#shit rates like rubbing alcohol or hand sanitizer

[random0lover]

Idk who told y’all vodka tastes good but they lied

[multisfabulis]

Trust’s Complexities

Word Count: 3889

TW: Referenced self harm, referenced drug/alcohol usage, and implied abuse

So this was a surprise project I decided to write because I was inspired to write something similar to a fanfic I read around the time. Took me only 10 days to finish this and I’m surprisingly happy that, outside of two sections I needed to rewrite, this was written as is. It’s another RLD segment as well so I got to write more of my two favorite emotionally constipated assholes so that was great!

Fun fact: this is just about 200 words shorter than “A Game of Spite” was so that’s neat!

Read on AO3 | Read on DA

     Ravi knocked on the door several times, glancing around as he did so. He felt uncomfortable being here. The whole place reeked of smoke and mildew and he felt as if he were being watched. It was a good thing he decided to wear his jacket before coming here. So long as he kept the hood up and the jacket zipped, he could pass as a guy looking to get his next fix rather than the androgynous mess he was.

     “Come on, Luce, answer the damn door already,” he grumbled under his breath as he knocked again.

     It had been over a week since he last saw Luce. His visiting him after work became part of his routine so when he hadn’t shown up the first couple days, he grew concerned. As the days went on, his concern deepened to worry. Their last meeting had him cleaning up the other’s self-inflicted cuts so he had reason to be anxious.

     What if he wasn’t okay? What if he was lying on the floor bleeding out because he cut himself too deep? What if he was already…? He shook his head to rid himself of the bad thoughts swirling around in his mind.

     He was probably fine and he was just overreacting. Luce’s like a cockroach; annoying and notoriously hard to get rid of. At least he wasn’t as gross looking as one, at any rate.

     The door swung open just as he was about to knock again. He looked up into Luce’s tired red gaze, noticing the dark shadows under his eyes. His cheeks were sunken in and his skin seemed paler than usual. There wasn’t any blood dripping down his fingers like last time so that was good. About the only good thing he could see from how haggard he looked.

     “Snowbird.” His voice sounded hoarse.

     “You look like shit,” he said, biting back the urge to correct him. “Sound like it, too.”

     Smiling tiredly and letting out a scoff, he replied sarcastically, “Thanks. That what you normally say to someone you haven’t seen in over a week?”

     “If I could say that to everyone who came to work, I would, believe me.”

     If he could still act like a dick to him, then he was fine. Yet the worry kept nagging at him, especially with how horrible he looked right now. What happened in the past week to make him like this?

     “So what are you doing here?” Luce asked, rubbing the back of his neck.

     “Checking in on you?” he replied confusedly, “Why else would I be here?”

     “You were worried about me?”

     “Yeah, I know, it’s surprising, isn’t it?”

     A shout from around the corner made him jump. Yep, this place deserved a “fuck you” and he wanted to hightail it the hell outta there. If Luce didn’t invite him in this instant, he was gonna barge in there himself.

     Stepping to the side and beckoning him in, he asked, “You wanna come in?”

     “Oh, god, yes,” he replied, quickly walking inside the apartment.

     It became quite apparent that this place was just as bad as the outside as soon as he entered the living room. The best word he could use to describe the smell was ass and he couldn’t tell if the faded yellow walls were painted like that or stained with nicotine. Another thing he noticed was just how bare everything was. Aside from basic furniture, there were no pictures, decorations, just anything to make it look like it was lived in. This was depressing.

     “Well--” he took his hood down and unzipped his jacket-- “I don’t know which is worse, the inside or the outside, and I want to die.”

     “Oh, hush, it’s fine,” Luce said, closing the door behind him. “Besides, this was how it was when I moved in.”

     “What, was the last person who lived here a fucking smoke factory?” he asked.

     “Like you don’t smoke.”

     “I do it outside on the fire escape! This looks like they painted the room with nicotine and did a shitty job!”

     A laugh fell out of Luce’s mouth as Ravi went over to the nearest window to open it. While it wasn’t much better outside, the smell was at least bearable. Now, if only he had some hand sanitizer so he didn’t feel like he’d be catching a disease by merely touching the stuff in here…

     “So, where have you been?” he asked. “As stupid as it was, I was worrying over you.”

     Running a hand over his head, he replied, “You sure you wanna know? It’s not exactly pretty, Snowbird.”

     “Uh, yeah.” He shoved his hands inside his jacket pockets. “Why else would I be here if I knew it wasn’t something serious?”

     “I’m an addict, trying to get clean.”

     Well, that shut him up. It managed to explain why he looked like absolute garbage and why he hadn’t been seen in over a week. He always seemed so calm and attentive, not what he imagined addicts to be like. Then again, there were times he’d catch him fidgeting so that might’ve been an early sign.

     He looked down at the poor excuse of a coffee table. Faded rings and specks of white dust marred the otherwise oaken brown wood. Guess that answers the question of what he was addicted to.

     “Bet that must’ve sucked,” was all he could say, a couple laughs sprinkled in among the words.

     “Yeah, it sucked like hell,” he said, sitting down on the couch. “Not the worst hell I’ve gone through but it was hell all the same.”

     “Is that why you…” He rolled his shoulders and grimaced.

     “No but it’s sorta related to why I decided to sober up.”

     “Which was…?”

     “How should I explain this? Let’s just say that, when you were treating my cuts, I didn’t do what I usually did when someone would touch me.”

     “You don’t like being touched?”

     “Blame my lovely mother and father for that. Gentle and loving they were not and ruined touch before I even knew it wasn’t supposed to hurt.”

     Now this was a first for him: guilt. Yeah, Luce would’ve been in trouble if he didn’t help him and he didn’t know about that aversion of his but that didn’t ease the guilt he felt. Did he unknowingly remind him of the pain he suffered?

     “Hey, Luce, um…” God, he was never good at this sort of thing. “if I triggered you in any way by doing that, then---”

     “Snowbird, it’s fine,” he said, no doubt trying to assuage his guilt, “you didn’t do anything wrong. I know you were just trying to help.”

     He always had trouble discerning whether Luce was lying or not. If it wasn’t said in his typical teasing and irritating manner, then he meant it. Then again, he seemed like the type of person to lie about something like that so as to not worry others. Hell, him just now finding out about the other’s addictions was proof of that.

     “Anyway, if it weren’t for you doing that, I wouldn’t have realized it.” He gave him a tilt of his head in confusion. “I trust you.”

     He looked at him in shock as what he said began to sink in. He trusted him, something he couldn’t believe was a thing. Yet it wasn’t a lie. He said it without any hesitance or amusement to his voice.

     The concept of trust was easy enough to understand. Trust was just something that was unheard of in these parts. Trusting someone meant leaving yourself open for a knife in the back and the pain that followed afterwards. It was too great a risk for him to take, especially with so much riding on his shoulders.

     Trust was only something he had for himself. He couldn’t trust people to look after him and Amelia after their parents’ death and he couldn’t trust them now. Trust and people were things he couldn’t afford to waste time on. It was so much easier being a loner than a person others saw as an easy target. If life was going to force that upon him, then he was damn well going to abide by it.

     But was that right? Could he really and truly say he didn’t trust anyone? The only person he could maybe have a smidgen of trust for was… Oh, goddammit. Of course it had to be him. It had to be the biggest asshole he ever had the utter displeasure of knowing.

     Honestly speaking, it could be worse. While Luce was and always will be an asshole, he wasn’t an asshole. He didn’t look at him the way other men had, much less touch him when the rules explicitly discourage that. Then there was the whole matter of nursing his cuts and worrying about him after a week of not seeing him… Yep, it was official. He trusted Luce.

     Scoffing, Ravi said disdainfully, “Boy, you’re a real dumbass for trusting someone like me. Why would you ever want to trust a person who talks shit behind people’s backs as much as I do?”

     “Snowbird, stop.” The way he said that so seriously unnerved him. “Why do you always put yourself down like that?

     “Yeah, you talk like an asshole but you’re far from being one. You’re kinder than you give yourself credit for. In all the time I’ve known you, you’re willing to put up with anything and make whatever sacrifices are necessary if it means the little snowdove will be taken care of. Hell, you were willing to help and worry over a guy like me, someone you’ve only known for a few months. She’s lucky to have you in her life.” He stood up and walked over to hesitantly take hold of his hand. “As am I.”

     Blood rushed up to his cheeks in a rare display of fluster. He wanted nothing more than to crawl into a hole and die from that embarrassing spectacle. How dare he make him blush!

     Letting out a chuckle, Luce said amusingly, “You know, I think this is the first time I’ve seen you blush, Snowbird.”

     “Shut up!” He backed away suddenly, feeling his face grow hotter. “I’m only doing it because you had to be a dick and do that!”

     “What, speak the truth?” he replied, shrugging.

     He fanned his face to cool off while huffing. It was humiliating enough to hear him say all that but even more so to know he meant it. No one ever spoke that highly about him in his eighteen years of life. That was also his first time having anyone actually reach out and touch him in that manner. It was strange and new and…a sensation he wasn’t entirely uncomfortable with.

     “You’re actually kinda cute when you’re like this,” Luce teased, smirking.

     Crossing his arms, he retorted, “Oh, great, the flirting’s back. Not like I missed that while you were holed up here!”

     “Okay, okay, look, I’m sorry.” His smirk turned into a warm, if small, smile as he leaned to one side. “What’ll make you feel better?”

     “...Let me see how much you trust me.”

     “Okay.”

     “You don’t even know what it is yet!”

     “You wanna see how far you can touch me before I ask you to stop, right?”

     He had him there. He wanted to see how much he trusted him and, as horrible as it was, how else could he observe that than by touching him? Even if it was to satiate his curiosity, it felt wrong to essentially exploit Luce’s trigger. It wouldn’t matter how much trust was between them if it became shattered by doing this.

     “I won’t do it if you’re uncomfortable with it,” he vowed. “I don’t wanna go too far to where you get a panic attack because I didn’t respect your boundaries.”

     “I know you won’t,” he replied in the serious tone from before.

     “Don’t say stuff just so I don’t worry. Tell me if you’ll be okay or not.”

     “Lemme prove it to you.”

     Thin fingers wrapped around his wrists as he placed his hands on his cheeks. He had to stand up on his toes in order to reach him. His cheeks felt warm against his half covered palms. This felt weird yet strangely nice.

     “Now do you believe me?” he asked.

     Retracting his hands, he replied with a simple “Yeah.”

     “Well--” he kept a hand locked around his wrist as he sat back down on the couch and positioned him to be in front-- “do what you want.”

     “What if I go too far? Luce, I don’t---”

     “I know you won’t. I trust you.”

     It was shocking to see such a change in Luce from a week ago to now. He hadn’t noticed it before but touch was never exchanged between them. Up until their last meeting, physical contact was nonexistent. Now, he couldn’t keep his hands off him, something he guessed was good since it meant he overcame his aversion somewhat. Why wasn’t there a better word for overcome?

     His thumbs ran over his cheekbone as his nails brushed his earlobes. He seemed to be okay for now, his eyes closed and delicate lashes resting atop his cheeks. Something glinted in the early evening sun and he reached out to touch it. Soon as his fingers grazed his ears, his grip on his wrist tightened and his brow furrowed.

     “You okay?”

     “Yeah, it’s just… I don’t have the best experiences with people touching my ears, one way or another.”

     “You want me to stop?”

     “No, I’ll be fine. I just need to remember it’s you and not…her.”

     Despite his misgivings, he pressed onward. He brushed dark locks away from an ear to see what was twinkling in the light. Two simple stud earrings adorned his ear, mildly surprising him.

     “Didn’t know you had ear piercings.”

     “The eyebrow one didn’t tip you off?”

     “Well, your hair’s so damn long, I couldn’t see them till now.”

     Luce chuckled as he decided to move on. His fingers threaded through his hair before arriving at the nape of his neck. Already, Luce was sucking in a breath as if bracing himself for his touch. He slowly trailed down, gauging the other’s face for a reaction telling him to stop. His middle and ring finger swept over a particular spot and that earned him a response.

     He leaned into his touch, slightly dragging him along by his wrist. That must’ve meant he liked it, at least what he assumed that to be. He began pressing his fingers into that spot, massaging it and caressing it. Doing that made Luce turn his head and bury his mouth into his free hand.

     “Oh, Ravinn…” he mumbled, the hand gripping his wrist moving up to capture his.

     The sudden shock of hearing his name stayed his hand. That was the first time Luce ever said his name, his full name at that. Now he knew there was something serious going on between them. He only really started suspecting it a little bit ago but this just proved it.

     He brought his other hand back up to his cheek. His heart began to beat faster as he wondered what to say. How could he give voice to seemingly random thoughts without coming off as a creep? How would Luce react to him asking for one? Why did he want this with him? All these questions with no answer in sight and it frustrated him to the point of exasperation. He just had to go for it.

     “Luce, is it okay if I…” Red eyes peeked out from underneath crescent lashes as his eyes darted to his lips.

     Luce’s answer was letting out a breath he seemed to be holding in while closing his eyes once more. He was unsure of what that meant before he felt an arm bring him in closer by the waist. It gave him an idea but he needed to know.

     “Is that a yes?”

     “Yes.”

     Tilting his head up, he leaned in close and tried to stifle a shaky breath. This was it, the moment of truth. This could either make or break whatever he had with Luce so he needed to not regret this. With closed eyes and breaths mingling, he gently pressed his lips against his.

     His tongue traced over his lips, asking if he could go further. Luce tentatively parted his mouth and he took his time diving in. He didn’t want to scare him or feel like he was disregarding his boundaries. He may not know what his experiences with kissing were but he wanted this one to be good. Their mouths moved in slow unison, hands on his back and warmth settling into his core. He pulled away first, opening his eyes to see the other’s fond gaze.

     It wasn’t like other kisses he’d see on TV. It wasn’t intense, wasn’t very long, and it didn’t devolve into making out. Yet it felt good, it felt nice, it was just…a short and sweet kiss. He liked kissing Luce and it wasn’t nearly as bad as he thought it to be. His first kiss was with Luce, something he was admittedly happy with.

     Luce buried his head into his chest, arms wrapped loosely around his waist. He carded through his dark hair, playing with it and feeling the soft locks go through his fingers. No words were spoken between them, hearing only the sounds of their quiet breathing. They simply held each other, content to stay like this for however long they wanted.

     It was safe to say he wasn’t “friends” with Luce anymore. They were something else now, something he couldn’t put a word to. Dating wasn’t right and being in a relationship was too close. He knew he felt something with him but who’s to say it’ll still be there later? Who’s to say Luce wanted to be with him? He’s only a week sober, his emotions might still be jumbled up. Either way, this was a complicated mess of wants versus realism.

     He wanted to be with him, he surprisingly did. But a relationship just wasn’t feasible right now. He needed to focus on giving Amelia a better life, the future that was suddenly ripped away from him close to 5 years ago. She was his top priority and nothing would ever change that.

     Yet he knew she’d want him to be happy. So, maybe, by that logic, it’d be okay to pursue whatever this was with Luce. It’d be temporary, of course, but it meant he wouldn’t feel guilty for being selfish.

     “Hey, Luce? He felt a rumble against his chest. “You okay with…being whatever this is?”

     He turned his head to the side and replied, “Yeah. I don’t know what this is but yeah.”

     “You sure? It may not last long.”

     “I know and I’m positive. I’ll just enjoy the time I spend with you till then.”

     He let out a rare chuckle, his arms around his neck in an embrace. He knew of the circumstances surrounding his love life and he understood. If only the men who’d repeatedly ask him out at work did the same…

     This was a thing they had. Describing it as a relationship sounded too permanent and exclusive. It was an indefinite fling, something he planned on making the most out of while he still could. It may be a complicated mess but he didn’t care if people couldn’t understand it because it would work for him.

     “Is it okay if I stay for a little bit more?” he asked. “I know I’ve got Amelia waiting for me back home but I told her I’d be gone for a while so…”

     “Yeah, that’s fine,” he replied, his hold on him tightening as he brought him in even closer, his face in the crook of his neck.

     Playing with his hair once more, Ravi dropped down into his lap. He could get used to this. With this being his first foray into the world of romance, he was bound to stumble or even fuck up a couple times. They’d deal with those when they came up later down the road. For now, this was nice.

     “And Luce? I trust you.” He should’ve said it earlier but now was as good a time as any.

     “I figured as much.” His breath tickled the side of his neck and he could just see the smirk that annoyed him so.

     “Shut up.” Without the usual bite of his tone, the corners of his mouth turned up into an even rarer smile.

[starry-eyed-butch]

Tw: mental health, uh SH? I don’t know how to TW things without saying the thing. Just like, intrusive thoughts and depersonalization and dissociation and BPD and related things that can be violent? Or considered as such?

I don’t know how read more’s work on here so skip on through and hopefully it’ll auto shorten if ya don’t wanna see some shitty mental health stuff that might be violent/triggering/etc.

Oh look, it’s “this is finally the time I have a full on mental breakdown because my dissociation/depersonalization has been so bad the last 48 hours that it’s really not even safe for me to drive or be wielding a knife but I can’t explain it in a way that anyone cares about”. But I’m too poor to have a mental breakdown so I’ll just keep going to work on autopilot and hope I make it through again. Gets worse every time. It makes the self harm urges REAL BAD and I can physically nearly feel the relief of it. But then I gotta hide it from work and not even because it’d be considered “weird” but because they’d be like “honey I love you, what’s goin’ on” and I’d just not have a good time having THAT conversation because I don’t rightly know outside of the same shit that has been plaguing me under the ever growing list of new things. I just wanna hurt so badly. There’s all sorts of ways but I’m extremely particular so it’s never the same if I gotta switch it up. These are much less intrusive thoughts than now physical urges I have to try and ignore which is going really well. I’m so beyond exhausted but I’ll be up for work in 5 hours to open the store as the only manager until like 1 or some shit. I had a tiny taste of validation yesterday though. My coworkers and are a family and like, that’s always a weird ploy when show on tv but for us, it’s probably the only way we’re all still alive. Misfits wanting love, we all fit in those spots together. My coworker specifically stated she gets absent seizures when her dissociation is really bad but usually worse than my systems due to ticks she has from prior medication and for a second I almost cried because I’ve never gotten to talk to someone who told me that was a real thing and didn’t just look at me with pity but absolutely no comprehension.

Examples of these urges at the present:

Choke myself until I pass out. I’m into that floaty feeling, so that doesn’t help. Using my fingernails to tear open my wrist. I always have an array of tools and numbing cream I’ve bought. Not excluding hollow needles for bloodletting. I wish I was kidding. When they say BPD is truly dangerous and that the mortality rate is high— I promise you it is. I’ve been collecting scalpels, needles, blades for years. Whole kits. I bruised my ribs and had a physical bruise the size of a dinner plate from punching myself once. A close friend at the time got the truth of where it came from, repeatedly punching the same place over and over, and I won’t forget the sadness. Cutting into the same spot over and over. Using rubbing alcohol or whatever is around, even public hand sanitizer in the wounds. Burning with a lighter the same spot over and over and over. Brains are wild.

[troublesometome]

shit my class says

this is gonna be a long ass post

Please don’t sign my right tit.

I don’t want to read that Emancipation Constipation bullshit!

Does your movie have Hugh Jackman?

I’d ask Phillipa Soo to sign my left tit.

I was born with hair inside my mouth.

He’s rubbing his Jesus on me!

I can barely eat a sandwich in the morning, do you think I can eat pussy?

That’s what becoming a porn star entitles!

I’m not shoving my fursona up my ass.

It’s called the ketchup from my hand.

You just have to explain how 2+2=5!

My dog is my rug.

This tastes so black!

Finger Bangers!

I take 30 showers every millisecond.

Am I a Big Mac now?

How do I turn black?

So you cook your baby?

A B C DICK!

I’m gonna amputate my ass!

I have a body pillow of myself.

You’re the drug dealers on Sesame Street!

I’m part of the homo mafia, give me your pickle!

There’s sanitizer in my visionary devices!

Rat tat tootie.

Michelle Obama is my brother!

MJ’s dying of overheation!

There’s alligators and Republicans here.

They sell Gatorade that looks like cum.

How long to boil corn?

I went to preschool while I was still in the womb!

Does milk turn you gay?

What’s an indentured servant? Someone without teeth?

Why is my leg not attached to my body?

I’ve been McSprayed.

Have you ever fucked a gazelle?

What if I want to be a stripper?

Do Cheerios still exist?

If anyone’s gonna fuck me, it’s gonna be me!

I have 5 billion wives!

I will kick your ass in the throat!

Does anyone have cocaine?

My resting heart rate registers as a... panic attack.

I never wear pants.

Did I make the titties too big?

Furries are hot.

Does anyone want pussy bread?

One minus... big.

You’re a hoe!

Can I shave my nostrils?

I LOVE ALCOHOL!

Women condoms.

Ding dong my ding dong.

Don’t talk to me about lap dances.

I like dick, I’m a witch!

Here comes the big toe!

John Adams was one thicc bih.

Anybody want to wango my mango?

My tits are NATURALLY stone hard.

A neutron is negative!

I AM CHILD OBESITY.

I love how we started the day talking about nipples.

So you lose your virginity to toilet paper?

I’m not gonna stop thinking about turtle dicks now...

Touch me!

I don’t want to fuck Queen Elizabeth II.

That’s my belt, beat me with it.

You only rub it.

It’s not that thick, but it’s pretty thick. Anyway, it’s thick.

Justin, how big is your fucking ass?

IT’S BUSTING!

Are you swimming in pussy?

These Teletubbies are thicc!

I’ll buy you a McGriddle if you fuck me.

Now you can eat my nut.

Can we stop talking about men breastfeeding, please?

All I heard was “electric charges” and “my vagina.”

You need to know the best time to slide it in!

Can you stop fucking me??

I’ve been dead since I was born.

Motherfucker! Ooh, Lord excuse my good Christian mouth.

Iffy? More like Yiff Me.

You use banana as dildo.

Bitch, I’m magical!

It’s a dick joke, Mackenzie!

It’s a long frog.

Settle down, Skeletor.

Be More Dill!

Ow, I slapped my thigh really hard.

I go to Sunday every church.

Give me a titty tot!

I want Jesus to uppercut me in the dick!

Did you just call Barack Obama hot??

Can we stop discussing three foot long dicks?

Give me liberty or give me dick!

No taxation without represation. Represention?

Bitch, tell me what nut is!

Hey, I’m feeling pretty gay today!

I will not be crushed by that double D ass, whatever the fuck that was.

You know what I lost? My dignity.

Take my fucking finger!

I see a man over a man and I am done here.

I wanna touch the big nose!

Kill a Chinese man??

Hey Grace, are you a thot?

I have eleven fingers.

It has lobsters on wheels.

Horny Cory?

I want to take me knee socks and hang myself with them.

Two plus two equals two!

If you die, I will kill you.

STOP SUCKING.

My pancreas hurts.

It smells like Play-Doh, what kind of pussy are you smelling?

My dick broke!

I saw the purple lady.

Why would you want to fuck a 30 year old loser?

B is for BITCH!

Casually jacking off in class??

Did you fuck Satan?

He ATE weed!?

What are that?

So we have two communists and a Nazi.

Damn it, vegans can’t suck dick!

Are you calling Ms. Macholl a thot?

Jefferson was a macaroni making pedophile.

Hey, no pissing in the hallway!

What the fuck is this mechanical, Transformer ass pencil?

His nose is bigger than my ego.

He’s 200 years older than me.. my baby boy...

He used to be so crispy.

Big jug hot cheese!

I’m pretty sure I’ve called at least four U.S presidents daddy.

Mimes are just domesticated clowns!

WHERE ARE YOUR NIPPLES?

Did you just say you’re low-key attracted to Captain Crunch?

I would fuck George Washington.

Stop caressing the robot genitalia!

Catholicism... it was democracy.

I wanna fuck Robocop!

Before you make fun of me, consider this: Charlie’s fucking hot!

If furries want to be animals, we should be legally allowed to hunt them and eat them.

WHY THE FUCK ARE ALL THE CARS PURPLE?!

Spagoot.

It’s a penis, a penis, and a ghost!

Search up hentai, I don’t like it.

Ha, there’s 3 of you!

Sam Houston can suck my ass!

[thewineabout]

I’ll give you a light (When your hands tremble) Chapter 4

Notes: Everyone has been so nice to me thank you. You can find this fic with all the relevant tags and ratings on A03!

—————————————————————————————————-

There’s a watery wheeze from behind the wall; a sputter and rattle of pipes that makes Chris think Peter had been right about the availability of hot water. He feels like the noise of them has gotten louder but really it’s probably the pin-drop silence that’s landed with Stiles’ words.

It was a proposition. Chris knows as much, he isn’t stupid, but for once he doesn’t have the appropriate response. Prior to this he thought he’d had an instinct for every situation that stunned him.

“Listen kid,” Chris starts and he’s interrupted by how tight Stiles’ hand grips his knee; it slides up to the muscle above the joint and squeezes. “Stiles.”

There’s an unnatural stillness when Stiles lifts his eyes from Chris’s chest up to meet his gaze. It’s clear the careful tone tipped the boy off of the edge he’d poised himself on. 

“I’m an adult,” Stiles says like the anthem of all misguided youths. “Just, no, fuck you. I’m an adult. I don’t want to hear any demeaning bullshit about my life choices.”

“Tough shit,” Chris reaches for Stiles’ hand, that’s still on his leg, and pulls it off to hold up between them so he can keep the kid from slipping away on him. The urgency is clear in Stiles’ posture.

“Peter isn’t sentimental. He didn’t make you our problem because he feels any responsibility for some mess we used to know.” Chris sits up better on the bed and drops Stiles’ wrist which has been pulling away, fingers curled in a tight fist, since he grabbed it. “But, I know the things he won’t tolerate; what he kills about-- so I’m going to say you’re making some bad choices.”

“You-- Peter guts someone, and I’m the one making bad choices?” Stiles face scrunches and he flings his hands out, long fingers spread. “What kind of moral trash bin delusion are you living in?” 

Chris shrugs and it seems to frustrate Stiles further. The boy gets up off the bed, tucking his hands away into his hoodie pocket to fiddle with something that rotates flat edged against the fabric between the outline of Stiles’ knuckles. 

“That’s fucked,” Stiles emphasizes, but his voice is quiet, nose wrinkling at the upturn. He lifts his hands and rubs at his face, fingertips sharp under his eyes a moment, blanching the dark circles.

The lamp beside them flickers. Stiles’ doesn’t acknowledge the blink of darkness but Chris wonders about the durability of the electrical in a place this ramshackle. He wonders how often they have to throw the breakers in the middle of the night. 

Silence creeps up on them again, just the noises of the motel around them breaking it up, tension starts to spool between them. Chris can see it in Stiles’ shoulders and feels the ache between his own. 

“You want to clean up your face?” Chris asks as he sighs, deep, the kind that reminds him too much of parenting and late nights feeling out of his depth; he always had been. 

The hunter in him gets his hands busy, knuckles cracking at the thumb on his right as he grabs for a duffel bag to drag nearer to his hip. “Sit down, Stiles.” 

There’s a moment that Chris thinks Stiles is going to head for the door instead, but the kid sits slowly. Further away from him so he’s in line with Chris’s shins instead of his hips. The distance feels safer. 

“Wouldn’t want to infect the money maker,” Stiles says and it’s barely a joke, his voice is too tight, body too curled in. 

Chris unzips the duffel, his fingers brush over the muddy orange bleach stain as he peels back to the top to get the worn out first aid kit. It’s classic red, the white cross peeling off the front in crackles at a time. A flake of the plasticy paint dusts off onto the bed cover as Chris opens it up and rumages. Stiles shifts where he sits, bringing a knee up so he’s twisted to face Chris. The way he stares feels physical and Chris has to work to ignore him as he takes out a few BZK wipes and hand sanitizer. “You want to-”

“No,” Stiles cuts him off softly, and Chris doesn’t understand the expression on his face but the way he leans forward is unsettling. Vulnerable. Stiles looks vulnerable with his lips parted and his body leaned far enough forward that it wouldn’t take any effort to unsettle his balance. “You do it,” Stiles adds. 

Hand sanitizer perfumes the space between them with sharp alcohol that stings the sinuses and the little cuts Chris didn’t know he had. The webbing between his middle and ring still burns as he shakes them out to dry before he slips on a pair of nitrile gloves that cling to the damp parts of his skin.

“Hold still,” Chris says as he picks up a wipe packet. When he looks up Stiles’ mouth has curved a bit, eyes down on the way he rips the foil, and Chris isn’t oblivious to the jokes the kid is thinking about. 

It seems fortunate that he can’t talk while Chris cleans the blood off his chin, a thin trickle that’s smeared more than dried. Chris’s hands are careful; one propping Stiles’ face with two fingers against his jaw, the other dabbing the antiseptic along the seam of the wound. The edges are a little ragged, like Stiles was biting at it during the car ride. 

Stiles hands are the only thing fidgeting, twisting and untwisting in his sleeves before they rest against Chris’s leg again. He’s wrapping around Chris’s shin and squeezing when the friction of the wipe stings him. The antiseptic shouldn’t feel anything but cold, so it’s touching the split that makes his breath catch. 

Chris thinks he should have made the kid do it himself when he can see the way Stiles’ breathes, the way he doesn’t flinch when he wants to, and the way his eyelids have slid a little lower. Peter is shameless so Chris has become very aware of when he’s being seduced. He’s got enough practice to ignore the touch, the gaze and the proximity; focusing on the task at hand until Stiles’ lip is cleaned. 

Stripping the gloves off with a rubbery squeak and crumple, Chris leans back and shakes his leg free from Stiles’ grip as he moves to stand up. He tosses the garbage and sanitizes his hands again while he looks at the window.

There’s black mildew lining the damp edge of the metal framing the glass, Chris wonders if the smell of it will bother Peter. Though, really, it probably isn’t near the worst odor in the room. 

“This stuff tastes like shit,” Stiles’ complains where he’s flopped backwards with his head up on a bag and his hands back into his pocket.

“Don’t lick it,” Chris says, restraining an eye roll, as he hears the thud of the water shutting off in the other room. 

Stiles huffs and looks over Chris again before he shimmies on the bed to adjust the way the mattress edge is digging into the back of his knees.

“What are you guys doing -- I was going to say out here, but the where part isn’t what’s, you know, really weird? What are you and Peter Hale doing on a road trip. A shitty one.” Stiles’ face scrunches and his hands are moving animatedly above him. “You guys had so much laundry in the back. And no offence but you both kinda look,” Stiles trails off as he looks over Chris, catching on the short beard. 

Chris raises a hand to try and stopper the speech, tension pinching between his brows sharply enough that he presses his thumb against it. As much as he didn’t want to hear about Stiles situation, he was even less interested in talking about his own. 

“We haven’t stopped in a while,” Chris admits with a flat expression he hopes signals he doesn’t want to chat about his life. “Do you want to take a shower?” 

The door to the bathroom was never closed; the sound of Peter toweling off and rummaging is clear through the room. There’s a short pause before a buzz echoes and sharply draws Chris’s attention. Peter’s been scruffy for a few weeks, artfully, he’d argue, but still a lot fuller in the facial hair than when they weren’t steady on the road. 

When the wolf comes back, towel around his hips, clothes slung over his arm, phone in hand, hair wet and curling, he’s stubbled. It’s startling enough that Chris feels his mouth pull into a frown that’s more amused than his smile could express.

“Yeah,” Stiles mumbles, sitting up now that Peter’s in the room, looking both more wary and more interested. “I’ll shower. Do you have a shirt I could borrow? This one’s a little --” He lifts the collar of his sweater to shove his nose underneath. 

“Lived in,” Peter finishes for him with distaste in his voice as he moves to the side of the bed Stiles isn’t sitting on to rummage for the fresh clothes he hadn’t had a chance to get into at the rest stop. 

Stiles scowls as he stands back up and loiters near the end of the bed while Chris comes over to fish out a shirt from his own supply. The fabric is soft and worn, Stiles latches onto it when Chris holds it out, and there’s a brief look of surprise on his face as he touches the material more thoughtfully on his way into the bathroom. 

“What are you thinking?” Chris asks Peter when the bathroom door clicks shut and they’re alone.

Peter looks over as he slips his shirt back on and starts moving the bags to the shakey looking table that is already crowded with a spiral corded phone and lamp missing its bulb. “Something happened in Beacon Hills,” Peter starts and there’s a visible weight being added to his shoulders. 

The wolf looks exhausted and Chris shares the strange pressure that settles and drags in his belly. It had been a good couple of years; nothing pulling them back to their hometown and reminding them how entwined they were with a place that diseased. 

“Do we have to go back?” 

The silence from Peter is enough of an answer for Chris.