Darkened

There has never been much difference between the disgusting and the beautiful, because the absence of one begets the other. Evil, on the other hand, had both sides. Stunningly vile, hatefully attractive. Poisonous colors shading another's mind, awakening thirst, interest, and fear that the plant would take root, leave you bloodless, eat flesh to dry bottom. The creature opposite was completely dried up, vacant to the point of numbness. Peter saw in it none of the traits common to ancient and dark spirits, one solid nothingness feeding on its own parasites. Squeezed out, cracked, destroyed. Stiles was truly empty. -Tribute? Peter thought he could see the torn flesh of teeth on his pale forearms. Habitual blood matted screeds ring his wrists. Does he pity others if he doesn't pity himself? Hale swallows. In the darkened room, there is no other's gaze, only bottomless eye sockets brimming with twilight blackness. He is certain that this is what the final instance of destruction looks like. -Tribute. Self-destruction. Stilinski hums thoughtfully, throws his head back, and laughs a little heartily. The ex-Alpha hears a nasty croak, countless insect paws climbing through his ears and down his throat, sneaking beneath the gnawed flesh of his sharp teeth. He almost vomits, but he only smiles, stretching the pointed tips of his pink lips. It's evil is not attractive, but it still inspires an almost feral disgust. -You still haven't come to your senses? What century do you think this is? Eighteenth? Peter looks expressively paternal, smug, ready to offer something the other can never refuse. Nogitsune only grins crookedly at this, the ink-holes of his eyes moving from the ceiling to his own hands, clinging to the blurred silhouettes of his fingers. -Did you receive tribute in the eighteenth century? Hale scratches lightly at his skin with his claws, his nerves pulled for some reason, the taut fishing line tugging at his heart, making it quiver. He responds with irony to sarcasm, grasping for useless courage and even more pointless conviction in his actions. Was it worth it to address the millennial evil on a "you"? Stilinski bites down on the nail of his thumb, his invisible gaze scanning the space. He speaks as if the void in front of him is still, torn by the twitchy silence in the gaps between breathing and when no one is breathing. His voice is not mocking, not cold, not nostalgic. It's just like the rest of Stiles's-absolutely none. -At least back then he wasn't so irritated and frustrated and didn't do so many stupid things. Hale feels lost because he doesn't understand anything, because he doesn't know anything. For a moment he feels like space is bending, confusing, eating away at his sense of balance and sense of his own existence. The air disappears from his lungs, the smooth surface of sanded and varnished wood from under his hands. Why did he come here in the first place? The stranger's arrhythmia is confusing, the sickening wheezes quieting and then screaming again, disrupting the composition of the exposed beats. In these hands, a metronome would have gone mad long ago. Nogitsune pulls his fingers away from his mouth, slides them over the rim of the cup, as if it could distract him from what once was, bring him back to a quiet reality where there is only black and green tea. Just the wolf and the fox. -So what do you want from me? A fox who can't stay indebted to silly old traditions turned to dust by inescapable laws. The wolf's smile does not press, the hysteria extinguishes in his periphery, bringing back the abandoned sensations. He picks up the set aside cup, takes a sip of the still hot tea, keeping his lips curved on the pale face. -Kill Derek. The curve doesn't change. At all. Peter squints his eyes, clawing irritably at the porcelain wall with his teeth. Stiles exhales tiredly and rests his chin on his palm, leaning forward and peering out of the darkness at the barely flickering gap. -Peter, that's called a deal. Hale stumbles into eyes as if carved from melted amber, the uncooled resin glowing dimly over the fire, and a shiver runs through him. Evil deadened by the body can't have such beautiful eyes. -It's kind of funny, what's wrong with your blue? Isn't it deeper and more emotional than the repulsive red? Peter was wrong. -It's up to you, of course, what you want to be,- the warmth of the bright but languid iris was a beacon in space, -a sinner with or without guilt. The evil before him was unbearably repulsive as much as it was unbearably attractive. -I accept indefinitely. After all, the process is to be enjoyed. Peter was wrong. The evil in front of him was not dried up. Stiles smiles, fingers smearing green tea over his lips. The wolf's fingers, on the other hand, trembled, creating restless dark waves with the vibrations. Evil was hungry. -Then until then, your tribute to me will be yourself, won't it? Hale jerked, shattering the cup into numerous shards in which his reflection blackened with poisonous colors. Stilinski stares sadly at the floor. -No, I... -Why do I need someone else, Peter? Aren't you perfect? Hale feels a chill run down his spine, his heart threatens to go crazy, he wants to run away, but his legs have somehow become cotton pillars, willing to crumble under the unbearable weight of his bones. Hale stares at the tattered cup, feels the bitter tang of the brew on his tongue. Aconite. How stupid. What made him think he could even negotiate with this monster on his own terms? Peter smiles. Even if he does, Derek is still going to die. In order to become an Alpha again, something has to be sacrificed. A liter of his own blood, two of someone else's. He sees two dim amber lights in the semi-darkness, and with a sixth sense he's convinced he's done the right thing. Stiles frowns, folding his arms across his chest. -Hurry up and knock out, dad should be here soon, and I have to clean up after you. Peter laughs lightly. Blackness greets him.

***

He looks at the wall and sees nothing in it. Cream wallpaper, a couple of old photographs in wooden frames with dusty panes. There's no one across from him. Who should be there? Scott grasps his hair irritably, rests his forehead against his palms. He feels nauseous, someone is pulling threads from his temples, trying to weave out awareness and bringing only an unpleasant tingling pain. His cheeks are wet with just a couple annoying tracks of tears. There's no reason for all this. Then why does he feel betrayed? McCall whimpered exasperatedly, rubbing his face fiercely. A burning sensation lodged under his fingernails and eyelids, his gums itching uncontrollably. He jumps up, opens the freezer, pulls out a bucket of ice cream. Vanilla ice cream with caramel and walnuts. Scott learned this week that that's exactly what Stiles likes. What else does he like? Pain. He slams the door shut, rips off the plastic lid, turns the evenness to mush. A sweet chill hits his entire body, making the irritation slowly recede. Had Stiles betrayed him? They just parted ways near the school yesterday, promising to meet on Monday. Somehow Alpha knows that's how it's going to be, that his friend will show up, put his arm around his shoulder and lead him to class, telling him some stupid stories from his life. A thousand fucking years of his life. McCall digs into his spoon, scraping it with his fangs. He's driven mad by the absurdity of it all. Ice-cold vapor comes from the ice cream, freezing shadows making him come to his senses. Nuts scratch the wounded inside of his mouth, soft husks slide down his throat. Scott admits to himself that he's just been used. He stares at the caramel heavy molasses sliding between the white frosted hills and remembers the joyful eyes. Was he to Stiles what this ice cream was to him? Alpha presses his lips together, slams the lid shut and tosses the unfinished pail into the trash, tossing the soiled spoon into the sink. He thinks back to Lydia, looks at his hands gripping the edge of the countertop. Could a dark spirit, a spirit of chaos, destruction, and pain restrain itself for the sake of simple companionship with high school students? Scott repeats the question aloud and laughs unfunnily. Perhaps for Lydia, this relationship is comparable to a drug addiction. Silence for her is an escape, a dim escape from her second self, from the silent Banshee who has been silent all her life. McCall realizes this, but thinks it's wrong. It's not worth being put in danger for something like this, not worth fearing every second for the sake of supposed freedom. Scott doesn't want his friends to be used. He pulls his cell phone out of his back pocket, digs through his contacts, taps the screen like his whole life has been a series of stupid and naive mistakes. -Derek, I think I can help you. Alpha grits his teeth and looks around the living room, which has become forever lonely. He'll meet Stiles again on Monday, and he'll put his arm around his shoulder again, telling ridiculous stories as they walk to their class. But Scott will no longer be a friend to Stiles, and Stiles will no longer be a friend to Scott. Just a wolf and a fox. McCall doesn't like the taste of betrayal, the taste of caramel and walnut ice cream. -Yeah, I can handle it. Alpha hides in his own doghouse, confusing emotions and facts. He doesn't feel at all like answering the almost rhetorical question buried among tons of dirt: is there a difference between untold secrets and betrayal? He drops the call, throwing the phone on the table. Floating in the same ton of dirt is an answer blurred from heavy concentration with smirking zigzags of letters: you didn't tell him you were a werewolf yourself, did you? Scott looks tired, lost, and broken. He stares blankly at the empty chair beside him. Today is the first time Scott McCall has been betrayed.