find a woman so he can have a "real family" but obviously Lestat can't biologically father a child as a vampire. But it could be an idea in Louis's head/something he internalizes.

The next sad visit is the last time Louis gets to see Grace at home, when he brings her twin daughters paper dolls.

First of all, it's so cute/sad to picture Louis thinking about what present little girls would like, shopping for the dolls the twins would like best 🥲 And makes me think of that interview with Carol Cutshall where she talked about Louis buying Claudia's clothes like him dressing up a doll.

Louis is finally rejected by Grace, shut out of her home and denied access to her children. He feels like he's lost his family, lost everything, and it's one of the things that contributes to him snapping and committing this incredible act of violence against the alderman (also a family man, with a wife and kids tucked safely away btw. Louis's literally destroying a nuclear family after being denied one)

And it just so happens that this act of violence and the ensuing riot is what leads him to Claudia, his own child. Also note the parallel between Louis kicking the door to Grace's house down as he demands to see the girls to give them their present, and Louis kicking the door down to save Claudia from her burning home.

Louis doesn't see Grace again until their mother's funeral, where she meets Claudia and interrogates Louis's right to have a child.

Louis doesn't answer, but when Grace demands the Du Lac family house (which is in Louis's name as executor in charge of the family estate), Louis responds with a threat.

At first I was like, why would Louis care about the house? He doesn't need it, he's been living with Lestat for years. But clearly Louis is insulted by the insinuation that he doesn't need the family home and what that represents. Grace needs it, has the nuclear family structure that belongs inside it, and Louis doesn't. It all goes back to Louis's insecurities about motherhood/family. Louis came to the funeral with Lestat and Claudia, introducing Grace to his daughter as family, and Grace rejected and insulted him. The family he's cobbled together isn't good enough for her, too unconventional to be associated with her traditional family. He's being shut out of her family life again, denied his motherhood by the only mother he knows. So he lashes out.

Ultimately, Louis can kick down Grace's door all he likes, but he knows he doesn't belong inside. He surrenders the house, but leaves her with the lingering threat of violence to disrupt the happy home life she will have there, a life he can't have.

The final time Louis sees Grace is after Claudia has left him.

Before Claudia leaves, she too interrogated Louis's right to have her as his child.

When she describes the life she could have had if she hadn't been made into Louis's eternal child, it's a domestic one, a family life, the kind Louis wanted and was shut out of. In taking Claudia to complete his family, he denied her any chance of having her own. He's totally despondent as he realizes this.

To Louis it must feel like Grace was right, he was never meant to have a child, it was a selfish desire and now Claudia has suffered because of it.

So Claudia leaves, and when Louis meets Grace for the last time it's in a graveyard.

He's lost his daughter and now any dream of family has been taken from him. Grace doesn't even recognize him as her brother anymore. It's a complete severing of the familial bond, and the motherhood Grace represents. When Claudia does return, it's as 'Louis's sister', his daughter no longer.

Though Louis continues to think of Claudia as his daughter, and probably always will judging by the mother-child painting from the s2 finale, this is a shift in the relationship I don't think they ever fully come back from.

I hope part of Louis's healing is being able to not see himself as a failed parent, but as a flawed one, as all parents are, as his friend Daniel with two estranged daughters can tell him.

Anyway it's such an interesting little through line of the Louis/Grace relationship! This show is so rich for analysis I really do notice new stuff with every rewatch.

#iwtv #iwtv meta #ldpdl #happy mothers day 🩷#long post

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eric-the-bmo · 2 years ago

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Neighborhood Watch S2 Ep1: Shindig

Hello!! We finished the first session of season 2! And jesus christ- a lot happens, it was a bit disjointed! But I’m here to try and make sure it’s all coherent! (my own personal comments will be in the tags) So let’s go!

A week has passed since the Season One finale; the Dome’s been dropped, and everyone in the Main Cast knows that John is a monster. Since the Dome is gone, the rest of the town had been unlocked for us to explore!

During the week, Song buys new flowers for her house at the florist- she runs into Louis, who’s been buying native wildflowers to improve his lawn. He runs into some interns who work for the mayor, who offer him some free seed packets for some newly discovered flower- They grow quick, with thick thorny vines and stems, and are ready to bloom within a week with beautiful tie-dye-esque colors. Louis declines, not trusting anyone who’s a part of the government, and the florist owner, Kathy, is wary of the flowers due to how quick they grow; they can very easily become invasive.

Song does archery practice with Amira in her backyard- Amira has not mentioned John being a monster, and Song hasn’t asked her about it. Amira does mention, however, that while hiding in Song’s house during the s1 finale she found a black book with a red gem. That’s one of Song’s spellbooks, and Song vaguely says she uses it to help protect herself. Amira shows interest in it, and Song discreetly tries to sense if Amira has the potential to become a magic-user- but Amira’s aura indicates she doesn’t have any ability for magic at all, which is odd because all humans normally have the capacity for it; the center of her soul is dead-blue.

Shelby starts her Twitch-streaming again, with the internet being back up, and when she’s not busy with that John spends time with her; Not only because she’s his friend, but as a way to make up for making her worry so much (and to avoid the rest of the Main Cast). Sometime during the week John tries to go the park, but sees Louis there and immediately turns around to go home. He also fills in Emmett about the events of taking down the Hunter, omitting the fact that he is one himself.

Markus keeps to themself for most of the week, ordering take-out (there’s only one Uber driver in Greenville, btw, his name is Kyle and he sells weed on the side) and healing from their wounds. At some point, they get rid of Emmett’s corpse with carrion beetles, and use his bones to make bonemeal for various projects- including their worm farm. Towards the end of the week, they decide it’s been long enough- They march right up to the Doe/Waters household and knock on the door. Shelby is busy streaming, and so John answers. He freezes when he sees it’s Markus, and in a cold panic he closes the door. Through the window he sees that Markus looks sad, and they walk away. John feels awful, and is still reeling from the cold panic, but he doesn’t want to make it awkward by opening the door again, and they’ll want to talk about that night, oh no, god you fucked up- And so he decides to head to the park, as part of him still finds nature to be calming/ feeling a bit like home. He people watches, observing the librarian reading a book, until it starts to get darker out, and begins his walk home.

Meanwhile, going back to Markus walking home, I feel it’s time to mention that some more neighbors have moved in during the week- Two of them being Heath and Sammy Clark. Heath, a 5′6 blonde guy, jogs up to a dejected Markus and invites to him and Sammy’s get-together (in fact, they’ve sent out invites to the entire cul-de-sac). Markus doesn’t seem too into it, and heads home.

On the topic of new neighbors, I’ll summarize them now:

The Clarks have moved in across from Phil. Heath is an outgoing trans man, and Sammy is a very quiet and hairy ginger man who’s almost 7ft tall.

Bonnie McMurry moves in next to Shelby and John. She’s a sweet older lady in her mid 60s and lives alone, though she had a bunch of odd-shaped boxes with her labeled “Lois”. Shelby had asked about it, revealing Bonnie had an adult son who passed some years ago. During the night, loud music can be heard from her basement.

William Krieger is a socially awkward and reclusive man with a pencil stache. He keeps his pet rats in his many coat pockets.

Kenneth Feinstetter lives across the street from Louis. He is a loud and boisterous man with glasses who will tell anyone willing to listen to him about his ridiculous conspiracy theories regarding Greenville.

Some moving trucks come in at midnight. Lucretius Wayne introduces himself to the neighbors, sending out gift baskets of high quality. He’s charming, and even the Pattersons like him.

Louis recognizes Lucretius as the vampire Lestat. His ex.

But the time for the Clark’s party is here, and Markus decides they’re going. They get all dressed and give themself a pep-talk about how they’re going to make friends. They head outside and see the Pattersons are heading over to the party as well, and for a moment consider heading home, but then Lucretius appears with some wine and greets the Pattersons; Karen waves at him, and Bob seems... jealous? Markus decides to go, if only to see this drama unfold.

Louis doesn’t like being left out and decides to go. As he’s walking over, William approaches him and wants to be invited to the party. Louis makes a comment about if William is really going with a jacket that has so many pockets, and William responds he’s got to bring his family with him. Louis doesn’t like William, who’s standing far too close to him, and so when Philip approaches Louis takes his chance to leave. Kenneth approaches Louis and asks if he’s seen anything weird, or out of the ordinary? Louis almost says no, but then mentions that he’s never seen Lucretius leave his house til after sundown- he might as well try and direct suspicion towards his ex.

Song decides to bring some wine over, and as she exits her home Lucretious greets her; They compare the wine they’re bringing, and he offers her his arm. She takes it, and together they walk to the Clark household. Louis sees this, and though his expression remains calm, his grip tightens. The Sampath family is going; Amira waves to Song, and she and Lu wave back.

Markus approaches the Pattersons and asks how Karen is doing (bc, yknow, The Curse), and she says she’s doing much better. Bob thanks Markus, who says that while they don’t like each other, they don’t want his wife to die, and Bob says he’ll owe Markus a favor because of their help. Markus squirms away.

John and Shelby are going as well; John prepares a snack tray to bring along. As the two of them leave they hear music coming from Bonnie’s basement; as much as John wouldn’t admit it, part of him is glad he’s away from the noise.

The Clarks are greeting people as they enter; John approaches, sees the rest of the Main Cast and seriously considers leaving, but Shelby interprets this as general social anxiety and reassures him it’ll be fine. He makes eye contact with Song as she approaches- her gaze hardens, and John looks away. Lucretius asks Song if everything is okay; she responds by saying not everyone in the neighborhood is getting along at the moment. Lucretius is invited inside by Heath.

Inside is very spacious; the archways leading to the different rooms have been altered to be taller, and even then Sammy has to bend over a little bit to avoid hitting his head. There’s snacks, drinks, etc. Sammy offers Philip some alcohol, and he turns it down. Markus is in awe of how tall Sammy is, and heads to a corner to vibe. They can hear the spiders behind the bookshelf in their corner. William shows up to stand next to them, and Markus bluntly tells him that they want him to go away (”Please go away. I can say it in four different languages if you’d like.”) William’s smile starts to fade at Markus’ insistence, and he actually starts to look angry, but then gets distracted by a snack tray and scurries away.

John and Shelby have bumped into Kenneth, who’s informing the both of them about some kind of drama going down on Twitter. John doesn’t have social media, so he doesn’t quite know what he’s talking about, but he likes listening to people talk and wants Kenneth to like him- especially since Kenneth doesn’t know about his monstrous nature. Shelby brings up the fact she’s a Twitch Streamer, upon which Kenneth looks her up on the Internet, and then awkwardly excuses himself.

Everyone starts to vote for which party game to play. John approaches Philip, who’s trying to tune his guitar to bring some extra entertainment to the party, but Phil is having a bit of trouble tuning it. Lucretius appears and offers to tune it, and plays a flamenco riff (and winking at Louis), absolutely showing up whatever Phil was planning to do (John doesn’t interpret it that way, though, and thinks it’s nice how Lucretius helped out Phil). Markus and John both notice Bob Patterson and Louis going off into one of the other rooms of the house- Bob has noticed Louis’s reactions to Lucretius, and asks if they know each other. Louis tries to play it off- not every person with a southern accent knows each other, Bob- but Mr Patterson wants to know if Lucretius is anything similar to the monster he saw the previous week, if something supernatural is going on. Louis says nothing supernatural is going on with any of the new neighbors, in response Bob whispers something to him before storming out. Louis, apparently a bit shaken by what Mr Patterson had whispered, takes a moment before leaving the room and heading back to the party.

The group has decided on Two Truths One Lie. Some highlights:

William glaring at Markus the entire time

Almost every normal neighbor hoping that Markus’s “I have over 300 bugs at my house” bit is the lie

Everyone immediately guessing Philip’s lie (divorced but on good terms)

Kenneth putting one of his truths down as him “knowing the truth about this town.” Song asks him what that means, and Kenneth invites Song over to his house to look at his charts and notes some day.

Lucretius smiling at Louis the entire time is was Louis’ turn (we find out Louis is allergic to wool)

Flirting with Song when it was her turn (He’s been flirting with her the whole party, I should add.)

And then it’s Lucretius’s turn. He grins, and gives his options: 1) He was born in Louisiana. 2) He has a skin condition that prevents him from being out in the sun 3) ...And he’s bloodthirsty monster.

Louis knew this, but Song doesn’t pick up on the danger; like almost everyone else, she’s incrediby charmed by Lucretius. John was too, actually, but as soon as that was said, John realizes that Lucretius’s charm is all part of a lure to get prey, and that he could be something similar to John. Markus realizes the danger as well, and deduces that everyone in this room could be in danger- so they summon a bunch of cockroaches to scare everyone away. Almost no one notices it was them who caused the roaches- except for William, who’s been staring at them the whole time.

People start running away in the chaos- Heath faints, Sammy tries to stomp the bugs (shaking the house with this, actually), and Louis tries to get ahold of Song, but Lucretius has taken her hand before he could do anything and has gotten her out of there. Lucretius offers to walk her home, and she accepts. Once outside, John tries to make eye contact with Markus- a “did we both notice the same thing” kind of look. Markus sees this and looks almost panicked, an “oh god not again look” (Unknown if it was fear about John or the event happening), before their gaze becomes sad. A monstrous roar appears from inside the house, and Markus races inside. John tries to head in too, but Louis calls out to him and says they need to talk. John anxiously says something about getting rid of the roaches and attempts to get away, worried Louis wants to talk about That Night, but the Crooked stops him (”John. This isn’t about you”).

Meanwhile, inside, Markus sees Sammy angrily stomping at the roaches. Markus, not wanting to have their bugs killed, leads them out with food. Sammy corners Markus and, speaking for the first time, growls a comment about how he didn’t see what Markus did was necessary, and that he knows about their kind and would appreciate that Markus never do that again. Markus stammers an apology and runs home.

Louis leads John to his house, where he asks what John knows about Lucretius. John tells him (how the charm is a lure, how he might be like him), and Louis says that John is strong enough to take him on in a fight, but not strong enough to survive; Song is in just as much danger in Lucretius’s presence as she is in John’s. At this comment John tense and seems angry, and Louis said it wasn’t meant to offend: He needs John’s help to kill Lucretius, after all. Stakes, garlic, crosses and etc might be useful. Also, Louis tells John, Bob knows about Lucretius, the house shook when Sammy tried to kill some roaches, William has rats in his pockets- there’s a Lot more to deal with than John being a monster, or even Louis’s ex being a vampire.

Meanwhile, Lucretius has walked Song back to her house. He says it was a pleasure to hang out with her this night, and Song agrees- but the night isn’t finished yet; Would he like to come inside for some coffee?

He accepts, and is invited inside.

#JOHN LEVELED UP BTW HE CAN SHAPESHIFT NOW <333 #neighborhood watch recap #fun fact the florist and mailman flirt with each other #I'm convinced Shelby is this game-world's equivalent to Jerma /hj #AND GODDAMN IT YALL JOHN FUCKED UP HIS FRIENDSHIP WITH MARKUS AAAA </3 #BC DUDE I WAS STILL YELLING ABOUT THIS AT WORK!! LIKE OH MY GOD JOHN YOU IDIOT </3 TALK TO THEMMMMMM #is john people wathcing for fun or to find prey? perhaps a bit of both #With Sammy we finally have a character who's taller than John #and on that note its been dtermined John is 6'10 #Kenneth is my fave new npc i love conspiracy theorist characters sm #props to louis for not selling out any of the main cast to kenneth #so proud of philip for trying to go sober tbh #i want more kenneth and john interactions i think it would be hilarious #if Kenneth did anything weird John will SO kill him #girl help my boy is so autisitc #he didnt realize lestat tuning the guitar could also be showing off he just thought lestat was being nice #HEY IS SAMMY IMPLYING THERES MORE PEOPLE LIKE MARKUS?? MORE BUG PEOPLE???#BECAUSE OF THE CONVO WITH LOUIS JOHN MIGHT START THINKING THE MIAN CAST WONT KILL HIM IF HES USEFUL </3 #and ouUGUH. THE FACT SONG ASKED LESTAT FOR COFFEE. THE SAME WAY SHE ASKED LOUIS. AND LOUIS DECLINED AND SO SHE ASKS LESTAT #TO SEE IF HES BETTER THAN LOUIS #AND HE ACCEPTS???#OOOH MY GOD GIRL!!!! YOURE IN TROUBLE HES A VAMPIRE OH Y GOD #our gm does a great job mkaing the town feel Alive its so cool #However.#if i were to have one complaint its that theres so much going on and so many plot hooks/plot points #that its a bit hard to keep track of what to follow up on/ do next #bc johns suspicion of karen has been dropped in favor pf investigating new stuff #and while id like to know about kens theories we also have bonnie and everything else to think about #not to mention the interpersonal relationships of the Main Cast #but its still enjoyable

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bamboozledbird · 7 months ago

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𝒈𝒐𝒐𝒅𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒏 𝒈𝒐 // stiles stilinski imagine Characters: Stiles Stilinski, fem!reader, Scott McCall, Lydia Martin, Isaac Lahey, Malia Tate, Kira Yukimura, Allison Argent Pairing(s): Stiles x you, Word Count: 8.9k Tags: human!au, fluff, childhood friends to lovers Warnings: there are a few little nsfw mentions in the middle, so MDNI. Stiles does go out on a window ledge, but i have to make it clear he has no intention ever of jumping lmao.

A/N: this is basically just one day i thought what if stiles had a nick x jess first kiss because he seems stupid and awkward enough to jump out a window. and thus this nonsense was born. also the pov switching was new, so you’ll have to let me know if you’re a fan or not.

The thing is, Stiles isn’t an idiot. He’s stupid, but he isn’t dumb. He knows that it’s not normal to think about your best friend like this. That being so intensely attuned to the curve of her spine when she stretches or the hint of citrus that clings to her hair after she showers isn’t exactly platonic.

And he really doesn’t want to be that guy. You know, the guy who just wants more, who gets upset when he can’t have more—the guy who can’t be friends with the girl who doesn’t love him back. So. Stiles stuffs it down. Deep down. And he’s content to die like this because he needs you.

There are other girls. Boys too, after a latent discovery freshman year ( one that surprised no one but himself ). They come, and they go, and Stiles makes due with what he can have because he knows this is how it has to be.

But they aren’t you.

A blatant fact that ruins anything real before it even has the chance to start.

So here he is: 24, single, and perpetually in love with one of his three roommates—but, hey, at least he does his own laundry now.

Stiles watches you on your bed, sitting on the floor like a child, while he pretends to work on a case report. He feels a little like a child too, the longer he stares at you—like a little boy with his hand in the cookie car.

He plays with the fluff on your rug to keep his hand busy, tugging on it a little too harshly when you pull your hair back with the scrunchie on your wrist. Stiles feels like a cretin when his eyes follow the rise of your breasts as you fiddle with the knot on top of your head. They trail over the flex of your collarbones, and he sinks further into his shame when he imagines tracing the lines with his tongue.

You catch him staring, and his throat bobs with his swallow.

“What?” you ask with arched brows. You grin at him like you know something.

Fuck, what if you know?

You asked him something. Stiles knows you asked him something, but he can’t remember what. He just swallows again and fumbles for his coffee. Stiles knows that he should be desensitized to it all by now: your clever mouth, your deft fingers, your fluttering lashes, but he’s still startled by it every so often—like right now, when you look like you’re about to say something snarky at his expense.

“Does it look that bad?” A few strands of your hair slip from their loose hold when you shake your head at him. “Are you moonlighting with the fashion police? I thought you’d be a little busy living in the murder capital of the world.”

Stiles laughs a little, mostly because of the simple fact that your hair always looks pretty. He said it the first time he saw you, blurted it out like a little lamb. Stiles knew, even at six, that he should be embarrassed, but he just couldn’t help it. He was so little and completely overwhelmed by his first case of puppy love; the words had nowhere else to go.

He’s gotten better at swallowing the praise-vomit, but he still notices. You’re always pretty. He’s doing his best to ignore it.

“That’s St. Louis actually,” Stiles says. He burns his tongue on his coffee and pulls a face that he knows gives him a double chin.

You slide off of your bed and kneel down next to him. Your knees press into his thigh, and it feels like something more, something profound, but he knows it doesn’t mean anything. You’re generous with your affection; you make everyone feel special when they’re around you. Stiles loves that about you, how you make him feel like he’s so smart, so vital when he knows that he’s moderately clever at best and really a lot closer criminally obsessive most days.

“Can you tell me anything about it?” you hum, nestling your chin in the hollow of his shoulder.

Stiles can smell your body wash. It’s sweet, fresh, and tickles his nose pleasantly—marigold and aloe. He’s seen the bottle in the shower. Sometimes, he has to bite his fist and turn the water to freezing when he accidentally imagines your wet, sudsy body, lathering the scent of marigold from neck to toe. It’s the in-between bits that make him especially nauseous with guilt.

“Huh?” Stiles mumbles, pressing his singed tongue to the roof of his mouth.

You poke his cheek and say, “You’re eating your lip. You only do that when you get stuck in a case.”

Stiles can think of several other things that make him suck his top lip between his teeth, but he is stuck—most likely because he’s spent the last hour watching you.

You frown, and he smiles a little at the wrinkle between your brows. You smooth out his own forehead wrinkles with your thumb and say, “It helps you sometimes—talking. You think best out loud.”

He does. Stiles swallows a little. You know him so well. You know everything about him. Everything except, of course, that the crush he had on you in elementary school has metastasized into an all-consuming, all-encompassing, honest-to-god, tried-and-true-blue, last-of-dying-breed, core-of-the-sun, probably-caused-the-big-bang kind of love.

Stiles has tried, and failed, to think of a way to casually confess how he feels. How do you even begin to break something like that to a friend? Over Chinese food? After a few beers at your favorite bar? During one of your Buffy binge nights? How is he supposed to say, ‘Hey, so I’m kind of totally and irrevocably in love with you, and it’s ruining my life a little—but that’s okay ’cause I can’t be happy unless I know that you’re happy’ without blowing up his entire life?

He can’t. So Stiles stuffs it down again with a sip of his coffee: black and bitter, a little like his heart when your not-boyfriend, boyfriend texts you. And he knows that’s so incredibly unfair of him. He knows that he’s needy, and pathetic, and far too possessive of your attention—it all makes him a little sick with self-loathing.

You have every right to remove your warmth from his side to respond, and Stiles thinks that if a guy can make you smile like that, he must not be all bad. You seem happy. When isn't feeling sorry for himself, Stiles is happy for you.

“The local police think it’s gang-related,” Stiles says eventually. His voice is raspy from his burnt throat and too loud in the silence of the near-empty apartment.

You slide your phone back into your pocket, and Stiles tries not to feel victorious. “And you don’t,” you scooch back to his side, ducking your head over his shoulder to see his screen.

“No,” Stiles combs his fingers through his hair and sighs, “I don’t. It’s too easy.”

“Follow your gut,” you say, poking his abs, “he usually knows what’s up.”

“You know what he’s sayin’ right now?” Stiles’s back clicks as he stretches and rolls his neck around in slow circles. It does little for the perpetual ache along the ridge of his skull, but it gives him some space from you and your stupidly sweet smile. “It’s time for chimichangas.”

You smile at him again, and Stiles blames the swooping in his stomach on hunger. “I think you deserve a little more than off-brand, freezer-burned Tex-Mex.”

“Don’t knock Great Value,” Stiles grumbles, rubbing a hand over his face. His lips, swollen from an afternoon of tearing into them with his teeth, tug into a tired smile when you wave your hand impatiently in front of his face. He wraps his long fingers around yours and says, “She’s been there for me through everything.”

“Higher standards, Stiles,” you roll your eyes, crinkled at the corners with your grin, “you’re in desperate need of higher standards.”

Stiles wants to laugh, feels the impulse itch his throat. High standards are precisely his problem.

“Maybe you should stop being such a brand snob,” Stiles pokes you in the side, a spot between your ribs that he knows is ticklish. You laugh and shove him away with a firm hand; Stiles goes willingly, stumbles into the doorframe just to make you laugh again.

“I am not a snob,” you push yourself onto a barstool, socked-feet dangling below. He smiles as you swing them and then knock your ankles together. You used to do the same thing on the playground swing set. “Not liking over-salted garbage is not snobbery.”

Stiles reaches for the open bag of corn nuts on the island, needlessly resting his palm on your lower back under the guise of balance. Your skin is warm, and he’s too busy thinking about how his hand must’ve been molded around the shape of your hip to notice how hard you’re biting your lower lip.

He tosses a few corn nuts in the air and catches them in his waiting mouth, smacking his lips together until they’re free of nacho cheese seasoning. He grins at the look on your face, and he wants to kiss the tip of your scrunched nose. “See,” Stiles sucks the leftover orange dust off of his fingers. His voice is muffled by his thumb when he says, “You’re snubbing my snacks right now—like a little munchie elitist. How dare you; they probably won’t ever recover.”

You laugh, as expected, and snatch the bag from the counter, not expected. “You’re literally biting your thumb at me!”

Stiles leans against the counter, rests his forearms on the granite, and watches you chew with a dumb, fond smile on his face. You’re just so clever, all wrapped up in keen smiles and sharp wit. You keep him on his toes, always have—Stiles hasn’t ever met anyone else who can spar with him so well. He doesn’t think he ever will. Admittedly, he hasn’t looked that hard; his heart just isn’t in it—who else would paraphrase Shakespeare in the middle of a mock debate? Who else could possibly look so wily and wicked while doing it through a mouthful of, objectively, terrible gas station eats.

“Purely accidental,” Stiles taps his fingers against the counter, and his shoulders lift with a small, oh-so innocent shrug, “it’s what we professionals call a ‘serendipitous turn of events’.”

“A professional what?” You grin at him. It’s one of his favorites, the one that says you’re about to tease him. “Sadist?”

“Oh,” Stiles’s brow quirks as he leans forward onto his arms, “so I torture you? Being around me is torturous?”

“Yes.” Your chin jerks with a small, sharp nod, but the only thing Stiles can see is your pouty bottom lip.

Sometimes, Stiles swears you do it on purpose—turn him on in the most inconvenient of moments. Make his heart swell into his throat until he devolves into a lovesick caveman. You have to know what you’re doing to him when you walk around in those little tank tops with the lace trim and the sleep shorts that ride up to the swell of your ass. It can’t be accidental, the cute laugh-snorts you’re so embarrassed of, or how you get so excited when you see a bird in a parking lot. It’s all too effective to be a coincidence.

Like right now, the way your lip balm shines under the kitchen lights and exaggerates your pout. You must know how completely and utterly kissable you look, and Stiles can’t do anything about it—now that’s torture.

You give him mercy and tuck your pout away for a solemn line instead. “You’re evil; you never close the cabinets or take the trash out.”

“Careful,” Stiles grins and snaps his teeth in the air, “I bite too.”

You lean across the island, and it’s torture, the way your arms squeeze your chest and push your cleavage to the neckline of your shirt. Stiles pointedly avoids looking at the round flesh. It just looks so soft, so plush—so ripe. His teeth ache. His tongue salivates. He craves with reckless abandon, and he’s never satiated.

Stiles knows you’re a smart girl, but sometimes he forgets. You’d have to be pretty dense, after all, to not see the ravenous gleam in his eyes. You certainly don’t seem to notice it now, not with all that fondness twisting your lips into a grin. Stiles often wonders, worries, how you’d look at him if you knew. Disgusted most likely; he’s disgusted with himself half the time—but you’re so sweet, and so understanding, you’d probably forgive him.

Pity, Stiles decides, if you knew, you’d pity him. He can’t decide if that’s worse.

You rest your finger between his brows, and his dark lashes flutter, brushing against his freckles like they stamped the specks onto his skin. “Eat your nuts, monster,” you drag your finger along the slope of his nose and then ‘boop’ the tip, “and then preferably something with a single gram of protein.”

Stiles grumbles to himself and searches the fridge for something that will placate your relentless bullying. He picks up the whipped cream and rolls the chilled can around in his hands, squinting at the label. 0 grams of protein. Stiles scoffs. Reddi Whip is, like, 75% milk, right?

His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he forgets to shut the fridge door until it starts beeping at him like it's a personal offense.

“Work?”

Stiles barely hears you, nose almost smooshed against his screen. “Huh?” He stares at his phone, eyes rapidly flicking back-and-forth, brain turning over how to counter the latest move on his ever-changing chessboard.

Stiles finally registers what you said when he begins his reply to his unit chief. “Oh…yeah.” His thumbs fly over his screen at a speed that, frankly, shouldn’t be humanly possible, “One sec…”

“You need a break.” You stand and place your hands on your hips in an adorable show of strength. He knows that you’re going for stern, so he bites his twitching mouth lest he invoke your actual wrath. “You’ve been working 18-hour days for the last two weeks.”

That’s an exaggeration, but Stiles doesn’t argue. He feels like it’s true. His stubble is out of control, and he’s afraid to look in the mirror and see exactly how dark his eyebags are. He only stopped by to shower and get a fresh change of clothes, but you came out of the bathroom in your little pink bathrobe and distracted him.

Stiles hates that robe. Detests it. He wants to burn it. He wants to rip the flimsy tie off with his teeth.

Mostly, Stiles wants to tuck you under his blankets and snuggle into the fuzzy fabric until he falls asleep.

He wants, he wants, he wants. That’s the problem.

You pry his phone from his hands and slip it into your back pocket. “We’re getting drunk tonight,” you say, and you say it in a way that he can’t even argue with. You say it like it’s a fact—you’re informing him, not telling him. Stiles is usually happy to comply.

That’s how you’ve always worked, after all: You point at a crocodile infested river, and he goes merrily, merrily, merrily down the stream, with a stupid, dreamy smile on his face.

It’s just. He’s functionally useless at doing anything without you. You take care of him. Always have.

Way back, when he was pre-Adderall Stiles, all baby energy and undiagnosed ADHD, you shoved a kid off of the swings when he made fun of Stiles’s babbling and twitching. He still babbles and twitches, but at least now he knows why. He doesn’t have some parasitic monster inside him; he’s just Stiles.

You’ve always known that—how was he supposed to not fall in love with you?

And after his mom died, you let him cry on your shoulder until your shirt was soaked through. He got snot all over your collar, and you just squeezed him tighter. Held onto him until he could breathe again, and then you said, “Want a grape soda?” and he almost started crying again because right then, at that moment, that was somehow the only right thing to say. Maybe because it was you, or maybe it was because you knew him so well. Maybe, it didn’t matter.

You spent the rest of the night starfished over your bed, and after a minute of staring at your ceiling fan, Stiles whispered, “Do you think we’ll be best friends forever?”

You looked at him and grinned, all teeth and sparkly eyes, and said, “You better hope so, boy blunder. Who else is gonna watch Twin Peaks with you a zillion times?” And Stiles knows that he was only eight, and he knows that maybe it was just because you made him laugh after all the emptiness, but he thinks that he fell a little bit in love with you then, even if he was too young to put a name to the feeling.

He finally figured it out when he was seventeen. Stiles wanted to be an adult so badly back then—and he felt like he was sometimes, after everything he’d gone through, but in so many ways he wasn’t. He definitely didn’t know how to handle his breakup with Malia like an adult—his first breakup, his first real relationship.

Stiles drank a lot that night. He can’t remember exactly how much, or anything that happened after 11 pm, but he does remember how you stroked his hair. He remembers how you wiped the foul mix of bile and sweat from his face with a cool washcloth and tender hands. He remembers how you tucked him into bed and curled up next to him when he asked you to say.

He remembers falling in love with you.

The epiphany felt a lot better when he was warm and limp from his dad’s scotch. It hurt a bit, when he woke up hungover and in an empty bed. You were in the kitchen, making him breakfast: greasy eggs and hashbrowns. After he got over seeing you in one of his t-shirts, he wondered if you’d ever get tired of cleaning up after him and all his issues.

Stiles still wonders that sometimes, even after you crawled into bed with him the night you found out your college sweetheart was cheating on you. He stroked your hair and ignored the wetness soaking into his neck, and you whispered against his skin, “Do you think we'll best friends forever?”

Stiles wanted to laugh. And then scream. And then kiss you. He didn’t do any of those things. He just said, “Can’t picture it any other way.” He didn’t say that whenever he thought about the future, whenever he pictured forever, you were always there.

He didn’t ask, ‘Is it okay if I’m in love with you forever?’

Stiles wants to ask it now, while you rattle off your plans for him this evening, but he doesn’t. He chews on a corn nut instead.

“Lydia’s looking for the right opportunity to make a move on the guy in 2B anyway,” you finish, blowing a strand of hair out of your face.

You’re looking at him like he’s supposed to say something, so he nods dutifully, “The guy with the mullet, right?”

You roll your eyes and poke around the cabinets, taking stock of the chips and tequila. “It’s not a mullet—you’re so obtuse when you’re jealous.”

Stiles blinks because…where the hell did that come from? “I’m good on the perm front, thanks,” he snarks through the food lodged in his cheek.

“Not of him,” you say, tongue trapped between your teeth and distracted by the mixers on top of the fridge. Your back is to him from your perch on the counter, and Stiles watches you with wary eyes. It would be so much easier if you'd just ask him to get things down from the top shelves, but you never do. Refuse to, actually. Vehemently. You'll do it yourself, even if it means breaking a limb.

You manage to keep a hold of the pile of bottles cradled against your chest through your dismount, and Stiles breathes easier when your feet are pressed against solid ground. He’s glad your eyes are still on the kaleidoscope of sugar and citrus because you’d mock the relief in his eyes without mercy.

You line the bottles up in order of emptiness and absently hum, “Well, yes of him, I guess, because—can you check on the vodka and gin?”

Stiles sticks his head in the freezer, grateful for the blast of frigid air, and tries to untangle the crumbs of meaning in your flimsy accusation. He comes up with absolutely nothing—on every front of his mission. “No gin.”

You let out a long, heavy sigh and shake your head at the dangling light fixtures. “Lydia.”

Lydia was the only person in the apartment who liked gin, but Stiles didn’t have any room in his brain for commiseration. “So, I’m jealous of little orphan Annie from 2B because…?” He leans against the counter and tucks his hands under his arms, squinting skeptically, “Just so we’re on the same page n’ all.”

You’re texting someone. He’s sure it’s Lydia, probably asking her to pick up more gin on her way home, but Stiles can’t help but wonder if you’re inviting your…whatever you call three decent dates and one evening of alright sex. ( Oh, how Stiles loved hearing all the details when you came home. )

“Hmm?” Your smile is lit up by your screen and the kittenish glint in your eye, but Stiles knows it’s not for him. He swallows his pettiness before he chokes on it. “Oh, right,” you put your phone down on the counter and smirk. This one is for him, but Stiles actually wouldn’t mind if it was for someone else; the look in your eyes is downright diabolical. “You’re so adorably, blatantly jealous that Lydia is into another no-neck, illiterate jock from the gym—but the perm is pretty bad, I’ll give you that.”

Stiles’s jaw falls, and you laugh, completely misinterpreting his stupor. He stares at you and just shakes his head, scrambling for a grasp on at least one of the million questions pinging around his skull. “You think I want Lydia?”

“Uh-doy,” you roll your eyes like he’s said something particularly stupid, “only since forever.”

He’s struck again at how you can simultaneously know him so well and not at all. “You don’t think that would’ve come up in the last, I dunno,” Stiles’s head jerks with his choppy hand gestures, “eighteen years?”

You wave your hand and then grab his wrist, “It’s been intermittent.”

You lead Stiles back into your room by his hand like he’s a wayward dog on a leash. He’s grateful for it. Stiles can’t do much else besides blink and breathe when he’s like this—when he’s wrapped up in a case he can’t crack.

Stiles drops onto the edge of your bed with a solid thud, feeling a bit like someone slammed a 2x4 into his gut. His tongue seems to be useless, glued to the back of his teeth. All he can do is watch you flit around your room, gathering an armful of skirts and dresses.

You hold up a black dress in one hand and a black mini-skirt layered under a red baby tee in the other, “Pick.”

Stiles wants to pick the sweats you’re currently wearing because they’re his, but he points at the skirt. He knows it’s your favorite; you’d pick it anyway.

You sit down in front of your vanity and pull the scrunchie out of your bun. Stiles watches your hair tumble over your shoulders. You’re insecure about it, always have been. One day it’s the color, and then it’s the texture, and he, for the life of him, doesn’t understand why. Your hair shines so prettily under the light, and it always smells so sweet, like citrus and honeysuckle—Stiles can’t decide if he wants to bury his nose in it or wrap it around his spindly fingers.

Graciously, you twist it into an artful arrangement before he can do either.

“I don’t want to be with Lydia,” Stiles finally says quietly.

You stop fiddling with pieces of hair framing your face and meet his gaze in the mirror, “It’s okay if you do.”

Stiles nods and stares at his lap, twiddling his fingers. “I know,” it’d be easier if he did, “but I don’t.”

You turn around in your chair and give him a little smile. It’s fond and sweet, and Stiles feels like a hand is closing around his heart and twisting it behind his ribs. “We’ll find you someone tonight, then,” you say, popping up from your seat. You grab your clothes off of the bed and squeeze his shoulder on your way to the full-length mirror next to your closet.

Stiles turns his head when you start to wriggle out of your shirt. He knows you don’t care what he sees after years of sleepovers and lake vacations, but you don’t know what it does to him. How all your dips and curves slip behind his lids when he’s alone with his fist and too much lube. If he’s really being honest, it also happens when he’s not alone, but that makes him feel like a piece of shit for a whole other list of reasons.

All of it feels pretty awful when it’s over—when Stiles is left with the unpleasant sensation of drying cum on his stomach and the very unpleasant realization that you’d never wear a swimsuit around him again if you knew exactly what he does with the image.

So. Stiles does what he can. He doesn’t look when you change, tries to avoid seeing you in a towel altogether, and watches so much porn of people who look nothing like you.

It doesn’t work, of course, but he tries. That has to count for something.

Stiles swallows and taps his fingers against his thighs. “I can’t think of anything I want to do less than interact with a bunch of drunk strangers partying in my—”

“Not a bunch,” you say around a grunt, tripping over the dragging hem of your borrowed sweats, “and not a party. Just a chill get-together of like-minded peers.”

He scoffs and tips his chin up, rolling his eyes at the ceiling. “I’m sure I have so much in common with Lydia’s guest list. Yeah, we can talk about how they can bench-press two of me and that I also love me some stacking—pancakes, not steroids, but close enough.”

There’s a whoosh of a zipper and then you’re in front of him with your arms folded over your chest and thinned eyes. “You better behave.”

Stiles grins; it’s decidedly obnoxious. “I’ll be perfectly cordial, promise. I’ll even speak slowly.”

You laugh, and Stiles knows you’re only pretending that you didn’t want to.

“I think it’ll be good for you.” You return to your vanity and pilfer through your mess of earrings. “Y’know, to get out of your head for a little bit. It really is just gonna be us and a few plus ones. I know you, boy wonder, no parties shall ever be thrown in your honor. I solemnly swear.”

He smiles at the childhood pet name, a private little grin Stiles keeps tucked in his chest and at his feet. It falls, however, when he remembers the middle bits of your speech. “So,” Stiles gnaws on his thumbnail and jiggles his knee, “did you invite a plus one?”

You slide a gold hoop through your ear and grin at him, “Nah, I’m all yours tonight, Stilinski.”

Good. God.

Stiles wants to kiss you. He always wants to kiss you, but sometimes every inch of you rips the air from his lungs—cleaves him right in two. Like right now. He forgets how to speak, trying to remember what he can say and what he absolutely can’t say, while he imagines a life where you really are his and you know that he’s always been yours.

You’re just so pretty in your little skirt and cherry t-shirt, and you’re so clever, and funny, and you’re looking at him like he’s your favorite person in the entire world, and Stiles feels all of it spilling over the edges of his restraint. He almost says something so heavy—so categorically, catastrophically stupid, it would ruin your friendship for good.

Stiles swallows it back into his chest, but his voice is still thick when he says, “All mine, huh.”

He’s sick with yearning, and he’s petrified for a moment that you can tell. It seems so obvious to him. It would be obvious to anyone, Stiles thinks, if they heard how weak he sounded, how soft in his throat and reverent in your presence.

But you don’t notice. You never do. It’s a relief, and it’s endlessly frustrating.

“Yep,” you smack your lips together, blotting your red lipstick until it’s perfect, “I wanna win, and everyone knows you can’t win True American with a noob on your team.”

His brow arches, and a lazy grin smears across his mouth, “Oh, so we’re getting drunk drunk tonight.”

You wink at him in the mirror, “If you play your cards right.”

Stiles does, in fact, play his cards right. He picks Scott as the third member of your cabinet, possibly because Scott can outdrink anyone…or maybe it’s because Scott knows that Stiles is pathetically into you and can’t keep his mouth shut at the best of times, but especially not when he’s drunk.

Who’s to say, really?

Honestly, Stiles doesn’t need the advantage—Lydia’s voluntarily stuck with Isaac and the guy from 2B who can’t follow the rules no matter how many times they shout them at him, and Malia and Kira care far more about making goo-goo eyes at each other than they do helping their friend from yoga make any progress towards the King—but he’s competitive by nature and feeling exceptionally stupid tonight.

Lydia introduced the Clinton Strip Rules solely to ogle her latest man candy’s aggressively sculpted six-pack and show off her bewitching décolletage, and it was going along swimmingly until the idiot forgot how to count.

It was so simple. All the guy had to do was hold up three fingers—that’s all. He would’ve matched Lydia's count, and then they could've made out behind the Iron Curtain. But he didn’t. He held up two fingers and in doing so single-handedly crafted Stiles Stilinski’s demise.

Ironic. Considering the moron can't craft a compound-complex sentence to save his life.

For a single, endless moment, you and Stiles just stare at each other, more specifically, at the four fingers plastered against your foreheads—and then the spell is broken by drunken cackling. Lydia grins like the cat who caught the canary, and Scott laughs until his face turns red. He’s loud and obnoxious with the four drinks he’s downed, and Stiles wants to shove him out the window.

“Guys,” Stiles whines, “you don’t really—”

You finish the beer in your hand and shrug your shoulders, “It’s fine.”

Stiles’s head whips towards you, big-eyed and fish-mouthed. He can’t form words. Can’t speak any of the five languages he knows. He’s become a Stiles Stilinski skinsuit held up by a skeleton of gelatin and faulty survival instincts.

You smile at him a little and shrug again, “It’s just a game, right?”

You don’t say it, but Stiles can hear it with painful clarity: It doesn’t mean anything.

Stiles doesn’t know how to say no without telling the truth. It’s not that he doesn’t want to, not exactly. Stiles wants to kiss you—of course he wants to kiss you, feels like the whole goddamn world knows he wants to kiss you and is conspiring against him—but not like this. He doesn’t want to kiss you when it’s nothing. He’s thought about it far too much, imagined it on his bedroom ceiling in the safety of darkness too many nights, to blow it all on a stupid drinking game. A stupid gym-bro’s mistake.

Stiles had a plan. A plan he never actually had the courage to act on, but a plan nonetheless.

He was going to hold your face with shaking hands, smooth his thumbs along the sleek line of your jaw, look you in the eyes so that you could see the disbelief, the wonder, the awe. You’d see that he was overwhelmed to the bone, to all the nerves shivering inside the marrow, and you’d have to forgive him for being so tongue-tied and awkward—for taking so long.

And then, he’d kiss you.

He’d kiss you again, and again, and again, until one of you started laughing, but that’d be okay because it would give him the chance to kiss your neck and whisper, 'You’re the sky, and the mountains, and everything in-between.'

'You’re dark matter; you’re gravity,' he’d kiss the words into your skin and sigh, 'you’re the only thing holding the universe together.'

But he can’t say that, so Stiles follows you into Lydia’s bedroom and wipes the sweat on his palms off on his jeans.

You’re a little giggly while you fumble for the light. It’s breathy, and you can’t meet his eyes. Stiles feels a little better knowing that you’re almost as nervous as he is. You aren’t usually the nervous kind, after all. That’s his thing.

Stiles slides his hands into his back pockets and rocks onto his heels, “We don’t…we can just pretend that we…did it.”

“Did it?” you arch a brow, lips curling into a wry grin. “It’s just a kiss, Stiles. I thought you wanted to win? We gotta end Lydia’s streak, or she’ll be insufferable.”

Stiles’s mouth goes dry: cottony with wanting, brittle with misery. He can’t pretend anymore; he can’t pretend that he's not dying from this.

You can’t look at Stiles’s face. Can’t see the panic. It’s why you shuffle closer to him, stiffly reach for his shoulders and awkwardly search for the least romantic place to rest your hands. Stiles’s back thuds against the wall, and you finally dart your eyes to his. “It’s fine,” you say weakly.

There’s a loud chorus of, ‘Kiss, kiss, kiss,’ through the door, and Stiles watches the resolve harden your face. His chest rises and falls with quick, shallow exhales. He can hear his pulse ricochet around his ear canal, can feel the sweat gathering on his palms, can taste the anticipation in the air.

You roll your shoulders back a few times and shake your hands by your side, rotating your neck in a few slow circles. “Just kiss me, Stilinski. No biggie. I think we can catch up to Isaac if you hurry the hell up and plant one on—”

“Not like this!”

Your mouth parts into a perfect little ‘o’, and Stiles’s eyes bulge when he realizes that the pathetic, desperate cry came from him.

You fold your arms over your chest and tilt your head with an expression on your face that Stiles can’t read for the life of him. “What,” you lick your lip, and Stiles squirms with shame when he can’t stop himself from tracking the movement, “what does that mean?”

Stiles’s face spasms, and he can feel his IQ drop by tens the longer you stare at him.

“No, I didn’t…” Stiles’s stutters, flicking his gaze to your forehead, your chin, between your brows—anywhere but your eyes. His nose scrunches as he shakes his head, “Nothing. I just—I didn’t mean like that.” Stiles isn’t entirely sure what you think he meant, but considering he can’t decide what he means, it’s a safe bet that you’re wrong.

Stiles's hands take over for his melting brain matter, gesturing wildly every-so often like the flexing and contracting add any actual meaning to his meaningless babble. “I just, we can’t like that because that’s not…Do you know, like…? It’s very, like, you don’t…” His eyelids seem to have forgotten how to blink, and Stiles thinks he’d do just about anything for a piano to fall out of the sky right about now.

The chanting outside the door gets louder; Stiles isn’t sure if it’s real or just his anxiety. Through his narrowing pinprick vision, the only thing he can see at the end of the dark, dark tunnel is Lydia’s window. The heavy purple curtains frame the opening like serendipitous velvet gift wrapping.

Stiles swallows and nods sharply, “If you’ll excuse me.”

Stiles steps around you, and you follow his path with your eyes. They’re pinched with suspicion, but mostly concern. “Stiles, what are you do—”

“I’m fine,” Stiles tries to wave off your worries with a shaky hand.

And then he unlatches Lydia’s window and crawls on top of a chair to reach the opening.

“Okay, this makes sense. I just need a little air,” Stiles mumbles to himself. His dirty sneakers leave a clear outline of his soles on the white fur. Under any other circumstances, you’d both be desperately trying to scrub the fabric clean before Lydia found the stains and rained her wrath down upon your very fragile, bruisable bodies. Under these circumstances, you’re preoccupied with the half of Stiles’s body that’s hanging outside the window of your 3rd-story apartment.

“Stiles!” you stumble to the wall and freeze, unsure how to pull him back in without accidentally tipping him onto the concrete three floors below.

Stiles manages to slip the rest of his body through the window without breaking any limbs. Yet. “This is what I needed. Yup, this is—” his eyes engulf his face, a wide pool of churning honey, when he finally realizes just how small the ledge is and just how far away the ground is, “ah, ha, ha!”

“Stiles!” You cover your face with your hands and shake your head over and over again. You hope, childishly, if you spin fast enough, you can rewind time back to 10 minutes ago—when Stiles was safe on the floor and you could stop yourself from giving into the silly, stupid desire to kiss him. Just once. To finally find out how it would feel.

You peek through your fingers and wince as he stumbles towards the left. “You don’t have to kiss me!”

Stiles disappears from view, and you tumble into the hallway. You let out a low hiss when your hip slams into a sharp corner. The flare of pain is soon forgotten, however, when Stiles slams his hands against the living room window. Everyone turns to gawk at him, eight mouths wide open and not a single word is spoken until Stiles presses his entire body against the glass.

The window hasn’t been cleaned since you all moved in, so you can’t quite make out his expression through grime and dirt, but you can hear the shrill urgency in his voice. “This is a regret—I immediately regret this.” It would be funny, how high his voice is—approaching autotuned chipmunk territory, honestly—if he wasn’t six inches away from certain death. You can all laugh about it later when Stiles is safe on the couch, you decide. After you’ve punched him in the arm for doing something so bone-shatteringly stupid, obviously.

Malia does laugh, and Kira smacks her shoulder. You almost appreciate the levity; it reminds you that your brain needs oxygen to function.

Scott cups his hand around his mouth and shouts, “Don’t move!”

Stiles smooshes his button nose into the glass. He inhales and exhales with mad abandon, creating and erasing a cloud of condescension with every breath. “I've made a very bad mistake! I’m not trained for this!” his lips smear against the glass, muffling his cries for help. Stiles pulls back, and leaves a streak of saliva behind. At least, that patch of the window is clean now, biohazard be damned.

It’s Scott who ends up saving the day. No surprise there. He gets Stiles through the window and shoves him onto the couch, teeth ground in what can only be described as parental frustration.

Scott folds his arms over his chest and narrows his eyes, “You scared me half to death out there.”

Isaac snorts and rolls his eyes, quipping over Scott's shoulder, “Are you not getting enough attention?”

“I’m fine!” Stiles groans into his hands and pinches the bridge of his nose. It’s still red from being smashed against the window, and the rest of his face matches with his embarrassed flush. “I am fine! I was partly joking and at least 64% drunk!”

“Stiles, we will talk about this in the morning,” Scott’s face is stern, and his grip on Stiles’s shoulder is just as firm, “but right now, I’m gonna go do stuff with a girl.”

Scott’s face is still solemn when he high-fives Isaac, mostly out of habit. You do laugh then. Can’t help it. A little bit of relief creeps through your constricted chest when Stiles smiles. It’s brief, a little twitch at the corners of his slightly-swollen mouth, but it’s there.

Allison rolls her eyes when Scott holds out his hand, but she still takes it and follows him towards his bedroom.

“Shut the door!” Stiles shouts at their backs. He slumps back against the couch cushions when the thudding of Scott's door closing echoes through the hall.

It’s quiet for a moment. Kira shifts awkwardly, clinging to Malia’s arm for balance when the fog of alcohol spreads from her flushed cheeks to her platform combat boots. Malia doesn’t look that concerned, but she’s always been cool under pressure…and any other emotion.

You expect Lydia to look as worried as you do, but she has a strange, calculating look in her eyes. They’re sharp in the light of her brilliance; the jade almost looks feline.

Lydia’s beaux ends up breaking the silence with a loose laugh. His head tips back with his chuckle, and he throws his meaty arm around Lydia’s shoulders. “That was freakin’ hilarious! I mean, dude jumped out on a ledge instead of kissing a 10. Can you believe that?”

Lydia looks wholly unamused and says flatly, “I really can’t.” She fixes Stiles with a look you can’t read, but Stiles seems to understand.

“I know.” Stiles drops his face into his hands and digs his face into the cradle of his wide palms. "I’m an idiot.”

Everyone seems to hear a cue that you missed while watching Stiles’s chest rise and fall. Malia, Kira, and their plus one filter out the door one-by-one, and Isaac kisses your cheek before wrapping his scarf around his neck. You’re relieved again when you hear Stiles scoff; it’s something he always does when Isaac puts on one of his pretentious kerchiefs in the balmy, LA weather. It’s nice to see some things are still the same.

Lydia stares at Stiles, and they have a silent conversation that ends with a patented Lydia Martin glare and a quintessential Stiles Stilinski squint.

Lydia leaves with her late night delight and kiss to your other cheek, and suddenly it’s just you and Stiles.

You wring your fingers together, gnawing on the lining of your cheek. You can’t think of anything to say. To Stiles. You never thought you’d see the day.

The couch creaks with Stiles’s shifting weight. He pushes himself to his feet and stands in front of you. The redness in his face has faded, baring the smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose that you’re so fond of. His lips part. Your breath stills, waiting. Wanting. His silence washes over the room like a flood, and you close your eyes. You’re afraid of it, witnessing the inevitable wreckage.

It doesn’t come.

You hear the quiet padding of Stiles’s footsteps. When you open your eyes, he’s gone, slinking down the hall to his bedroom. You stare at the place he was just standing, feeling the chill of his absence, and then it’s gone. A glaring blaze of anger warms your face, and you allow it to carry you to Stiles’s closed door. What a metaphor; the thought grinds your molars together until they screech.

You wrench his door open, and Stiles jumps, halfway out of his jeans. He stumbles over the cuffs and almost falls on his face. You wish you could tease him, laugh until you snort and Stiles glares at you through his pathetic attempt to hide his smirk. But you can’t. Not yet.

“You’re really just going to leave it like that?” you say, closing his door behind you. It’s preemptive; you feel a little like yelling. “That was a whole other level of stupid, Stiles, even by your standard.”

Stiles quickly yanks his pants back up and buttons them, struggling with the zipper and his twitching fingers. “Can we just not,” Stiles rubs a hand over his face, looking infinitely older than he is, and mumbles a hollow, “actually, can we never.”

The words hang heavily in the air. In the harrowing quiet, you think: Oh god, is this it? Is this really the end?

Stiles stares at his feet, at the hole he’s wearing in the oak floor. He hears it too, the weight of what he’s done. Fucking hell, he thinks, I didn't know cowardice could be so loud.

You smooth your hands over your hair, clasping for any semblance of composure. “I just…I didn’t realize that the thought of kissing me was so…traumatic.”

Stiles jerks his head from the floor and tugs his fingers through hair. He pulls at the roots until it stings and shakes his head, “That’s not…you’re,” he gestures towards you helplessly and swallows the millions of things he wants to say, “you.”

“Yeah,” your shoulder lifts in a tiny shrug, arms winding around your torso like a brace, “that seems to be the issue.”

Stiles just looks at you for a moment. The lamp on his desk bathes his skin in a wave of warmth when he tilts his head. The tip of his nose casts a shadow over his lips, and you want to trace the divot in his cupid’s bow, the little lines by his nose, the hollow space under his eyes. You want to trace them all with your fingertips and then memorize them with your mouth.

Stiles's eyes are golden in the light, and they’re stuck on yours.

“You are…” Stiles closes his eyes, and his voice is so soft, so devout, “you are so fucking...inescapable, you know that? You are…you’re so deep inside my head, I can’t do anything without thinking about you. It’s becoming a serious fuckin’ problem—a nuisance, actually, a nuisance. And it’s not like I haven’t tried to stop, y’know, like it would be fuckin’ awesome if I could just forget how you smell like going home and a goddamn spring meadow, or if I could go fuckin’ grocery shopping without looking for those impossible to find chips with the Elmer Fudd lookin’ fucker on ‘em—”

“Hot fries,” you whisper hoarsely.

Stiles stops pacing for a moment and nods at you, “Thank you—hot fries. And I would love it if I could walk down the street, just once, and not look for a dog to take a picture of, just so I have an excuse to text you without looking like I was just thinking about you—even though I was obviously just thinking about you because, re my previous ranting, there’s literally not a single second of the day that you're not on my mind. You're just…inevitable.”

“And…I am Iron Man?” your smile is wobbly.

Stiles gives you a flat look over his shoulder, “You’re a smartass—but I love that. I love everything about you—even the way you talk through my favorite movies and force-feed me a vegetable once a week.”

“Stiles,” you swallow shallowly and rest your hand on his chest. Stiles stops pacing and meets your gaze with big, endless eyes and blinking butterfly lashes. Tipping your head to the side, you swipe your thumb over his thudding heart, “What are you trying to say?”

Stiles rests his hand on top of yours, clunkily lacing your fingers together for a little stability. “I love you,” he whispers, because he has to. It has to be this soft. It has to stay just between you and him, in the little bubble of air between your lips. “I’ve been in love with you since…” Stiles chews on his lip, trying to pinpoint when he knew, when he knew that you’re it for him. There are so many moments that come to mind, and he can’t pick a single one. It’s just that the line between mud pies, and t-ball, and this is so blurry. Stiles can’t tell where it really begins and where it ends.

It feels boundless, Stiles thinks, infinity. It’s something, somewhere, past the edge of the universe. He’s yours infinitely. There is no before he loved you, and there is no after. It’s just always.

Stiles breathes and sighs out his answer, “Forever. I’ve loved you since forever, and I couldn’t—I can’t kiss you if it doesn’t mean anything.”

Your lips curve slowly. It’s a nervous smile, one that’s afraid of the rug being yanked out from under happily ever after. “You love me?” you say quietly, voice little and meek.

The tip of Stiles’s tongue darts out, wetting his lip. He nods slowly and rubs the back of his neck—an anxious tick you know very well. You’ve watched Stiles for eighteen years, after all. You’ve studied the tendons in his neck, how they flex when he crooks his head down to read, how it makes your belly warm more than it should. You know he flexes his fingers exactly three times before starting a test, and you know that the long veins in his arms are the most stupidly attractive things you’ve ever seen. He’s the most attractive thing you’ve ever seen, and you’ve loved him for so long it’s written in your bone marrow.

Stiles scratches his neck until it’s pink and raw, and you pull his hand away instinctively. He smiles at you so timidly it breaks your heart, “Is that okay?”

You nod, and nod, and nod. “Very okay. Very, very okay. The most okay of all the okay’s.” It’s so fast, and it’s been so long, but mostly it’s right. Like this is the only logical conclusion, the answer to a cold case that took eighteen years to solve. Your life has always been youandstiles, and that sounds a whole like forever.

Slipping a hand to the back of his neck, you run your thumb along the knobs of his spine and whisper, “I am so ridiculously in love with you, boy wonder.”

Stiles grins. It starts small, fond, tender—but the more times he hears it, every time she loves me, she loves me, she loves me bounces around his ribcage, his grin gets a little bigger, a little brighter. Soon, it stretches across his entire face and swallows you whole. He looks more than alive like this; you want to taste the electricity in his mouth.

You smile at each other for a long time, and you look at Stiles through your lashes. “So,” you tip your chin and bat your eyes, “you gonna kiss me?”

Stiles is going to kiss you. He swears. He’s just…he’s thinking too much after an evening of not thinking at all. He’s been waiting for this for forever, and what if his lips are dry—or, worse, what if they’re too wet? What if his hands are cold and clammy, and you can feel his sweat when he cups your cheeks. He definitely feels sweaty. And nervous. And—

You rock onto your tiptoes and kiss him. It’s a little kiss, soft and short, but everything goes static and neon around you. You let out a little sigh, start to pull away—and Stiles whimpers. His hands surges forward and latches onto the back of your neck, pulling your mouth back to his.

Stiles slides the breadth of his large palm up and down your back, chasing the rhythm of your breath. There isn't much to chase, you think deliriously, you aren’t really sure if you need oxygen to survive anymore. You like swallowing his sounds and tasting his tongue far more than breathing. It feels like Stiles agrees with you when he wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you into his chest, digging his fingers into the small of your back until there’s nowhere else for you to go. Silly boy. As if you’d rather be anywhere else.

He makes the sweetest little noises in-between your kisses, softening the wet smacking of lips and tongues. You chase them, learning what he likes by unraveling him one sound at a time, with a tug on his hair here, a nibble on his lip there, and your hands just about everywhere.

It’s hot. Literally. You can feel heat licking your skin—or maybe that’s just Stiles. Your head is a little fuzzy from his kisses and not enough oxygen, and logic is a distant thought. Breathing. People need to breathe.

Stiles’s nose bumps against yours when he pulls back. He smiles drunkenly and leans in for one more kiss. It’s quick and open-mouthed, two little brushes of his lips, and it steals what’s left of the air in your lungs.

Stiles brushes your hair back and rests his forehead against yours. His breath chills your spit-slick, swollen mouth, and you shiver at the look in his eyes. “I meant something like that.”

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