Chapter Six
July 5, 2025 at 10:39 AM
The spells of the moment have completely shattered.
A breeze carries their shreds away, making them waft and then—disappear. Revealing the view of a giant stump.
Scott is able to make a move again, taking a step forward and breaking the weird mood that has settled in the air. This causes Stiles to follow suit with his bold act. The two friends come closer to the massive stump, which is all that remains of what was the tallest and greatest tree ever. They very slowly go around the stump. The boys try to imagine the stump’s size when it was whole and unharmed.
Looking at the former tree, some distant emotions cover the boy with tea-colored eyes. Stiles suddenly sympathizes with the creature of nature that came under the hands of bad people, who apparently had the intent to cut it down for some crazy reason and left only a small reminder of its former glory—of what it once was. It's somehow too violent, Stiles thinks. He can’t help but think about how painful the process was for this poor being...
“What the hell is this, dude...” Scott, who’s grabbed his inhaler for the first time today, all but whispers his surprisingly coherent words as he goes for a second round and goes around the stump again.
A sharp sucking breath of air splits the space.
Scott’s comment snaps Stiles back to the present, tearing him away from his muse that carries nothing kind or good; the damage is already done. Shaking off the haze, the brown-eyed boy steels his bravery and makes himself already step forward or at least take a glance with a better view. For some reason, he can feel something within him tremble—the boy isn’t sure if it is because of some thrill or because of unexplained fear that has no reason to exist. The boy can’t tell right now; when he looks straight at the smooth wood surface, it’s as if he looks not at the stump itself but at a thing he knows and has seen somewhere else, something similar and slightly different at the same time. Stiles just can’t place it. A stray thought chases him—a blur of an impression of his invisible being—Void.
The clearing, the trees around, the stump in the middle...
And yet, as he reaches out to brush a circle, which is a bit darker than the cut, curved and uneven, the boy feels that the trembling thing inside of him tries to shake itself apart due to an electric sensation following his light touch. It’s a weird feeling, sharp, unfamiliar, and so ethereal that it seems to him like it has never happened—just nerves. Though he can’t shake off the feeling that there’s something more about the old stump than just this and the strange place where it stands, deceptively peacefully. Stiles shudders; Scott notices this and, frowning, comes to him to find out what it is.
"Are you okay?" he asks with a tilt of concern in his quiet voice.
The boy drags his glazed eyes over the surroundings until they catch the profile of his friend’s face, who has put both his hands on the stump and examines it carefully. Then he nudges his elbow at the boy’s side when Stiles doesn’t answer.
"Sure," Stiles says flatly, but it seems like Scott is now more interested in studying the mostly dry cross-section of the stump, whereas the brown-haired boy studies it from the inside-out.
And he can’t help his emotions—no, not his; they are not normal; he shouldn’t feel this way—at that point, as if they have their own willpower, wishing to take over. The boy feels an irrational flash of anger at this moment; how do they dare to treat it like that? So disrespectfully, so carelessly, so frivolously. How do they dare to count it for a usual stump? Where's their awe and proper attitude towards this grand and accented thing?
Once his blood starts almost sizzling at the acidic thoughts, incomprehensible and not normal, he forces himself to take a deep breath, to calm down mentally, to drown the flame. It’s unexpectedly too overwhelming that the boy has even gotten sweaty, as if there’s really a fire burning near him, blazing and high. It’s the only thing—it ignites everything inside of him. It takes several lingering moments for him to cool down; his hands are resting on the old stump, his head is tilted down, and his eyes are closed.
"Dude, I don’t think you’re fine," his friend carefully notes Stiles’ condition, then claps his hand on the boy’s back. "What is it?"
Taking a couple of breaths in, Stiles turns his head to Scott and focuses his vision on his frowning face before uttering his uncertain answer.
"I’m fine. I was just very warm, that’s it."
He understands his words sound stupid and unconvincing, but it’s also not a lie because he really feels like a sheer flame that is ready to blaze within him. Scott trails his eyes over the boy, trying to assure himself that Stiles is alright and there’s nothing to worry about, that they can continue their studying in the clearing, while the brown-haired boy straightens and sighs in relief. He forces a smile out from himself to show he’s okay now, looking away to watch the way the tips of the trees sway back and forth, slowly and quietly.
"Doesn’t it seem to you like this stump has something more than just bark and a physical shell?" An unbidden thought gains its own will and breaks free to give voice to itself. Stiles immediately darts his gaze at Scott, becoming more nervous, only to see raised brows and a focused look on his friend’s face. Though it’s trained on the dark circles, his finger traces the thin line as he hums lowly.
"What do you mean? Something underneath it? Like a hidden place?" Scott clarifies with a confused note.
Stiles can only shrug, lifting his shoulders all the way up to his ears, having no idea how to describe his inner sense about the whole matter. He doesn’t have more time before his friend voices his own thoughts.
"It seems to me like it’s not just an old stump," Scott starts distantly, not looking at Stiles or at any other spot but the light wood. "Like this place is not what it pretends to be," he sounds Stiles’ own feelings towards the clearing and the stump itself, and isn’t it creepy?
Scott shifts his widely open eyes to glance at the brown-haired boy, perhaps to make sure that he’s not the only one who feels the same way. But Stiles can understand him since he can even hear the feeling crawl under his skin, clutch to his heart, and squeeze it tightly, hard. He guesses it wishes to tell him something, say something important, but he doesn’t have enough details to gather a full picture to understand completely. For some unusual reason, the brown-eyed boy finds himself diving into disappointment at realizing that he is useless here, that he can’t help here, can’t— just can’t.
Still, he nods in agreement at Scott’s weird words and then falls into irritation after a frustrated thought because he wants to figure out what it is that pushes him to think this way. To distract himself and his friend from this strange circumstance, the boy with tea-colored eyes squats down to examine more closely the dry ground and thick, powerful roots, brushing the moss with his pads. Scott, in turn, climbs onto the stump, walks all over it, and even runs in circles — that’s how large and wide the stump is.
Taking a look around at the interweaving roots, big and small, thick and thin, Stiles reaches down to touch the soil, prodding it and tracing his hand further. He moves, shifting his feet just like a goose, slowly circling the former tree while looking over the ground. Grass grows everywhere; its blades look proudly upward and sway gently in the light, rare breeze. It’s like a carpet—very endless and very soft, with a long pile. Not immediately, but he spots something that stands out in this place, and right next to the biggest root: a seemingly odd bump, unnatural to him, as if it was made intentionally by someone. As if someone dug a small hole, placed an unknown object inside, and buried it—leaving it here either on purpose or by accident. The boy is about to dig it up with just his bare hands when his friend suddenly speaks up. His voice feels like the loudest thing in the dead silence of this fairy-tale place.
"The sun will go down soon; we should hurry up, or our path is gonna be totally dark," Scott warns, and the hairs on Stiles’ body rise uncomfortably at the emphasis. Even though Scott didn’t mean anything by it, Stiles swallows thickly all the same, forgetting about everything else—even the two flashlights lying in his backpack. But only until Scott jumps down from the stump and sets his pack on it, taking out his own flashlight. "Here it is. Let’s explore as much as we can, then go back."
Feverishly looking into the sky, Stiles flies up from where he was sitting—and only now sees the flash in his friend’s hands. Being overwhelmed by a short surge of damn panic, Stiles can’t right away encourage his brain to work and finally remember the insides of his own backpack. Meanwhile, Scott is already going around the clearing, searching for something unusual, curious, or maybe not very dangerous, waving his free hand to invite Stiles to join instead of standing there foolishly. The brown-eyed boy shakes his head to get rid of the pressing feeling in his skull and opens the pack to find his flashlight in its seemingly bottomless depths.
A minute later, he joins his friend, who’s pacing back and forth, gasping a little bit. After about ten more minutes of hard studying, the two boys come to the conclusion that the clearing differs from all the others they have seen before only in how fantastically beautiful it looks—in its calm (extremely calm) and almost quiet (except for the rarely flying-past birds and the whisper of the light wind) atmosphere. Oh, well, and there are so many little flowers and all kinds of grass and herbs; despite the winter weather, they grow steadily and bloom without a care in the world.
Maybe there’s something special about the place itself, the brown-haired boy thinks as he stares at a blue flower, unknown to him standing alone among the emerald grass, but it’s somewhat unique. Or a stray thought crosses his head—maybe it’s something about the stump itself. Maybe it really isn’t an ordinary old stump, but something mysterious that keeps the clearing in that alive state.
At the same moment the thought surfaces, a thrill is born deep within Stiles, inducing goosebumps that eerily run down his spine. Whether it’s bad ones or just anticipation boiling inside his veins, he can’t tell yet, but for some reason, it’s still nice, exciting. Stiles decides to move on to the next spot, but his friend, standing in the opposite direction, shouts to him that there’s nothing worth seeing here and that they can leave. The brown-haired boy thinks to himself that they’re not done here yet—that there’s still a lot of work for them. Yet time alerts them about their limits for the day. Scanning the sky through the tips of the surrounding trees, Stiles swallows once more and shouts back, warning Scott that he’s coming.
Despite his own words, Stiles feels like he doesn’t want to leave. Feels like he wants to stay here a little bit longer.
He can’t help but look back one last time at the bizarre stump, feeling an unexplained pulling radiating out from the thing, before the two friends go out of the wonderful clearing, leaving it and the old tree to their solitude. Stiles thinks the silent place has been untouched for many years after the cutting down of the solid tree. He wonders what the main reason for this was—if it did deserve such a... violent sentence. After all, it probably stood here, not interfering with anyone, just as it does now.
"Such a shame we don’t have more time," Scott complains from behind his shakes his inhaler before taking a deep breath, startling Stiles a little with his loud (honestly, not as loud as it seems given the unfamiliar quietness) voice. Very likely, his friend notices this, because his next words carry a hint of concern: "You’re somewhat twitchy today..."
Stiles wouldn’t like to talk about his mood or behalf, or his state right here and now—not because he’s ashamed to seem strange in front of his best friend, nor because of his feelings towards this place and everything connected to it. No, he’s not afraid to share his thoughts with Scott. It’s just that Stiles somehow suspects that Scott has already forgotten what he said earlier—that’s why the boy isn’t sure if he should tell the whole truth. The boy deeply sighs.
"It’s just getting dark here," he confesses finally, causing his friend’s face to soften with understanding and a little sympathetic expression. Scott doesn’t get any chance to say anything before Stiles breaks in again. "As sad as it is, we need to get home before our parents find out we aren’t playing games at your place."
The brown-eyed boy points his flashlight down the corridor of bushes, and Scott pulls out his notebook from seemingly nowhere like a real conjurer before leading Stiles onward. The boy checks his watch, pleased to see they still have plenty of time. Although they could use a little hurry-up. The way back seems to be even shorter and easier than the whole path—especially with Scott’s idea to write down every conspicuous spot. Not paying attention to the fact that it’s getting harder to see this or that special place, they manage this kind of challenge very well. Besides, the two straight, bright white beams from their flashlights illuminate the paths just like true streetlights as the boys walk, gradually cutting through the tangled mess of the forest.
They go past the areas where there were no eye-catching spots, so the boys had to leave a mark—a simple scratch on bark made with Scott’s pocketknife, which he apparently has brought in the back pocket of his backpack. That's why Stiles and Scott do their best not to skip any of the marks they’ve made and eventually not to get missed here, searching for the scratch with sharp, focused gazes. Stiles thinks they could use night vision now, and he tells his friend about this, who just chuckles at this comment but admits that it really wouldn’t hurt. They never stop checking their phones, worried they might have missed a call. But every time one of the boys takes a glance at the screen, they’re assured that no one has called and all is well, allowing them to continue their retreat with peace of mind.
They stop to quickly eat their leftover food and drink a little, while their nonstop talking doesn’t wish to finish pouring and pouring, so the preserve is honored to get filled with quiet and hissing whispering for the evening. By the time the two friends begin to get closer to halfway through the entire path, it’s become absolutely dark, but looking at their watches, they realize they still have time to spare. Scott erases all places they have already passed from his notebook in order to avoid confusion. Stiles tells him that it’s the best and smartest idea Scott’s ever come up with and Stiles has ever heard from Scott. Scott just rolls his eyes heavily, and Stiles giggles silently.
They pass one rock that has an interesting diamond-shaped form. It was discovered by Scott, who, bored as hell, had been kicking every rock in his path to entertain himself—basically, that’s how he stumbled upon it.
Finally, they reach the eerie tree, which Stiles dubbed their beacon, with five long scratches that were there before their arrival. This means the boys have come to the nice, small thicket, which means they will soon get to normal paths. It can’t help but make both Stiles and Scott glad, as it will be so much easier to walk out of the preserve toward the green sign without having to scrutinize every detail of the surroundings.
"Hm, it’s so much drier here than anywhere else we’ve been," Scott remarks to Stiles, though his voice sounds slightly uncertain, as if he doesn’t quite believe in what he’s saying.
Stiles lifts his shoulders a little, holding them that way for a few seconds before they slump back down. While his friend sinks deeper into his own spiral, Stiles focuses his undivided attention on a flower right at his feet. A little blue flower nestled among the pale green grass. It's wilted; its petals, dry and faded from most of their original color, its bloom is lowered down, facing the soil and the graceful stripes of the other plants growing alongside it. The brown-eyed boy stares extremely intently, trying to recall something at least the tiniest bit similar to herbs he might have seen before. But all he can bring to mind are the plants on the kitchen counter and some flowers in the living rooms at his and Scott’s houses. For some reason, Stiles can’t place anything like this here in the preserve, as they’ve been walking through the forest. To him, this flower feels lonely—and even more than that, forgotten.
And not forgotten by everyone, or anything like that. No. It's simply... forgotten.
"Has everything totally dried out while we walked, or is it just for me?" Scott doesn’t finish speaking his mind, seeming to talk more to himself than to Stiles at this moment, as though he can’t hold it in. "Look at the bark," he says, touching a tree, "it’s barely damp! But... I supposed that we were in even drier places... As if we’d been in the forest far longer than we think—"
The brown-haired boy tilts his head slightly in his friend’s direction, not ripping his eyes off the withered flower and absolutely ignoring Scott’s comments. Like in a trance, Stiles crouches down before the forgotten bloom, not daring to brush it. A strange recognition floods his senses, as if déjà vu washes over him. He can taste a bitterness on the tip of his tongue; he’s definitely seen it before. But where?
"Dude," the brown-eyed boy calls his friend, distracting Scott from examining the texture and all kinds of patterns of the bark.
"Yeah?"
"Is this flower familiar, or is it just for me?" he asks so distantly that it would probably sound creepy to anyone overhearing.
Probably his friend is already used to his occasionally happening weirdness; hence, Scott just comes to him, still boring his gaze into the tree trunk. When his steps trail off somewhere behind him, Stiles gathers all his bravery to tear his eyes from the flower and steal a glance at Scott to catch any emotion that might break through his expression. But his friend keeps a silence for long, suffocating moments and stresses out Stiles with every passing second, furrowing his brows and pursing his lips in hard thinking before giving his final opinion.
"No, I don’t know what this flower is." He slowly shakes his head back and forth and tightens his lips.
A heavy, hard beat pounds through Stiles’ chest, spreading throughout his body. In that moment, he feels something has been taken from him decisively. Without even his awareness. In the present, he simply nods to his friend, but inside, he chases the stinging feeling to no avail. The boy tries to catch and grab a slipping rabbit that’s stolen a thing that has never belonged to it; many obstacles in the way prevent him from succeeding. It takes just a short second for him to give up.
Eventually, the boy stands up abruptly, all but hitting Scott with his backpack while still pointing the flashlight at this flower—unknown and hauntingly familiar at the same time. There's something scraping at the edge of his mind, but it fades smoothly away.
Scott taps Stiles’ shoulder. When the boy looks up at him, he sees that Scott’s face reflects a deep thought, his distant gaze revealing just how deep it is. Perhaps the brown-eyed boy wonders why Scott is so dug in on the fact about the dryness. Could it be they’re both thinking about the same thing right now? Or is it just personal matters that have no connection?
However, shaking off all crumbs of those thoughts, Stiles makes a choice to take a look around to reorient himself, whipping his head in each direction. After several minutes, Scott follows suit, turning his head from side to side until he quickly finds the right way. They both don’t make a move, though. Neither of them drops a word for a while.
A moment later, the two friends exchange glances, both feeling lost—obviously not in the forest or any physical place in it, but within their own inner maze of minds and memories. It’s as if a crucial turn has vanished from the whole construction, forcing them to go around the entire puzzle over and over again, perpetually skipping and skipping that one right direction that leads to the missing piece. Each time they edge closer to what they seek, they ultimately have to backtrack—in their case, that means returning home.
Eventually, their eyes are inevitably drawn toward the scarred tree.
The scratches remind them of the unknown stray animal that has been roaming around the preserve and eating innocent squirrels or other small creatures. Whether it has been found or still lurks nearby remains unclear. Uneasy, the boys rush to leave the thicket.
Once they leave the spot behind, all their worries and the impenetrable walls of their mental mazes disappear swiftly, like cotton candy dropped into a pool, melting away into nothingness. Both of them forget about the little blue flower and the dryness. Each of them forgets that they ever thought about something like that. Finally, as the boys walk, the hypnotic atmosphere around them imperceptibly shifts to light tiredness tinged with subtle joy, and the paths come into view in the distance. Their vibrant chatter sounds among the woods once again.
"This way," Scott calls out amid Stiles’ rapid words, unintentionally causing the boy to glance down at his watch.
"Oh, we need to speed up a lil’ bit, c’mon." He waves the flashlight in his hand, at which the beam falls into a wild dance. Still, they turn left.
Despite the warning, they manage to play at Jedis, imagining that the flashlights they hold are not plain flashlights but real laser swords, even though Scott hasn’t watched Star Wars yet. Still, the two friends steadily approach the exit. Stiles thinks this trip was worth the entire idea and the time spent; at least they had fun and discovered some nice spots where they can hang out later. Scott thinks this trip was worth the whole day because he and Stiles were together all that time, and it just was interesting.
And yet, everything has an end, just like this day does, just like their little trip does, and the sign ahead only confirms it. They stay silent as they walk, and as soon as the sign is within touching distance, the brief moment of wordlessness instantly finishes its existence.
"It’s a pity we couldn’t find that tree," Scott tells him with a long-suffering sigh. Stiles can only offer a weak hum, unable to utter any other sound due to a yawn, silently agreeing. "Honestly, it’s a really big pity because we didn’t find anything to do with an oak, even though we got so deeply into the preserve!"
His friend quickly removes his pack, slipping the notebook and pencil inside without missing a beat. After these sharp movements, he hurriedly throws it back. The brown-eyed boy rubs the back of his neck thoughtfully, and, ignoring Scott’s irritated huff, speaks his mind.
"I’m not sure there’s even something that looks like a big, wide tree in there, like in those rumors of yours," Stiles muses, spreading his arms widely and nearly punching his friend in the nose. "All in all, rumors are just rumors. Nothing more, nothing less."
Scott bitterly tilts his head down.
"Yeah, you’re right. But we had fun, didn’t we?"
"We absolutely did, dude," Stiles agrees eagerly and throws a smirk at him. “We need to get back, y’know, just walking, without hunting for some freaking tree.” He pauses here, waiting a few seconds until Scott catches up and falls into step beside him. Then, with an enigmatic smile and narrowed eyes but an innocent tone, he adds. “I’d like to figure out what all those scratches mean. What about you?”
Scott’s face contorts into an expression—mouth slightly opened, two wide plates instead of normal eyes, brows raised to the point they almost touch—that conveys everything flying through his mind at that moment. Yeah, Stiles thinks, sometimes his friend doesn’t need to use words to say something because his face does this work for him perfectly. On the verge of bursting into laughter, Stiles manages to hold it back; Scott just blows out a sharp breath and rolls his eyes, all too accustomed to Stiles’ antics. Still, he can’t help his initial reaction. The brown-haired boy is a bit of a mean friend, but neither of them minds.
"Okay, suicidal fool, but if something big and scary attacked you, I’d prefer running than helping you," Scott says simply, matter-of-factly. Stiles doesn’t know how he should feel: amazed that his friend is saying such atypical things for friends (friends will always help you, right?) or betrayed because, well, isn’t it painful to hear something like that from a friend? In the end, Stiles decides just to laugh loudly, prompting Scott to shush him since his laughing disrupts the quiet around them. So he has to muffle his word stream with his palm.
"Suicidal fool? Seriously?" is all the boy can ask as he switches off the flashlight when they reach the wide road leading into the preserve; there’s plenty of light here.
"Why? Am I not right, am I?" Scott teases, speaking oh-so-innocently with the face of the most innocent human in this world. It's— it’s just outrageous!
"Oh, dude..." he breathes out. Then, all of a sudden, Stiles remembers one funny fact and, wanting to remind Scott of it and maybe see his reaction, spits out, "But it was you who offered to go into the woods to search for that tree you heard about in some rumors!"
Scott just snorts at this announcement and lifts his eyes to him, looking at Stiles in such a way as if he thinks Stiles is so naive, his gaze practically says, "Really?" In response, the boy just lets his brows fly up in a clear question, "What?" And Scott huffs.
"Oh, it was just once!" he exclaims, almost shouting, causing the brown-haired boy’s jaw to fall open.
"Once?! Considering everything I know, you’re losing five times more!" Stiles emotionally bites back right away. "Didn’t you forget that one at the school when you—"
"Oh, no... Could you please stop bringing that up all the time?" Scott whines pitifully, burying his face in his hands. And it’s enough to make Stiles chuckle darkly, enjoying himself immensely.
"Fine," Scott speaks up after a moment again, as they near the main road. "But the others weren’t so bad; once we actually managed to run away from the security at that store."
Stiles will never forget the escape Scott is talking about—they stole a few adult magazines from the small store on the corner of the street. Their so-called attempt to run away ended with them getting caught by the security guard, hardly something to be proud of. Still, Stiles admits it was fun and thrilling, even if he got punished by his dad when the guy called the police and complained about the deputy’s son. That summer, he was grounded for a couple of weeks. He remembers how surprised and embarrassed his dad was that day, standing there in front of the security guard and listening to him describe exactly what the boys had decided to steal. When Stiles’ mom found out about the event, she giggled but still told him that stealing wasn’t a good thing. Scott was grounded too, and Stiles took full advantage of the opportunity to tell Scott every thought about his idea during the entire period of their arrest.
"Mm... And here I thought our escape had failed back then," Stiles comments skeptically, stepping around a large hole in the road. There's nothing his friend can do but just shrug.
"Well, actually, I don’t find it that bad..." Scott draws unconvincingly, promptly shutting his mouth as soon as he takes a glance at Stiles, whose gaze clearly says Scott’s the stupid and naive one here. "Alright... it was a really bad idea," his friend admits at last, then (oh no) takes a breath in. "But this one was better; at least we didn’t get lost or run into anyone evil or annoying like that guy, huh?"
"Okay," Stiles sighs, "I can agree—it was pretty fun, and even safe enough."
Then they fall into quietness, simply walking down the road toward Scott’s home.
***
Days pass, and nights follow—nights go by a little longer, as always. Their little trip passed smoothly—no one suspects a thing, so it’s still their little secret. The boys keep returning to the preserve, playing there and hanging out in that small thicket. Not often, though—only when Stiles’ father has a shift and Scott’s mother is at the hospital, so she won’t find out they aren’t in her son’s room. They’re cautious, okay? This routine lasts throughout their entire holiday: sometimes they stay home to spend time with their families, sometimes they just wander some spots in the town, familiar and not very much, and sometimes they go into the forest to explore new places in there. In fact, not long after their first visit, the two friends found a small lake—beautiful, clear, and cold enough for swimming. That’s why they abandoned any ideas about doing something with the water or near to it. And... Maybe another reason they stay away from the lake is that Scott spotted a sign declaring the private property. Both of them don’t dare to cross any laws, unsure whether the lake is included or not. But that’s fine with them. They’ve spotted a big enough tire tied up by a thick, seemingly worn but sturdy rope to a solid branch of a massive tree. So it’s hanging about three feet above the ground, resembling a makeshift swing. Probably created by those who own the private property, but it’s not like Stiles and Scott care about the matter — the boys come to swing on it, fully hoping no one will catch them suddenly. They both like the thought of sneaking around someone else’s territory with impunity, and of that they still aren’t caught by anyone. Like the thought of mischief and all that. And, of course, they like the tire itself too. Most of the time, the friends spend in Scott’s or Stiles’ rooms, playing video or board games; Stiles occasionally helps Scott with his homework when they’re in his bedroom, where all his notes and books lie scattered. Scott once in a while stays over for dinner at the Stilinski’s house. But, otherwise, they just rest before the school will hit their asses yet again. It feels like a brief moment of fleeting bliss before the very true, long hell returns, so both of them soak up as much of it as they can. Well, right until that very hell comes out of nowhere and makes them both throw all of their ideas and free time out the window and get back on the same seats at their desks. Fortunately, their teachers don’t pile on too much work at the start, letting all of them adjust to classes and schedules after the drawn-out holidays. So the days become the same as they used to be in the fall and December. Mornings, breakfasts, the drive to school, classes, chatting with Scott, the drive home, quick lunches, homework, evenings, dinners, nights. And then it all repeats—again, and again, and again... Stiles’ dad strays around the house day or night; it depends on his shifts, so they see each other more often than it sometimes happens. His mom sits home as always, though there are some moments the boy doesn’t know anything about when she goes to meet with Mrs. McCall at the hospital, spending a good part of the time with her. His dad never asks her about her visits (probably already knows or is simply sure there’s nothing significant), so the brown-eyed boy has a cold shoulder on this matter, too. All in all, maybe she and Scott’s mother just have their own talks and little secrets, away from the male part of their company. Whatever it is, Stiles pushes his musing aside, believing that it doesn’t really matter. And besides, he has his own worries to deal with every day. And yet, despite the days still existing in his life, the nights remind him of themselves as well. They have no difference, but the boy has stopped having nightmares and odd dreams—he doesn’t dream at all anymore. Stiles couldn’t be happier, even if it means he won’t have a chance to see the black fox that used to visit him in his dreams before they ended. For now, though, the boy can let it slip away—he needs a good rest. It's not like drifting off became any easier. No; the darkness still hasn’t gone anywhere, residing all around him, literally sharing the very air he breathes. But... Stiles supposes it turned out more bearable, maybe. At least now he can reconcile with the dark space in his bedroom and try to find some nice spot amid the terrible blackness of night. The boy thinks their trip through the preserve helped him get used to the darkness a little, because he was in the forest, among the trees, at dark time, even if he wasn’t utterly alone. He likes the thought that he managed not to drop dead from his freaking phobia of the dark right there and then; that he’d confronted his fear for perhaps the first time. So what does that darkness in his room mean now, after facing something dangerous? Stiles can start to handle it. Returning to the darkness, the boy can’t help but feel disappointment at the moments he glances at the fateful corner of his room at night, waiting, unwillingly, for those ethereal light brushes and the quiet voice coming out from nowhere and sounding from everywhere all at once. But otherwise, he barely remembers it and just keeps living as usual, grateful for the blank mind during sleep. The boy with tea-colored eyes can’t say that he doesn’t miss those stories, can’t say that he doesn’t want to listen to his invisible someone for one more time. Because he does—he does miss them and does want them. It has become a peculiar tradition between him and that someone called Void... their own tradition. If he could put it into words, the boy would say he values it. Though there’s something strange that rubs up against Stiles in the wrong way at rare times in his dreams when some tree, or a thing looking like a tree, shows up in them. It feels so familiar that he can almost see a picture in his mind, but every time it slips away, refusing to be recognized. And each time he makes an effort to trace it or summon other helpful things, all his efforts go south, and he wakes up abruptly. So Stiles has stopped trying to figure out what it actually is and pays no mind to the meaningless images that have finally settled in his dreams recently. Soon enough, the brown-haired boy forgets about them altogether. Soon enough, his dreams get more ephemeral. Despite all this, Stiles can honestly say that everything is more than fine and awesome. He thinks this way for a couple of weeks, until the boy begins to notice tension between his parents. It’s subtle, barely sensible, hanging in the air and souring the mood in the Stilinski family. Stiles would chalk this behavior up to their personal things if they weren’t still talking to each other and acting normally. But since they don’t do any of this list, the boy sets his suspicion aside and decides to watch more closely. To the repeating question, "Is everything alright?" the boy gets the same unchanging reply: "Yeah, son, all’s fine," followed by uncertain smiles. Yet their eyes radiate complete sadness, and the boy feels his heart clench at the terrible feeling as he looks at his mom and dad. Stiles just wants to hear a genuine "all’s fine." The brown-eyed boy notices nothing extraordinary, only that his mother still visits the hospital—not every day but on certain days, which means she has a kind of schedule—and sometimes goes for a walk. And she seems very distant in addition to it, despite trying hard to mask her emotions. Feeling lost and neglected, Stiles starts leaving the house more often, taking his new bicycle and riding around the blocks to distract himself. The wind, hitting his face, making his clothes flutter, gives him exactly what he needs so freaking much: a sense of lightness, emotional distance, a strange calmness, and some emptiness. The cool evening wind burns as the boy takes deep breaths, causing his eyes to water slightly, making him focus on the road and watch his breathing. Despite the dusk, he feels cozy on the dark streets, as if the boy could disappear into those black shadows if he really wanted—and they wouldn’t mind hiding him. Once he feels somewhat better, he makes his way back, twisting the wheel of his bike. When Stiles arrives, the atmosphere becomes warmer, thanks to the chill lingering on his skin from the long ride. His dad and mom continue to act as they always have before, keeping joking, smiling, laughing, and asking Stiles about his day and school. But the thing is, the usual weightless air has a stale flavor of something very unspoken now, and he has a feeling that he’ll really soon learn what it is. For better or worse—is the only question playing in the back of his mind. His mom grows more distant somehow; her unusual behavior becomes stranger and stranger, but Stiles can’t find the reason on his own, and they haven’t said anything yet. There's nothing left for him but pretend he doesn’t notice anything around him. Well, for now, Stiles sighs and pulls at his hair a little as he sits at his desk in his bedroom, trying to solve a complicated math task. It's frustrating. He wants to get outside and walk alone in the preserve. It's Friday, and he doesn’t want to spend the day on stupid homework. After considering the idea a moment longer, the brown-haired boy drops his pen and closes all books and notes. Then he rushes to his wardrobe to change his clothes quickly. Grabbing his phone and keys, he quietly flies away out of his bedroom to come downstairs. His mother still home but barely pays attention to anything beyond her book. His dad is at the station again, suddenly having some work that can’t wait, so he won’t be able to walk with Stiles as promised yesterday. But Stiles understands everything. Tiptoeing down the stairs to the front door, Stiles hurriedly pulls on his boots and slips out of the house, making his way toward the forest. He doesn’t quite want to bring Scott along; it feels like he needs some time alone to ventilate his brain from ever-present, gloomy thinking. The lake seems like the perfect place for that—peaceful and isolated, with the woods offering an illusion of protection, even if the forest isn’t truly the safest place. Still, the boy goes there easily, not wasting time on things like remembering where he should turn next and such things. Once he comes there, he immediately takes from his backpack a plaid the boy grabbed before leaving and spreads it nearer to the quiet, almost motionless water. He settles down, just... sitting there for a while, soaking in the silence of nature and the relatively warm weather that lets him stay here in just a sweater and jacket. The movement of the water keeps its still state until a stray, rare breeze peeks out somewhere to give the little spot among the forest its brief waft, making the surface of the lake ripple gently. Stiles finds it fascinating, even mesmerizing—something to watch forever. The soft murmur of which he could listen to forever. Here, the brown-eyed boy doesn’t feel any loneliness; it’s more a solitude, something weightless and close to home rather than something soul-wrenching or unbearable. He can take a deep breath here without restraint. Feeling at peace, Stiles throws himself back, spreading his arms and legs like a starfish, lying on the plaid, and staring up at the clear sky above the forest and the lake. No single cloud mars the expanse, not even the smallest one, allowing the boy to gaze without any barriers, so he does, taking his opportunity. But his thoughts spiral anew, flashing images that pull him back into the buzzing thinking and trying to figure out what is going on at home. It prevents him from relishing a moment in the current present. With a soft whine, Stiles drags his hands over his face in order to physically scrape off the bothersome thoughts of himself. It seems to work—the brown-haired boy no longer sees any of them in his mind, and it makes him release a relieved breath. It's as if this place, or even nature itself, has some wish to help him to shed his worries and concerns, as if it doesn’t want the boy’s unease to break the peaceful atmosphere. Well, Stiles doesn’t mind at all against this demonstration of magical help. Soon enough, he feels his eyes stick together, blinking slower and slower until his eyelids close completely, while his breathing deepens and steadies. The water keeps murmuring softly, a language only the trees, standing motionlessly around him and the lake, and the grass, soughing near to him, can understand. It doesn’t drop the fact that it’s gently lulling, just like the most inimitable cradle song that could ever exist. It feels as though every piece of nature embraces him so comprehensively and welcomingly, offering a sense of safety that Stiles couldn’t do anything else but fall into a doze even if he wanted to. So, listening to the sounds of the surroundings all over himself, the brown-eyed boy lets himself forget everything that’s been occupying him for a long enough time and sinks into a calm sleep. Probably—no, certainly—it’s not the best idea, especially knowing that he’s in the woods, near the lake, and that the air temperature will grow cold, but he kind of doesn’t care right now. "Hey." A distant noise tries to pierce through the haze of Stiles’ dream. "Hey!" Closer now. Louder. "Hey, boy!" And then it turns into a firm touch. The boy wakes up. Blinking his eyes open, Stiles notes that it’s dark around him. Then he sees a man right in front of him, who is crouched beside his left side, a hand resting firmly on his shoulder, gently shaking the boy. Startled, the brown-haired boy sits up promptly, causing the man’s hand to slide off, and he crawls back a little, putting distance between him and the stranger. "Whoa, whoa, slow down there. I’m not going to do anything." The stranger raises one palm in a calming gesture, slowly dragging his other hand away to show he means it. A thousand thoughts start to swarm through his head right at that point: What if this man is a maniac and Stiles is going to be taken right now? What if this man is a thief and he wants to steal worth something from the boy? Stiles can feel his heart pounding in his throat. But when the boy actually looks up at the stranger’s face, he understands the man isn’t quite a stranger. Those cold, like ice, blue eyes are unmistakable, even in the dim light—they belong to the man from the Hale family, the one who stood behind Mrs. Hale back when he and his dad came to visit them. The realization somewhat puts him in a calm state. The man’s face is furrowed; a deep crease in-between his brows reveals just how concerned the man is at this moment. He doesn’t try to touch the boy again, just stays where he is, sitting crouched with one arm resting on his knee and looking at Stiles closely, as though he studies him. Apparently, he finds what he seemed to want to, because his blue eyes lock with Stiles’ brown ones, and the man speaks up again. "Okay, buddy. Now, let’s find out what you’re doing here this late." His low voice sounds even, careful not to startle the boy a second time tonight. Though still a little off-balance, Stiles already came down a little after realizing it’s a familiar person. He gathers his willpower to give a proper answer, or at least a coherent one. He inhales and exhales sharply through his nose. "I was asleep a little bit..." he says simply and obviously, making the man before him smile slightly and huff softly. "I already figured," the man replies, shifting to sit down on Stiles’ plaid. "If you don’t mind," he adds politely. Stiles shakes his head. They look at each other for several long seconds, keeping a silence between themselves along with the forest. The one who breaks it is the man. "So. What were you doing here?" Stiles doesn’t tell right away, but it doesn’t seem the man is in a hurry to go anywhere, patiently waiting for words from him. After a pause, the boy answers: "I was walking here. It's— it’s a nice place. I like it." The man hums, and his small smile turns into a smirk as he asks a question that makes Stiles swallow. "So, you know this place is private property, don’t you?" "Yeah..." is the only sound Stiles can mumble, his eyes darting nervously there and here, trying not to look at the man right now. He feels confused, ashamed, and embarrassed at the same time. None of them drops a word then; the man just continues to be quiet and smirks, getting Stiles more uneasy with every passing second. "Alright, young man, it’s already getting dark. Get up, we need to get you back home," the man with ice eyes says and stands up, extending a hand to help Stiles up. After a short hesitation, Stiles accepts it and takes his hand, rising to his too. The man lets go of his little palm and watches as the boy folds the plaid, stuffs it into his backpack, and slings the pack over his little shoulders. Then the man wonders with a teasing tone, "What’s your name, little troublemaker?" "Stiles. I’m Stiles." “Is that your real name?” the man asks incredulously. Stiles smiles. "No, but that’s what I like to be called. My real name’s complicated to spell," he explains with a quiet sigh. "Well, alright, Stiles. I’m Peter, but I suspect that you already know it. Now, come on—I’ll take you out of here. Go." And they leave the beautiful lake behind, stepping slowly through the woods. Peter moves ahead; Stiles follows him behind. Stiles struggles to match his own pace with Peter’s, who goes faster because of the wide wind of his stride. Eventually, the man slows down, finally notices that the boy can’t catch up with him, and they fall into step side by side. After a few passing feet, Stiles becomes aware that Peter keeps stealing quick glances at him now and again, looking so intently as if seeing something the boy himself cannot. The feeling is disturbing. It makes Stiles watch the man more carefully, his body tense. And then, as if the man senses his stressful mood, Peter stops his silent studying and focuses on the way instead, looking straightly forward, only turning his head back to check if the boy is still pacing. Still feeling worried and catching his breath, Stiles tries (and fails) not to dwell on those two small pieces of ice instead of normal eyes that had pierced him moments ago, seeming to try to sink even deeper to know more than they can see. It's such a chilling feeling: being the object of such interest and undivided attention, doing nothing to attract it but still being this very object. More terrifying, though, is the fact that those blue eyes get him cold with just a brief look, shaking him out of his balance so quickly the boy could swear he might swallow his own heart if Peter hadn’t stopped staring. The way the icy gaze made him tremble slightly was so terrifying, like his icy eyes seemed to leave their coolness within him. The ground beneath their feet changes as they follow familiar paths—blanketed by tiny rocks and little grass blades breaking through the soil, peppered with many leaves and thin sprigs. The dry, hard earth makes walking easier. While Stiles wanders in the alleys of his mind, his gaze falls on something gleaming near his boot: a candy wrapper, half-buried in the dirt and already well spotted. It has been there, serving as evidence of human hands’ work. A fleeting thought to pick it up flashes through his mind, occupying him for a second before he steps into a stop, bends down to dig the wrapper free, and raises his hand, holding it between his fingers. Once Peter glances back yet again and doesn’t see the boy nearby, the man stands and turns around slowly, as if unconcerned whether he finds Stiles at that moment. He arches his eyebrow in silent question, clearly asking what he is doing or what has gotten into him. Stiles drags his eyes away from the wrapper to the man, who slips his hands into his pants pockets. The boy slightly shakes his hand to prompt Peter to look at the rustling thing. "Wrapper. It's a candy wrapper. I saw something on the path and decided to pick it up to throw it later..." Stiles explains. The man’s eyes flick to the wrapper in the boy’s hand for a few quick moments before his expression shifts as he recognizes it. "Oh, you can give it to me; I’ll throw it later myself," Peter offers, holding out his hand. It seems he takes a note of how confused Stiles is after his words, because as soon as he takes the candy wrapper and hides it in his pocket, the man adds: "My niece and I were here not long ago. She was eating some candies—maybe she dropped this wrapper." "Oh, I see," the brown-haired boy murmurs uncertainly without knowing what else he can say, stepping closer to the man’s side. "I’ll tell her to watch more closely over what she can lose," he promises for some reason, and all Stiles can offer right now is a short nod. "Alright, little troublemaker..." Peter sighs... "Hey, I didn’t do anything wrong just now—" "...we have to continue our way. If you’re done, we can go," he says anyway without acknowledging the boy’s quickly mumbling words, which makes Stiles let out a discontented huff, which, in its turn, makes Peter smirk. They resume their abandoned way, walking along the path; neither of them dares to break the settled silence, but the boy seems to think about saying something back. "Actually, I helped you. You could’ve said thank you," he says, sounding a tiny bit reproachful. Peter looks down at him, surprised. Stiles feels some gloating. "For what?" Peter asks. The brown-eyed boy snorts softly before scolding him, "For thanking me for pointing out that you littered in the forest. I could’ve kept quiet and told everything to my father about you instead." The man chuckles quietly at this point, a wide smile spreading across his face. He seems amused by Stiles’ words. "You’re quite convincing, Stiles," Peter simply responds to him, tapping the boy’s shoulder lightly. "Accept my apologies, and thank you, little hero." It pleases Stiles, lets something like a pride bloom inside his chest—a pride of himself, of course, because he managed to stand his ground, even if the situation didn’t call for it. But after, right then and there, this quick wave is followed by curiosity. "So you own some part of the forest." Stiles’ voice splits the air again, drawing the man’s attention, prompting Peter to glance at him questioningly. "I’ve been thinking about it... like— it must be expensive to have so much territory— Is your family that rich?" the boy asks straight and shamelessly. "You’re absolutely right, Stiles, it’s really expensive," Peter agrees easily, ignoring the unceremonious question and getting Stiles to follow him when he turns to another path that, as far as the boy knows, goes out of the forest. "My family has owned it for a long time. My genus has a big, old family tree; that’s why we own so much land, I guess. Partly, at least. And, yes, we’re kind of rich people, and almost half of the preserve belongs to us." "That’s... impressive," the brown-haired boy mumbles then, shocked by the vastness of the property and richness. The man just hums at his short comment, shrugging a little. "Well, you just have no idea about the rest part," he says enigmatically, as if sharing some secret with Stiles. Then, with a smirk, he quickly adds, "But, yep, it’s quite impressive." Stiles isn’t really sure how to respond to this kind of information. He just blinks a few times and lets out a soft hum in the back of his throat. The man’s words sow little suspicions about the preserve—if the Hales own such a vast stretch of forest, where exactly do its boundaries begin and end? Did he and Scott cross those lines back then? Maybe even multiple times that day? The boy squints at Peter, who’s stepping ahead now, and thinks he shouldn’t mention how often he’s been here with his friend. Who knows what Peter would do with this knowledge? Tell his dad about it? The thought makes Stiles wince; he doesn’t like such a turn of events. He decides simply to go. But the boy can’t help himself as a small flame of curiosity licks his insides. "Why don’t you leave?" Stiles asks sincerely, waving his hands to demonstrate his confusion. "Isn’t it boring to stay in the same place for many, many years?" Somewhat familiar bushes crawl past them; the pair is getting closer to the edge of the forest. "Well, someone has already done so," Peter simply replies, shrugging for some reason Stiles can’t quite see. "They live apart from the rest of the family and have their own lives." "But why do the others stay here?" Stiles doesn’t calm down, and the man chuckles softly at the boy’s persistence and shakes his head. "I think we just like the idea of being together," he says, musing, "of keeping something that’s ours, holding onto it. And this town, this place itself—it’s like our home nest. It’s been that way for a long time, been a home to many from our family line, been our castle, if you will. It’s something near and dear for us." "Oh... I didn’t think about it that way," Stiles admits honestly. He understands Peter’s family now—at least a little better—and can’t help but think that his family must be very bonded with their house and land. The place must have witnessed a lot of events connected with all the Hales—served as their shield and pile in hard times, their warm nest for all of them. Naturally, they would want to be here in the place closest and dearest to their hearts and souls. And they can afford it. The man and the boy fall into comfortable silence as they near the green sign. The exit of the forest grows before their eyes, telling the boy that it’s time to say goodbye to Peter and head home. Taking a deep breath, Stiles spins on his heel to face those cold eyes already staring at him. Waiting for the man to say something, the brown-eyed boy awkwardly raises his hand, pointing behind himself and feverishly thinking about what he should say. Fortunately, Peter takes the reins of the coming short exchange in his own hands, letting Stiles lower his hand and exhale in relief. "I suppose you can get your ass back home on your own, can’t you?" Peter asks innocently and somehow politely, though the choice of words doesn’t quite feel right between the two strangers. “Without any trouble?” he adds after a brief pause as Stiles opens his mouth. "Of course I can," the boy grumps, pouting slightly. Peter smiles mischievously, amused, and then he extends his hand toward the boy. Stiles blinks in confusion but hesitantly reaches out. "Nice to meet you, Stiles. Oh, and do yourself a favor: don’t walk in the forest alone." Shocked, the boy uncertainly grips Peter’s palm, thinking how weird it is, but shaking their hands anyways. "Uh... okay, I’ll try... And nice to meet you too, Mr. Hale," Stiles murmurs to the man in response, slipping his now free hand into the pocket of his jacket. The man’s hand is warm, far warmer than his cold one. The contact leaves a faint lingering heat in the boy’s own flaming palm. It’s oddly nice. After exchanging their goodbyes, the man remains where he stands while the boy turns back toward the green sign marking the preserve’s boundary. He begins to walk out slowly, feeling the air grow noticeably cooler. It's as if outside of the woods the air is colder than inside of it, as if the many trees conceal everything within the forest from all of the outside influences—from coldness or warmness alike. As if the forest itself also is full of strong intent to cover everything that it hides from any trespasser wandering around it, wishing to snoop around. Although he doesn’t have a chance to develop his thoughts because of one particular thing. With each passing step, Stiles never stops feeling the insistence of a cold burning of the ice boring into his back as he moves farther away, feels the blue eyes stay on him all the damn time as he takes a step by step farther from them. Yet when the boy throws a glance over his shoulder, he sees no one behind him. Swallowing a thick lump in his throat, Stiles looks forward and keeps walking.
