Six Feet Under | Sterek

five;

"You're not leaving," Derek says when Stiles tries to haul his stuff back out to the Jeep. The werewolf stops him easily. "Stiles."

Stiles shakes his head, refusing to look up. "I can't stay here. That's not fair on you and Peter."

Derek sighs, long and low, and guilt stabs through Stiles. He wraps his arms around his waist. (He feels sick). He knows he can't stay. Derek's never been his friend before, despite their mutual understandings. Derek doesn't need to babysit a teenager. Derek doesn't need some weak, broken boy dragging him down.

That's all Stiles does. Drag people down.

"I can stay with Scott," Stiles says quietly, and there's a lump in his throat that gets bigger when Derek's pretty, pretty eyes grow stony and cold. "Derek-"

The werewolf shakes his head, lets go, steps back. (He's giving up). Stiles picks up his bags, bites his lip. He wants to say something, wants Derek to understand, but he can't make his voice work and he doesn't think Derek will listen anyway.

He walks past the werewolf and pretends his heart isn't breaking at the slump of Derek's shoulders. "I'm sorry," he whispers as he walks away. Derek will hear him, Stiles knows he will, but Derek doesn't call after him. (Stiles is too tired to be disappointed).

Surprisingly, Peter doesn't appear until Stiles is in the car. He doesn't say anything, just gives Stiles a soft look, tinged with sadness and understanding. Stiles nods back, that lump in his throat getting painful, and starts the car. Peter steps back, lifts a hand.

Stiles waits until he's far, far away from the loft before he lets out a shaky curse.

He drives for a while, the silence in the car settling on his skin. He feels itchy all over, and his skin feels tight over his bones. He feels like he can't breathe properly, like the cage that is his body is getting smaller and squashing what's left of his soul. This must be his punishment, he thinks dizzily. This self-suffocation. He's drowning in the truth of who he is. (A liar, a monster, a wreck).

Stiles pulls the car over and throws up on the grass.

His body shakes, and Stiles has the urge to start crying again but he doesn't because he doesn't cry the way Scott cries. He doesn't cry easily, or ugly, or loudly. Stiles doesn't like to cry. Crying hadn't done anything to stop his mom from dying. Crying hadn't done anything to deter the nightmares.

Stiles doesn't like crying, so he gets up off his hands and knees, gets back in the car, and starts driving again.

The itch is gone now, but his skin still feels tight, like he's bigger than his body. He's not, but it feels like he is. (Being alive is a punishment).

He drives to Scott's house, like he said he would,  it he doesn't go in. Maybe that makes him a coward, but Stiles can't face Melissa. He can't bear to see the disappointment on her face, or the soft pity, or the love. He doesn't deserve her. She deserved better.

He thinks, maybe, about just seeing Scott. He yearns for their once-close friendship. He aches for the time that they had been brothers in everything but blood. Scott doesn't act like that anymore. Stiles knows it's his fault.

So he stays in the car and stares at the house until his skin feels looser, and then he drives away.

When he pulls up at a stop sign, he hears the chink of glass, and finds a bottle of whiskey rolling around on the passenger side floor. He picks it up, gets rid of the cap, and starts drinking like it's the last day in earth.

The alcohol settles into his bloodstream, and it's hot and heavy and familiar. Stiles relishes it, welcomes it, urges it to take away his stupid human feelings and render him useless and silly and uncaring. It obliges, and Stiles revels in the purging of his emotions. He drives around with his fingers tapping on the steering wheel, (there's no song playing so he makes his own), and the windows down.

It's all fun and games until the red and blue lights start up behind him, and then Stiles crashes back to earth.

"Hello," He drawls to the officer who winds down his window. "Mandy! I didn't know you did patrols."

Mandy gives him a hard look. "Your dad isn't gonna be happy about this, Stiles," she warns.

Stiles snorts bitterly because his dad is never happy with him. He proceeds to tell Mandy just that, along with an angry statement about, "always disappointing the people he loves." (He doesn't mention Derek).

Mandy's face remains blank and professional, not a hint of sympathy or pity, and Stiles thinks he may just love her for that alone. As it is, he doesn't out up a fight as she ushers him into the cruiser and calls for someone to come collect his Jeep. He lets his head fall against the headrest and just stares at the window and wonders how far he'll get if he leaves town.

Would anyone chase after him?

Nah, Stiles decides, watching the trees go by. Nobody would even care that I'd gone.