I'm (Not) Giving Up On You

Pieces of Me and You

Stiles ruffled his hair with his towel. Small droplets of water fell from his bangs on to his cheeks. He wiped them away with his hand. His dark grey sweatpants hung loosely off his hips. He moved the towel across his bare chest and draped it around his neck. From the bathroom, he made his way to the kitchen. The fridge opened with a small hiss as the seal of the door was opened. Stiles reached in and pulled out a bottle of milk. He twisted the top off and took a swig from it. Ever since he was little he had loved milk. Even though his motivation for drinking it as a child was to grow big and strong, he didn't mind his moderate height. It was also a bonus that he'd never broken a bone before—even with all the supernatural rough housing in his life.

The bottle tapped against the small table next to Stiles' bed when he put it down. He walked over to the desk in his bedroom. His laptop was open to whatever he had last been researching for a paper. His cursor moved to minimize the page and hibernate the machine before gently closing it. Then he turned and gazed at the chessboard on the corner of his desk. He had taken up the game once again as a way to clear his mind and calm himself. So he usually played a few moves before going to bed just to round out the day. Surveying the board, he looked at all the possible moves. He moved the white knight to defend and then moved a black pawn two spaces forward. This was not going to end well for black so he shook his head and walked over to his bed.

Stiles picked up the bottle of milk as he sat on the edge of the bed. He rolled it between his palms as his mind wandered. After a moment of useless thought, he shook his head and finished off the milk in the bottle. The bottle clattered against the walls of the trashcan next to his bed. He swung his legs up and stretched across the bed. His arm reached out and turned the knob that turned off the lamp. Darkness enveloped him, save the silver moonlight streaking in from between the blinds. He turned his head and stared at the lit window. It was nearly the full moon. Stiles swallowed down the lump in his throat and ignored the little flip his stomach did.

The full moon didn't mean anything to him.

Not anymore.

He flopped on to his stomach and pressed his face in to his pillow. But even in that position, it was as if the moon couldn't have been brighter. He squeezed his eyes shut and forced his mind to clear. Sleep didn't come easily to Stiles that night.

-

Stiles' mouth opened wide in a long yawn. His sleep had been less than restful and he'd woken up frequently. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept so terribly. But now it was another day and Stiles had things to do—mainly laundry. His apartment building didn't have a laundry room so he went down the road a few minutes to the laundromat. It was spectacular because the building was actually just across the street from the public library. He could do laundry and homework at the same time. Every college kid's dream, he would say.

After gathering up his laundry in to their respective bags—lights, darks, thicks—he gathered his school things. Currently he was doing research for a project in his folklore class. He had to look at one piece of folklore or myth that was found in different cultures around the world and explore their differences and how the aspects could have migrated among the cultures. Even with all of the supernatural knowledge and experience at his fingertips, he had gone for the werewolf. Call him a sap, but he felt the closest to the creatures and always took every opportunity to represent them. He went over to his desk and grabbed a few books he needed to return, a notebook and his pencil case, and slid his laptop in to its case. His eyes slid over the chessboard and he paused. He couldn't be sure, but he thought that one of the black rooks had moved. He searched his brain to remember moving the piece, but he couldn't place that information. No matter. With a shrug he countered the movement and began to move to capture one of the black bishops.
The door shut behind him with a soft click when he left for the day.