Chapter Seven
August 27, 2025 at 12:58 PM
Things continue to be as they used to be: his mother still gets increasingly odd and scattered. She no longer shows any interest in Stiles’ school life, no longer asks him about his meetings with Scott. She forgets to do her work on her laptop—whatever it is—which isn’t something typical for her (she hates leaving tasks unfinished, whether it’s simple household chores or her actual work). She doesn’t seem to care about visiting his dad at the station, although it’s almost her daily routine to bring him something eatable and just check in.
Stiles notices the moments when she focuses on reading a book, but she doesn’t really read—as soon as her eyes cling to some sentence and run over the letters, she always looks away to watch a random car turn to drive away instead. The more she tries to read again, the more time she wastes on these lost attempts—and the harder it gets for her to concentrate on the book in her hands.
Eventually, she always pushes the book aside and does something else instead.
Watching her state slip further into something more different, more unfamiliar—despite her efforts to pretend it’s not, that everything is fine—the boy can’t help but feel how heavily his heart beats every morning, day, and evening. Can’t help but feel how painfully his gut twists with the realization that things are far worse than he might’ve imagined. But the explanation he receives now usually consists of the fact his mom is a little sick, which is why she has been visiting the hospital lately. Just for one or a few small check-ups and all of this.
His dad constantly says there’s nothing Stiles can be worried about, telling him he should focus on his own responsibilities. The brown-haired boy can’t shake off a soul-wrenching feeling that soon enough, his father is going to tell Stiles about everything, though. But the matter is—what would the circumstances be then?
Still, the boy understands all he can do is watch for his mom’s condition to worsen. Watch the light apathy she usually had after her common doctor visits start to escalate into something more overwhelming, oppressive. She may not show her emotions, but this eerie cold indifference has settled over her—a permanent disinterest in everything around her. She may just sit and sit on the couch and stare at the same spot for an hour, or, sometimes, for hours.
Now, Stiles feels alone even with the company of his mother, who’s in the same room as he is. Sometimes she seems better—in these moments, she talks with her usual enthusiasm in her soft voice while she bakes delicious cookies for Stiles and his dad, moving with healthy energy in her movements. In these moments, she smiles, brightly and very warmly. She looks alive, as if she were his previous kind mom he used to know every day before.
But it happens only once in a while, vanishing week by week, month by month.
And once his mother has become angrier and more aggressive, to the point of shouting at Stiles without reason, his dad reveals to him the truth: his mother isn’t just sick—she has frontotemporal dementia, which means only the worst. The boy has to know more about it, for which his mom’s laptop helps him. He wishes he couldn’t read, because The Internet tells him it’s a lethal sickness. And it means... his mom isn’t going to get better.
His world is crumbling right before his eyes, taking away the most precious person in his life.
It still hurts deeply when his mom yells at him, cutting into him deep down to his core, sharply and precisely. Over time, the boy’s school performance begins to slip: he struggles to concentrate on his teachers’ voices, his brain refuses to work properly, transforming even the easiest task into the hardest challenges. In the beginning, Scott asks him what’s wrong, what’s gnawing at him so badly, but Stiles just doesn’t want to share the truth—that’s why he tells his friend that his mother’s a little sick and that he’s simply worried. He refuses to circle around this topic.
But after a big period of time, and after finding out what his mother’s type of dementia means, the boy realizes he doesn’t have it in him to keep his feelings bottled up any longer. And when Scott presses him again about his dead mood, Stiles decides to finally open up. And maybe, just maybe, he feels a slight easing of the weight on his shoulder.
His father takes days off occasionally to stay home with his mother and watch over her when her state is not well and she does some strange things, or when she gets angry and suddenly lashes out at the little boy. And the boy can’t understand why she would get angry with him, why his mom would yell at him, looking at him with such hostility. He thinks there’s something wrong with him, and so he deserves this treatment, because his mother has never ever acted this way toward him. Not even when he did something wrong.
His dad always reassures him that it’s not his fault at all, that his mom is not okay and can’t realize what she’s saying. Then he hugs Stiles tightly, pulling the boy very close and squeezing hard, giving him several more soothing strokes over his back before letting him go. The boy sends a thankful smile to him, even though inside, he can’t help but feel his heart ache.
At night, lying in bed and looking straight at the ceiling, Stiles can even hear the weight of his pain echoing throughout his being, a loud, hopeless ache ringing within his core. It is almost suffocating. There's always a tear sliding down his temple, cool and bitter, filled with silent desperation. He wishes Void were here, with him, to bring him comfort, even if it would be fleeting but so needed, for the invisible being to tell him that’s okay, that he will be here for him. But all he has is the same darkness that somehow embraces him this time, without instilling fear or distress, as if it simply offers the very support he yearns for so much, the support he needs.
However, the nights are far from peaceful: they are full of the sounds of footsteps outside his room and the voice—his mom’s—that is always rambling something he can’t hear clearly; it’s restless. He can’t rest properly throughout the given nighttime, so the rest of the day Stiles walks like a zombie, exhausted and sleepy.
Thankfully, he has his friend by his side most of the time; Scott constantly tells him about whatever breaks into his mind, which can be irritating at times, but in this case, it proves helpful for keeping Stiles grounded. At least he’s not the only one who walks in that terrifying state the whole day—his dad isn’t faring better either. The brown-eyed boy wonders how his dad’s nerves still haven’t collapsed with everything he’s going through.
Stiles refuses to let himself completely fall into hopelessness; he tries his best to find distraction from the rotting thing that he calls his home. That's the reason why he escapes the house more often with every fading week. And all of a sudden, it’s becoming a habit: whenever the boy feels the walls are pressing on him along with the presence of his increasingly unfamiliar mom, he puts on his walking clothes and leaves, preferring random streets instead of the place where he should feel safe, warm, and loved. But at home, he feels almost impossibly bad.
When the weather allows it, Stiles even brings his homework with him as he rides and walks to the preserve, or rather, to the lake, ignoring all words of the creepy man of the Hale family. He couldn’t care less about any ban or private zones or anything like that; he just wants to be there for a while. And, besides, if no one monitors the territory, he just takes his full opportunity from the situation.
The boy does this to only avoid and escape his own torturing feelings and emotions, leaving them all behind. After all, he can’t be blamed for that, can he?
Stiles believes it’s not quite his fault; it feels like there is something about that place itself—it inexplicably draws him in, as if for some critically mystical reason. So, strangely, he has no urge to fight against it, whatever it is. And on top of all, the boy feels good there, able to concentrate far better than he can at school or home, where he can’t make any gyrus of his brain think. Generally, there are only pluses here. So, that’s the reason why the boy continues to return there, in the forest, and doesn’t even think of stopping.
Right now, actually, he’s walking into the preserve, wandering through the trees.
Stiles still carries his plaid blanket to sit or lie on without worrying about getting cold, spending all the damn time at home with a fever, hoping one of his parents will take care of him. He winces at the thought then and tugs the collar of his jacket higher. Two days ago, his dad suddenly gave him something (so needed, as it turned out): a thermos, which Stiles filled with hot tea before leaving today. His father told him he didn’t need it anymore and that if Stiles thought it was a cool item, he could keep it and use it whenever he wanted. Now, the boy can warm himself with his favorite tea along with his soft plaid, which always brings him a faint sense of coziness.
As soon as Stiles arrives at the lake, he immediately spreads the plaid over the ochre grass and plops down on it, lying on his belly. After spending a few minutes like this—swaying his legs in the air and watching the water gently stir in front of him—the boy sets his backpack beside him, opens it, and pulls out several notes, a book, and a pen. After all, he came here to study.
The only thing that keeps company for him is the gentle murmuring of the lake, which has become so familiar and welcoming to Stiles. It simply whispers continuously with quiet, soft sounds, as if trying to distract him from his work, but in reality, it affects the boy like a persistent mantra, helping him to dig into what he needs to do with a sharp focus.
In moments like this, Stiles can’t detach himself from the surrounding world; he is too concentrated on his own task to pay attention to anything else. He might silently and blithely hum some song under his breath as his hand writes lines of letters on the paper. Perhaps that is why he doesn’t hear sounds like twigs cracking here and there, like someone wandering nearby. These noises don’t bother the boy, who takes a sip from his thermos and returns to reading—even when the sounds somewhere from behind him grow louder and more like footsteps.
Stiles misses all of this up until he hears his own name called in someone else’s voice. He whips his head around, his pen dropping onto his writing in his note, his heart racing as if it wants to bust out of his rib cage. When he sees no one but the smirking man he has come to know very well, the boy lets himself breathe out. One pair of blue eyes, fixed right on him, shines with a mischievous gleam in their cold depths. They are narrowed, looking down at Stiles as if their owner is waiting for him to speak. They stare at each other—Stiles alarmed, Peter calm—for a few more seconds before Peter breaks the kind of silence settled between them.
"As far as I remember, I told you not to walk in the forest on your own," he drawls slowly, making every word long and liquid, causing the boy to grimace slightly. "Isn’t that right, Stiles?" he adds right away, highlighting Stiles’ name and folding his arms.
Oh. This dude remembered his name. Stiles doesn’t like that.
"Uhh... Hello..." the brown-haired boy spits out the first thing that comes to tongue, sitting up, and his whole look talks about how caught off guard he feels right now. Especially under Peter’s unblinking gaze, like a predator toying with its prey until it grows bored. His awkward greeting, clearly out of place, seems to entertain the man, who lets out a light chuckle and spreads his lips into a smirk.
"Well, hello there, little troublemaker." And the boy glares back at the man; his nostrils flare with angry huffs.
And there it is again: that irritating nickname.
The boy hasn’t caused any trouble around the lake or anywhere he’s been. He never meant to make anything wrong anywhere. He just wants to be alone, to do something useful, and to get some rest at least somewhere if he can’t find any place for himself at home. Stiles simply wants his own little spot—a refuge where he can hide from everyone whenever he needs to. And now that the boy has finally found such a place, finally settled in, and started to enjoy it, someone just had to break into his warm sanctuary and ruin everything.
It frustrates the boy so hard and on such a deep level that his eyes almost sting with the intensity of the strange feeling itching in his chest. Stiles has to shut his eyelids tightly to hold back any tears and sit up straight. His anger leaves him at the same time with a shameful burning in his eyes.
Stiles clenches his fists, as if gathering a little courage to say—or even confess—something important to him, but in the end, he blows out, and all that’s left of his short fuse is strong disappointment. The day is ruined, and so is his mood. His head dips, breaking the eye contact between the boy and the man.
The boy doesn’t even notice how his lips stir, how his voice comes out in a whisper—small and absolutely quiet amid the ringing silence hovering all over.
"I didn’t do anything bad." The words slip out from him like a confession.
Stiles has no idea who they’re really meant for. Probably not just Peter. It feels as if he’s held them inside for so long, and they needed some particular moment to be finally voiced. And they have decided that this is exactly the right moment to burst out—straight in front of a stranger-man, who, of course, also can’t understand the reason for this. It should be so embarrassing, Stiles supposes then; his cheeks flush just a little.
Peter, who has been watching the boy all this time and trying to catch his last whispered words, frowns slightly now, processing them in his head to try to figure out what prompted the little boy to utter that. Everything tells him there isn’t much he could say or do in response. So, it’s not his fault for the boy’s initial reactions: the way Stiles flinched at his last remark, the way he looked—no, burned the man with his piercing gaze—at him. As if something in the phrase reminded him of another thing, something only his that touched a sensitive spot and triggered something very painful, which, apparently, had been there and marinated for a while and was now finally released. Quiet and broken.
Observing the boy before him, Peter decides it’s none of his business to let himself ask Stiles about him and his life—not that it’s particularly interesting to him anyway. Instead, he takes a step forward. Stiles, as if lost in a whirlwind of thoughts, notices it a little too late—that’s why he startles at the unexpected movement. He has become so jumpy, Stiles thinks to himself.
Meanwhile, the man, just as he did during their previous meeting, occupies a spot on Stiles’ plaid beside him, pulling his knees to his chest and resting his forearms on them. He looks at the boy with tea-colored eyes with his blue ones. Neither of them speaks for a couple of minutes.
They examine each other—two strangers in the forest who have met twice in the same place. Each of them has their own little secrets—bad or not, personal or simply the kind that one can’t talk about even with someone unfamiliar. But while Stiles is just a boy, Peter is an adult who could hide really serious secrets of his own. Who could easily use his strength to throw the boy out of his territory, ridding himself of the annoying boy for Stiles’ own sake. Yet, who still does nothing about Stiles’ presence here.
And as Stiles contemplates the man’s secrets, Peter takes full advantage of the moment to observe him closely, tracing a path only he knows with his gaze. The brown-haired boy can’t understand what draws Peter’s attention so aggressively to him, and it still chills him down to the core. Because it feels as if the man sees something that only his eyes are able to see on or in Stiles. Stiles briefly wonders what it could be, but he’s a little afraid to ask and uncertain if he really wants to know.
He feels like an exotic animal caught in someone’s curious gaze.
Peter stares at him as though he’s trying to make a way through all of Stiles to uncover his secret, to find an answer or evidence to confirm (or deny) whatever theory he has. To understand that special feature lurking in the boy. Stiles squirms uncomfortably in his place; he has a feeling like Peter is navigating right through him, or at least making an effort to do, because he can’t shake off the goosebumps crawling over his body, making his shoulders flinch.
This unconscious movement doesn’t seem to escape the man’s eyes, since the two blue pieces of ice snap up to look into Stiles’ eyes, thereby cutting off their intentional chasing of something. Now, the strong tea stands against the cold ice. The blue eyes narrow slightly to the brown ones, while the brown eyes round under the blue ones.
This kind of wordless exchange is ended with actual words.
"I guess I need to talk to your dad about your wandering in the forest when I see him. What do you think?" Peter casually shares his thought with the boy, watching as surprise—and something close to horror—spreads across Stiles’ face.
Because Stiles can’t let it happen, because if his dad finds out about all of this, he definitely won’t endorse it and won’t allow him to go into the preserve. And, probably, he will ground him again, which means there is nothing left for the boy but sitting at home he has already been desperate to run away from.
Stiles can barely imagine how he would bear that, not saying anything about how he would be in close vicinity with his own mom around the house. And that particular thought hurts him deeply—because it’s his mom he just allowed himself to think of in this not nice way. It brims him with shame of himself. She loves him and would do anything for him, and the boy should know better than to let himself become ungrateful.
Yet Stiles can’t get rid of his reluctance to hover near her any longer than necessary. Her behavior scares him a little, makes him be more careful and cautious in her presence, forcing him to watch and note each change in her. Causes him to compare the current her and the one he remembers. And Stiles can’t help but dig deeper into the vortex that is laced with aching memories of his bright, smiling mom, of their trips to the stores, of their shared cooking sessions that always ended with a messy kitchen because he always played with anything that caught his sharp eye.
Then the boy swims out on the surface, full of the thoughts that everything has changed and probably will never return to how it once was. Nothing will be the way it used to be before, and it tears his heart apart.
These contradictions have tormented him for long enough, leaving him weltering between crashing waves in a furious ocean of shame and his raw feelings. The waves of shame collapse the boy with a painful, powerful strength, wiping away everything from him and leaving him nothing but violent shame for himself. It burns him from the inside out, encouraging every hurtful thought to surface to make everything worse. And the feelings cover him with the same strength; they’re intense and forces the boy to drown on his own, making him choke on his own feelings and emotions. Because they push him toward the opposite shore—toward the other waves. It feels like a closed ring he’s unable to escape, forced to rock back and forth endlessly.
Apparently, Stiles has gotten a little lost in his thoughts and completely missed the way Peter removed his smirk from his face, and a frown appeared right after his little offer. And now the man looks concerned. Very likely, the man has asked him something, as Peter’s gaze seems waiting. The brown-eyed boy has to blink away whatever had fogged his mind just moments ago, focusing his vision directly on the man in front of him.
"’M sorry, I—I just remembered something and missed your words," he tries to sound simple and natural. "Could you, uh, repeat what you just talked about?"
Peter seems to let it slide.
"Whatever," he says. Then, as if he’s found another thing for his interest, Peter asks, "Why do you always come here?"
"But you’ve only seen me here for the second time. What makes you think I’m a frequenter of this place?" Stiles points out suspiciously, narrowing his eyes. His calm, even tone sounds a little biting.
"That’s fair; can’t argue with that," Peter acknowledges with a small smile, raising his hands defensively. The boy victoriously hums at that. But Peter doesn’t finish yet. "Well, boy..."
"It’s Stiles!.."
"...I’m considering it from under the angle that you’ve settled in here quite well, and you don’t seem to me like a rare guest." Peter puts out his point of view of the situation, saying it in a soft voice, but it drops in steel notes near the end. Stiles tenses instantly; despite the fact that the man stays inoffensive and friendly enough, the boy thinks he can’t lose his alertness around him. And his own word doesn’t play a role in this act.
He can only raise his shoulders slightly, not daring to give any answer on the man’s suspicion. Stiles maintains a partisan silence further, focusing on his fingers as they tug at the edge of his jacket while Peter releases a loud sigh. At this moment, Stiles can’t help but wonder what’s wrong with the fact that he comes to the lake and quietly sits here without disturbing anyone or causing harm. And the point is not that it’s included in the private territory owned by this velcro-man—of course, it’s a significant factor, but still—but the boy believes it shouldn’t be a big deal for Peter to allow Stiles to just keep coming and staying here.
Yet Peter has another argument for telling Stiles that he can’t be in the preserve: the forest is a dangerous place to walk alone. While that’s understandable, the boy can’t quite agree with it. Perhaps he’s just too stubborn to accept this fact.
Stiles says nothing back, only straightens his spine in an attempt not to seem pathetic or small in the man’s eyes, to show he’s not one to be scared by some threatening undertone behind the man’s seemingly nice sight.
Peter doesn’t show any impressed expression, but his gaze seems to soften somewhat, losing some of its menacing weight. Perhaps the man just thought that Stiles is just a boy—a kid doing something an adult disapproves of. In another situation, Stiles might have rebelled against that treatment, but right now, it’s not a bad turn of events; it works in his favor, he guesses. The boy thinks maybe he can use his innocent look to his advantage.
He's not sure if it works on Peter, though.
The man doesn’t say anything else, just stares at him. Again. In the same way: unblinking, sharp, and way too focused for two stranger people who’ve only met twice. It pushes the boy to a thought that this fact might be why he shouldn’t come in the forest. The man strongly reminds him of an obsessed maniac, even though Stiles has never actually seen how an obsessed maniac or any other maniac looks (which is a good thing for sure). Still, Peter no doubt could pass for one.
After all, Stiles’ phone suddenly rings and makes his heart flip, alarming him about the time—he sets a timer in order to know when exactly he needs to pack up and step back home.
The motionless vibe between them is split by sharp movements of the rushing boy, sticking to the man, who still sits evenly in his warm spot. The ringing stops as suddenly as it started, offering to let everything fall into the same nice silence again. Now, staring dumbly at the screen of the phone, Stiles anxiously chews on his bottom lip, unsure whether to start to take his things or wait for Peter to say something. Though all is already decided for him, even before the brown-haired boy can even realize it. When he uncertainly reaches out for his notes, Peter makes a decision to help him with the clean-up.
Peter’s hand spreads out toward Stiles, holding his closed notes and book, waiting for him to take them. Hesitating a little bit, Stiles accepts the items and immediately sends all of them to his backpack, gathering scattered pens and pencils from the plaid altogether. With this man the boy completely forgot about his prepared lunch, which is actually a shame. He likes eating it in the open, fresh air: the meal is somehow more delicious, even if his lunch is simple sandwiches. Damned Peter.
Stiles stands up, and Peter does the same. Unexpectedly, the man chooses to pick up the boy’s plaid and even fold it up into a perfect square, casually handing it over to Stiles. The boy blinks at the carefully folded cloth in his hands for a few seconds before swiftly throwing it in his pack. He takes a quick look around to convince himself he hasn’t forgotten anything.
When he finished, Stiles looks uncertainly up at the man, who’s still standing in front of him (the boy had hoped Peter would leave by now), and weighs his options before doing something rash.
He doesn’t want to leave this place with the beautiful lake, but Stiles knows it’s time to go. That’s the first reason. The second is something that hints that the man is determined to literally kick his ass out of the preserve this time. Perhaps if he behaves well and does nothing defiant, as his mom liked to say, their meeting shouldn’t turn into big trouble for him—they’ll just disperse, heading to their homes. So, the brown-eyed boy stays in his place without shifting an inch. Eventually, though, he loses his endurance right away, announcing:
"I gotta go home."
It leaves his mouth so sheepishly, as if he’s the most innocent being ever, showing that Peter has no choice but to let him go. Stiles wonders if Peter was serious when he talked about his dad and about the part where he would tell everything if they met. Stiles runs through all possible options of a scenario in his mind, looking over them carefully and deciding that he will better leave it alone. He wouldn’t like to open his small weakness to this man. What if Peter evaluated his opening to finally get rid of him by going through his father? That would definitely be a very dirty and unfair move.
"If you go away at this very moment," Peter suddenly shatters the spells with the sound of his quiet voice, clearly addressing Stiles, "I won’t tell your father about this."
Now, Stiles tries to wave off the idea that Peter just read his thoughts, which is why he’s offering such a deal. He considers it for a few moments before giving his consent in response. But the part “at this very moment” worries him a bit too much.
"How should I know that you won’t break your promise?" Stiles carefully and slowly voices his question.
"I said, ‘at this very moment,’" Peter reminds him promptly, cutting him off, and pauses. Then he tilts his head slightly; his gaze is pinpointed at the boy’s darkened eyes. "Besides, if I see you here yet again, lying around or doing something or whatever, trust me, I’ll tell your dad everything I consider necessary at the first opportunity."
The man utters all this with an almost-hissing manner, somehow looking harmless enough, yet very minatory at the same time. The threat is so bright and clear in this kind of speech that every hair on the back of Stiles’ neck stirs and rises. A moment later, the man is calm and normal again as he asks the boy,
"Do I make myself clear?"
All Stiles can do right now is to murmur a whispering “yeah,” which seems to please Peter.
"Good. Now, go home."
The roughness in Peter’s voice leaves no choice; it means there’s the only one way the events will go. Stiles is full of confidence that leaving right now is the best decision. His legs do their job without even his conscious part, turning him around and moving away from Peter. Damned Peter, ruining what had been a peaceful, beautiful day with his irritating and arrogant presence.
Stiles manages to pass almost through the whole thicket and onto the familiar path before he recognizes his own name called from behind. Surprised—this being the second time Peter has used his name per this day—he stops and looks back over his shoulder to take a glance at the source of the sound. Peter's face is deeply furrowed.
"And, Stiles," his voice drums in the air again, "don’t walk alone in any woods at nighttime. Ever."
Stiles says nothing back, thinking that advice is obviously reasonable to anyone. Yet something nudges him to take note of too serious the man’s expression, unwavering voice, and sharp gaze that seems to look right into Stiles’ very soul, telling him there’s more danger than the ordinary reasons every person knows. And all of this makes the brown-haired boy swallow thickly at the new suspects: what exactly is Peter trying to say? As if... as if the man is trying to warn him, whatever it means. Unable to follow the thread of the thought, Stiles just turns his head away and rushes to get home as soon as possible. The dusk around him only helps the boy to do it even faster, nudging him at his back with its hidden-from-vision hands.
Stiles doesn’t let his brain process the given information properly, focusing instead on reaching home, because he doesn’t want to fall into spiraling into wild and quickly clinging thoughts. Doesn't want to wind himself up while he’s going through the falling darkness.
A fleeting glance at the sky peeking through the treetops makes Stiles realize the full moon is coming tomorrow.
***
It’s getting even worse. Stiles sinks into a depressed mood more and more often than before, appearing more like a pale ghost than a pale boy as he is. The unbearable weight of his circumstances presses down on him harder and harder. His mom has been admitted to the hospital; her condition worsens with each passing day. The doctors’ tests only confirm the grim predictions—though this has become clear even without any official word. At first, she began avoiding Stiles. She stopped talking to him and tried to slip away whenever he appeared somewhere nearby. The brief looks she gave him became evil, filled no longer just with hostility—they were filled with hate and, for some reason, a hint of fear. She constantly whispered something to his dad when he returned from another short shift, after which his father always answered something to her in just as quiet voice, then his father led her upstairs. After a while, Stiles could hear her murmuring under her breath that he was a monster, repeating it over and over again without noticing anything around her. When another visit to the doctors told them hospitalization was necessary, there was no choice but to agree, so that’s what his father did. So now, Stiles is torn between the school and homework and hospital visits. Stiles feels how every ounce of strength is squeezed out from him. Seeing her against the faceless white walls, on the sickly white sheets of the hospital bed, is an unbearable thing the boy tries to cope with. Every such time he holds back tears. Especially during the moments when something inside clicks back to her and her true part—his mom—surfaces, and they can talk a little without a worry of another episode and aggression. The realization that these moments could be the last ones in their lives breaks the hearts of each of them, but each of the Stilinski family doesn’t let it show through them. They don’t want to sour the precious moment when they can be close to each other instead and take everything good and light from it. Even though there’s nothing good for her in the near future. During the rest of the time, Stiles’ mother grows more impulsive. She develops memory problems, forgetting some past events or mistaking things, or this manifests in hostility toward the boy, who she calls a monster. The first time he heard her say it was a visit with his dad, as they always did. They brought her favorite chocolate candies and shortcake, and Stiles carried a bouquet of chamomiles, white and pure. He was excited to present the gifts sooner, anticipation simmering through his veins. But when they came in the room, when his mother’s eyes caught his own, she screamed. Then his father quickly moved to her side, closing the boy from her view and trying to calm her down. She kept talking about Stiles, that he was a threat, that he wanted to hurt her, while Stiles stood frozen in the doorway with flowers in his small hands, listening to that painful and erratic monologue. He understood—and still does—that it was the illness speaking to him, not his true mother. It was a sickness that made her mistake things yet again, but it did (and still does) hurt. It hurt to hear something like that from the most important person, from someone like Mom. Even if she is sick and unaware of what she’s saying. Once his dad made sure she was relatively okay, he came back to the boy, who still stood in the doorway and watched. He led him into the hallway and sat him down in a chair. Noah crouched in front of the frozen boy and looked directly into his brown eyes staring into nothing. His dad tried to explain things that he already knew, tried to explain that she didn’t mean everything she had just said, that there was no one’s fault—neither his own nor his dad’s nor his mom’s. But as Stiles dared to raise his gaze to his father, he saw nothing but pain that punched him in the gut, stealing all the air from his lungs. A few silent moments later, his dad went to find doctors to discuss something the boy had missed, leaving him sitting alone in the chair. Stiles sat there motionlessly, staring blankly at the pale piles on the floor. He never released the chamomiles from his tight grip. This continues. Not every time, no, but still often enough. She keeps saying that her son is a monster who wants to hurt her. Her eyes widen in a frantic manner, as if they’re about to roll from her skull, and her sight tells how much she looks like a crazy human. She yells and kicks, waving her hands as though trying to push away something. When someone reminds her that Stiles is her eight-year-old son, that he’s not going to hurt her, she doesn’t believe them and insists they don’t understand her, don’t see the way he looks at her. She doesn’t believe even her husband, who tells her exactly the same things; she still holds her line. Though after a while, there’s a new meaning in her crazy words. Now, she claims that Stiles wants to kill her. No one, of course, takes her seriously; the doctors have given up trying to convince her otherwise, saying that there’s nothing they all can do with this: the sickness is progressing. Stiles’ father tries to drive some sense into Claudia to no avail. His efforts seem to not work: she already is too far gone. The doctors are right, Stiles thinks in those moments. There's nothing they can do with that, nothing they can do to help. But that doesn’t mean the boy will abandon her there among the sterile, colorless walls by herself or leave this heavy burden on his father’s shoulders alone. No. Stiles would never do something like that, so he doesn’t drop his hands, keeps going with his dad to the hospital after school, serving as his own moral support. And maybe (he couldn’t deny it) the reason he’s still doing it is because he doesn’t want to be alone. That’s why he would prefer the dreaded place instead of the face of the dull, silent loneliness. This situation can’t compare with anything he has ever experienced in his entire life; it strips away any hope for a bright future together and takes away something alive and joyful from them. Although each meeting with his mother only makes the boy fall into a spiral of sour mood, trashing him into a more distant, more silent condition. He has become quieter lately, more withdrawn; he’s stopped feeling happiness and joy, he’s started to feel nothing but sadness and helplessness. Anxiety has turned into a persistent companion for the boy now. His new habit now is gnawing on his nails during moments the boy feels unsettled, moments he falls into deep thinking and stays there for a long time until something from the outside reaches out for him to return him to the spiny reality. It happens automatically, without his awareness; whenever Stiles turns out the world and sinks into himself, his hand rises up to his mouth, and his teeth find the uneven edge of his nail or the annoying hangnail. Not that the boy didn’t do this at all, but all at once this behavior has intensified with a vengeance and instantly worsened. The brown-eyed boy makes sharp, uncontrolled movements, twitches, and other restless actions of his fingers, hands, or legs. But otherwise, Stiles stays passive with an absolute lack of energy, except maybe the negative one that floods through his veins all the time. The boy no longer walks outside to hang out with Scott or with himself alone; he has forgotten about his outings to the preserve, where that arrogant dude would definitely find him and say something badass, forcing him to leave again. Long story short, that encounter was the last one for this agonizingly long time—Stiles has never seen Peter after. Well, he just hasn’t come to the lake again after that situation and has then completely crossed every thought to do with anything but his mom from his mind. And later, most of his days he traveled into the hospital and was not up to it. Now, the boy spends time either sitting in the hospital chair beside his mother’s bed (when she’s asleep; otherwise, he sits somewhere in the hall) or in a chair in his bedroom when he’s home. His friend often comes to him at the hospital—thanks to his mom, who works here as a nurse and sometimes checks on Claudia. These moments feel like a light and very needed breeze in a stifling space; they help Stiles to stay afloat in the middle of an endless vastness of the seemingly never-stopping suffering. Scott is just here with him, and it’s more than enough; at least, it offers Stiles support while his father is at the station or with his mother in her room during her bad days. Meanwhile, Stiles’ almost forgotten invisible being is fading somewhere else. Occasionally, when his dad has a sudden full night shift, Stiles gets to sleep over at Scott’s house. Those nights are probably the best thing in his currently dark present. Speaking of his someone... They haven’t seen each other in a very long period; the boy can’t even recall the exact number of those lonely nights. But he knows for sure it’s been long enough since his last dream enveloped his worn-out mind. Or at least, the one that felt like a dream.***
He dreamed of a clearing surrounded by tall, solid trees, as if they were crowding around it to protect it or keep it a secret. The cleaning itself was like a medium-sized thicket—neither too big nor too small. There was nothing particularly memorable about it, nothing different from any other clearing in the forest. But perhaps the most important and extraordinary aspect of this dream was the big—no, giant—stump right in the middle of the emptiness. The stump was circular and so large that Stiles could lie down on it, and there would be enough space left for four more guys his age. Well, or for three more, since the center was occupied by someone who had no clear figure; their silhouette resembled a living shadow, thick and voluminous, rather than a body absorbed by darkness. What was weird for the brown-haired boy was how vaguely familiar the whole picture of the clearing felt. It was as if he had been there once but couldn’t quite place it. Although every time Stiles tried to trace that elusive memory, his skittish thoughts scattered like dry leaves on a road in fall. Yet he had to distract himself from his futile efforts because the silhouette in front of him started to stir. Somehow, the boy realized it was turning toward him, and at that very moment, his breath hitched, completely stolen from his lungs. The silhouette looked like Stiles himself—utterly and precisely. The same body lines, the same height, the same profile of the face. It was mind-boggling. Stiles froze, unable to make even the minuscule move, even holding his breath after what he had just seen. But the voice that emerged was different; it belonged to the being that had been talking to him in his bedroom at nights, a presence Stiles had been counting as something precious and almost dear for a while. It was grown. "Hello, kid," his twin greeted, and when the boy didn’t utter even a sound, he patted the smooth surface of the stump, as if inviting him to join. "C’mon, come here. There's plenty of space for both of us," he mocked, a smirk playing on his lips. Stiles couldn’t even make himself blink—how was he supposed to take a step forward?! They both stared at each other for several long seconds—the silhouette peeked over his shoulder while Stiles looked straight ahead—until the boy’s chest burned, reminding him to breathe. Finally, he had to unfreeze himself and gulp in air as his twin turned fully to face him, sitting cross-legged. Everything about the figure told Stiles that he was waiting for him to sit down on the stump. With no choice, Stiles had to join his living shadow, reflecting the silhouette’s pose, and silently looking at... himself? His mind must have gone completely crazy... They kept a silence for a few more prolonged moments before Stiles finally decided to give voice to his thoughts. "What the hell happened in the world that we finally met?!" Apparently, his surprised and slightly reproachful tone amused his twin, because the silhouette before him slightly shook his head as laughter poured from him, ringing and genuine. Stiles joined in, letting his laughing flow, letting the ever-present tension find a way to get out of his body and mind with each breath in and out. When the boy settled down, he felt better, lighter, freer. As if all the chains—that had tightly tied Stiles without giving him any move—had fallen away, relieving the boy of their steel, firm grip. Or, at least, those chains that had shackled a part within him responsible for emotions and feelings, keeping Stiles from expressing any of them to the world. And, finally, something broke free, and the first sob escaped the boy. Everything he had held back and buried deep inside him without allowing himself even the tiniest break spilled everywhere, as if a dam had broken, releasing a big flow of all pent-up feelings. Tears shimmered in the boy’s eyes as his smile quivered with the violent urge to either cry or to bite whatever down, even as his cheek burned with a crystal-hot droplet sliding down it. His gaze became hazed and blurred, yet an irrational smile still stretched across his lips in a poor, desperate attempt to convince his twin—or perhaps himself—that he was fine. Although the corners of his mouth looked down, likely twisting his face into an ugly, distorted curve. Eventually, his shoulders shuddered with continuous sobs, and Stiles gave up on the fight, curling in on himself as much as his position allowed, covering his eyes with his palms. He didn’t make any loud noise beyond the soft sobs that escaped him, going through it all silently. If someone had glanced at him, they might not have thought the little boy was crying. But a closer look would definitely have revealed his body was shaking intermittently. Nevertheless, the one sitting before him had already witnessed everything—the one from whom Stiles longed to get reassurance, though he would never admit it at that moment. Void was the only being the boy could trust in and could trust to see his other side—his deeply buried unhappiness, his bitter feelings; the most intimate, deepest fears—without fear of unexpected mockery or crossing the line of teasing. Since, despite the fact his twin looked like a shadow—a manifestation of his strongest fear; the very piece of the darkness—or despite all means of it, Void had proven to be trustworthy, showing Stiles that he could not be afraid. That was why he didn’t flinch or jump up when a hand brushed against his back and tapped him gently. That was why he didn’t throw away the hand from himself or stop showing his emotions to its owner. Even though this moment was different from others by the fact that this was the first time they had seen each other for real, in person—having only spoken in the boy’s room before, without a chance to meet—Stiles found no trace of fear or distrust within himself. In truth, it was an ironic realization, because he had faith in something that resembled darkness and bore the name ‘Void,’ which was also associated with the darkness. Well, if there was dark all around, then nothing existed, as no one could see anything in the dark. So, essentially, nothing existed in the dark. So. It meant... that his fear didn’t work with his twin. Maybe. At least, that was how he felt it. Void didn’t speak, just sitting beside him and holding him through the boy’s breakdown—a raw moment of his weakness and vulnerability—offering Stiles his silent support. While Stiles found an anchor in him, clutching at him instantly, trying to ground himself, even as tears still ran, whimpers still split the air, and shaking still coursed through his body. The boy would have expressed his gratitude to his shadow for not asking him anything if he hadn’t been so consumed by his own problems and the overwhelming pain of possible losing his mom forever. For some reason, somehow, it felt as though his twin already knew his thoughts and feelings, as he always seemed to. And this idea didn’t evoke the previous unease in his little heart this time; instead, it brought some kind of sense of relief that he didn’t have to tell everything aloud. But nothing lasts forever, and so did the silence. It was eventually broken by his dark twin’s murmuring voice, soft and soothing like leaves whispering in the wind. "It’s alright, don’t be ashamed of your feelings." Void quietly reassured him with words the brown-eyed boy had never heard from anyone before; they were exactly what he needed to hear, though he only realized it in that moment. "It’s okay to feel so sad that you want to cry; it’s okay to feel confused emotions when a situation isn’t typical, when it brings up something that puts you into such mixed feelings. Sometimes, something can be too complicated and too conflicted for us to handle, and it’s fine to feel something other than the expected happiness or anything like that. And it’s totally fine to let it all go by crying, screaming, or anything that would help you feel better." Likely, his twin sensed even better than Stiles realized, as that speech sank into the boy with each spoken word, every meaning of it. It was meant to comfort him, yet the words only brought forth even more tears. It felt as if each sentence was a knife stabbing at him, leaving all pieces of him bleeding, as if Void knew exactly what was eating away at him and simply targeted the boy’s most aching spots with each word. All while Stiles remained curled up, his forehead resting against Void’s crossed ankles, and listened to everything his twin was telling him, soaked in that quiet murmur of his twin. Until he finished talking, giving the little boy a moment to reflect on everything that had been said and to comprehend it all. Void didn’t rush Stiles; he allowed the process to unfold at its own pace. For that, Stiles was grateful, even though all this was a new thing for him to fully understand. But at that moment, the boy and his shadow-twin were letting each other be together for a few minutes—letting Shadow hold himself; letting the brown-haired boy rest on himself. They shared time given to them. Right before Void shifted slightly, causing Stiles to tear his head out of him and look up at him. When Stiles lifted his eyes up to where Void’s ones should’ve been, he could have sworn he saw two silver shining spots there. Then his shadow grabbed both of Stiles’ shoulders, squeezing them lightly, and his whole figure conveyed a sense of unwavering determination. Stiles didn’t have to wait any longer before Void spoke in a firm tone: "And let me tell you something more. Whatever is happening in your life, it’s not your fault. Just remember that, kid. Neither in what you feel nor in anything else." And this, this, caused the last barrier to break down too. To burst out a flood of guilt (it was your mom who was sick, and you dared to allow yourself to think about her this way?), shame (it was your mom, and you were scared of her?), and self-hatred (it was your mom who loved you, while you sat uselessly there feeling all these wrong feelings). To let it out in a tsunami that went through the whole boy, sweeping away everything in its wake. In the aftermath, Stiles was left absolutely broken, strengthless, and completely lightheaded, overwhelmed by a sensation of freedom and lightness that he had long forbidden himself to feel. But... it wasn’t the only thing that sent Stiles’ mind reeling, prompted fresh tears to brim in his eyes again, and caused a lump to get stuck in his throat. No, it wasn’t the reason for his heart to pound harder with the meaning behind the phrase or the unwavering tone in which it was spoken. The way Void chose his words, the way he kept holding Stiles throughout it all, the way he sought to comfort him and reassure him that it was okay, he was okay—it was the second thing that sent Stiles spiraling into a surge of even more tangled feelings and thoughts. It was so unfamiliar and complicated, including the exhausted and nervous state he had been in for so long, that the little boy could no longer hold back his questions that tried to break free. "Why do you always come to me and say things like this? Why did you come to me initially?" the boy asked, his voice cracking as he tried both to wipe away the wet trails on his cheeks and look into those silver spots instead of the normal eyes. Though both were without a result. He hiccoughed softly every few breaths, waiting for a reaction from the one who sat before him silently but was a steadfast support right now. Stiles couldn’t see it, but somehow, he certainly knew his twin smirked at that point, and the following chuckle only confirmed his rightness about this. The gentle tinge in the sound made him sit up a little straighter, looking more carefully at his own shadow, guessing what it might be. To the boy’s surprise, it didn’t take too long for Void to give his ever-vague answer. But first, he leaned in just a tiny bit closer, as if he was about to tell him a secret. "Because you wanted someone to be around you, didn’t you?" his twin said quietly enough to turn Stiles’ ears on what he was saying. "Someone who would be with you in moments of your fear, loneliness, or during just bad times. Didn’t you forget that, sun? I just was drawn by your powerful wish." For some reason, this explanation felt reasonable enough to Stiles. He had indeed wanted someone to be around him, at least for a while. Someone who would understand him and accept his deepest fear, someone who wouldn’t see it as an opportunity to mock him. He did want someone who would offer to him their pure support, who would be a friend for him. Maybe it was selfish, or even worse—Stiles wasn’t sure—but he couldn’t deny that it was his truest wish. And besides, Void had told him not to be ashamed of his own feelings, so it was completely fine to feel that way back then, even if he had everything he could ever want. And most likely, that was why Stiles always felt bad about the whole situation. He had everything and more, yet he still felt something was missing. He still grappled with those “wrong” feelings: a lack of support (that the boy could have received from his parents and the best friend), loneliness (even though he could hang out with his family or his friend a little longer), selfishness, and a kind of wrong wish to have someone who would be near him all the time. All of this put the little boy in a sense of ungratefulness for what he had; it ignited a conflict that had lasted for far too long, one that Stiles could hardly fathom how he had lived before without it. And the newfound knowing that it was fine to feel something like this clashed head-on with his rooted beliefs, almost fiercely. Because Stiles really wanted to believe it, to get out of the pool that he put himself in, to stop drowning in the thick bog of self-eating-out. Yet another part of him couldn’t let him do it, couldn’t have it at all, just indulgently nodding to him, after which dragging his head back down into that false water and making him gag. Because it would mean that Stiles just made up those problems or anything else that he wasn’t yet able to realize fully. It turned out, while the boy mulled apparently about himself, Void was watching him. Well, if it could be called that, given that he had no distinct eyes. Stiles, of course, didn’t notice what his twin was doing—he was way too preoccupied with his internal thoughts to spread his attention to something else—and existed in his own hole of conflicts. The moment Void shifted, leaning back into his previous position, Stiles’ golden-brown eyes immediately rose up to meet him, still very wet and confused. "And what about, as you expressed yourself, saying those things," his shadow thoughtfully started to muse, drawing Stiles’ focus to him. "Well, I dare to suppose this is included in the whole thing called ‘support,’ little one," he said softly, finally offering Stiles the possibly needed, yearned answer. But then, when the boy breathed out a gentle ‘oh’ and his cheeks blushed with a light pink color, Void sighed loudly. "Or maybe I just wanted someone around me too. Maybe we simply needed each other, and we met by the flow of circumstances. Perhaps fate itself wanted us to meet each other one day." Void uttered it in a whisper, soothing and soft, as if he himself had no idea why he had come—if he did it by his own conscious want—to Stiles in the first place. And now it looked like he was confessing to something that had been causing him to concern. It felt as though he just demonstrated his trust to Stiles by sharing his now actual secret. Because, for the first time, he told Stiles about himself, not about something banal or typical, but about something personal and thoroughly hidden from the world. Since he opened up about what he had desired while being trapped; since this topic, which they both had subconsciously tried to avoid, was sensitive. Or there was nothing more, and this all was only for the boy, and Void simply responded to his questions. It gave him a pause for several long, very silent moments. All while his twin’s intent and unblinking gaze seemed to stare at a spot somewhere on the boy’s shoulder. Neither of them looked at each other after Void’s last words. As though it shocked both of them in two different ways: Stiles was shocked at something so raw and honest; Void was probably shocked at what he just said, at his own ability to do something like this... Like, sharing what he hid inside with someone, anyone. But it wasn’t enough for the boy to calm and settle down, because as much as it sounded—too well and too beautifully—Stiles couldn’t help but try and seek a trace of all possible suspects. The words sounded way too perfect to be real; they sounded almost the same way he would’ve wanted to hear... And if it was true, if it was exactly what he was thinking about right then and there, then the boy wouldn’t like it to be ever done. Nervously shifting in his place, Stiles licked his suddenly dry lips and uncertainly reached out toward Void’s knee. When his fingertips brushed, very slightly, against the fabric of his twin’s pants, Stiles, to his surprise, grabbed a handful of his knee and gave it a slight shake. The boy felt a rush of excitement course through him—he was so nervous at that moment. And as soon as the awareness returned to Void’s eyes (there was kind of surprise within them), and he himself looked up at the boy, Stiles hurriedly blurted out the thought that had been clinging to him just moments before. "You wouldn’t leave me, would you?" And maybe his voice came out a little bit breathless or somewhat worried, or even too much for something like the first meeting. Most likely, Stiles looked too concerned about his current worry. As if he was just beginning to feel such a thing—like something akin to friendship, yet wider and more different (in a good meaning) in many ways than just simply one. For some reason, the thought that this kind of connection could snap before it had a chance to bloom properly frightened him so badly. The thought that it could so easily disappear suddenly felt bone-crunching that the little boy didn’t immediately register the stinging in his eyes as tears began to well up. Somehow this had become more important than he could have ever imagined; a negative answer would mean losing something vital, persistent forever. For a few heartbeats, Void seemed to simply look at him, as though he was slightly confused or didn’t really understand what Stiles meant exactly. Yet he made no move to push the boy’s slightly trembling hand away—an unexpectedly comforting gesture that the boy would have appreciated more if he wasn’t so consumed by his worries. Stiles guessed that his shadow was picking up his next response, considering his unmoving figure and the continuous silence. As much as it looked nice and careful, Stiles couldn’t help his heavily pounding heart that strove to jump out through his ribs. It betrayed his actual state along with his broken, hoarse voice, and the boy could swear that his twin somehow could hear the galloping rhythm of his heartbeat. Eventually, his shadow made a small movement: his head tilted to the side like some animal interested in something before its nose. Stiles suddenly remembered another living shadow that he had seen not so long ago—the fox. That thing with the tilting of the head reminded him of the fox’s animalistic habits; it did something similar as well. An absurd idea flicked through his mind at that point. What if... Stiles shivered as Void’s hand, the movement of it positively missed, squeezed his arm above his elbow firmly but not hard. The boy let his definitely tear-filled eyes drift down to the dark shape of Void’s hand before he traveled very slowly, as if with some caution, his gaze higher along the arm until he met those silver spots that represented Void’s eyes. They already looked straight into his own, making Stiles gasp softly. "I wouldn’t leave you," Void said with power in his voice, holding the boy’s gaze with his shimmering eyes—spots—never letting his arm go. "I won’t." A rush of air escaped the boy’s lungs as he struggled to hold onto the last bits of his strength in order not to fall apart with a pile of many different emotions. It felt like his twin’s hand, still firmly gripping his arm, was the only anchor keeping him from doing so. All at once, Stiles grabbed it with his hands tightly, as though he was terrified of losing the physical contact or the connection between him and Void that just settled tonight. It seemed the boy got lost in the train of his unsettling and overpowering thoughts, because the brown-eyed boy was shaken very slightly by the same hand on his arm. He had to focus on the silver shining again. Perhaps his shadow only had waited for it, since the familiar, just slightly whispering voice sounded in the space around them. "Unless you would like to get rid of me one day." The phrase hung out in the air like a thick cloud of smoke, refusing to dissipate. It tasted bitter on the tip of Stiles’ tongue, ringing false, like a discordant note of the entire melody. Stiles had a suspicion that Void put more vast meaning in his phrase, obviously a visible one, that Void wanted to say something more with this. And it stabbed at him with a way too painful hint beneath the sentence filled up with strangeness. There was a tension not only between both Stiles and Void, but also amid the whole place surrounding them, which leeched that kind, comforting thing that had built for just a few moments. For unexplained reasons, it hurt the boy on some kind of level he himself couldn’t understand back then, making him writhe back and forth inside of his mind in an attempt to figure out what to do. But, gathering all possible that he had in him, Stiles took a deep breath, as if preparing for something monumental, and blew out, speaking surprisingly so easily. "I—I wouldn’t. Ever," Stiles promised heatedly, meaning it with his whole heart. Because it felt right. The second the words fell, it seemed to Stiles like there was an expression that flashed through his twin’s face. It looked like a hope, as if Void longed for Stiles’ promise to be a truth so much, but it would never happen due to a reason that only he knew. It was shown in the silver depths of his bottomless eyes. "I’m honored and appreciate it," his twin murmured with gratitude in his intonation after the boy’s kind of promise. He continued, though, "But I’d give you advice not to make a promise you couldn’t keep someday." His voice was deprived of any coldness or steel notes or any strictness; instead, it had a power beneath. He was simply saying what he was thinking about. And yet there was nothing left to say back for the boy with tea-colored eyes; Stiles just opened and closed his mouth over and over, like a fish thrown on the beach. "But right now, I don’t want to tell you to leave." Stiles dropped his last and probably most convincing card to Void. Considering his position at that point and the fact his shadow still didn’t utter anything about this matter, the boy felt determination. "So, right now, I make a promise that I won’t want to get rid of you in the near future." Stiles placed his right hand over his left sternum, as if making an oath to show he was talking honestly. In that moment, it seemed to the boy as though Void was both amused and maybe even surprised by what he was putting into their dialogue. As if Stiles just laid down some formidable argument that left Void with no cards. Yet, despite all this, a sudden moment of uncertainty covered Stiles, causing him to doubt his own spoken words and not-an-oath-but-something-close-to-it thing. He couldn’t help himself and couldn’t do anything with a question that clawed at his throat from the inside out. "Right, isn’t it?.." he asked shyly and lowly, feeling like something was about to clutch at his heart pounding heavily without having any obvious first-sight reasons. After several heartbeats of silence, Void made a humming sound and slightly moved his head up and down. A second later he chuckled softly. "Well," his shadow drawled in a sort of satisfied tone, "so I’m not leaving you and won’t leave, as I said already." "But what about—" The boy started to speak and instantly trailed off as memories of Void’s moments of absence hazed his mind. Stiles was about to wonder about it, though he didn’t really know how to put this more politely. "What?" Void lowly asked, encouraging him to continue. Stepping over a brief moment of light hesitation and musing if he should touch this theme, Stiles decided to share his current worry with Void. Besides, this topic was connected with his twin either way. "But what about the moments you disappear? Wouldn’t that mean you’re leaving somewhere? Or is it something different?" "Oh, I get the point," his twin responded immediately, which did nothing with the boy’s nervous anticipation to get an explanation. "I’d like to say that it won’t happen again, but it doesn’t depend on me," Void said, his voice unnaturally even, though Stiles could sense the underlying pain. As though Void didn’t want to show his honest emotions. "So... my appearance could be a rare occurrence sometimes. This doesn’t mean that I don’t want to see you or that I’m leaving you; this is just... something that happens from time to time. Sometimes I might be gone for a long time, sometimes just for a day or a few." Then he paused and fell into deep thought, and Stiles waited for what was going to come out. "And... I must make sure you understand me, so I’m gonna to clarify something," Void announced seriously, shifting uncomfortably in his place. "I said I won’t leave of my own will, but if it happens once, if it turns out that I left you, just remember that it won’t be because of me or you. It will be due to circumstances that wrap a chain around my neck. I’m stuck in a terrifying situation where I don’t have an escape right now." Each word that fell from Void’s lips pierced the little boy’s heart, echoing almost with the same sense of desperation he felt at the hospital regarding his mother’s state of mental health. Stiles didn’t have it in him to listen to anything to do with hopelessness—he had had enough. "Yeah... I remember you told me once," the boy whispered in an attempt to stop this painful monologue. He wanted to spare Void from having to explain further. "You said that’s the reason why you disappear sometimes..." "Okay then, so you get it," his shadow breathed out so quietly that Stiles had to tune his ears harder on the murmuring sound. Stiles had a fragile hint that Void was glad they could shift away from this heavy topic, because the boy could understand everything with his own brain. There was a moment of comforting silence where they both were just sitting together and enjoying it. "So..." Stiles began after a little while but faltered right away, unsure of what to say next. Considering a little bit, he thought to say something important in his opinion. "Thank you. For being close and for everything else too." Although he felt too shy at this point to meet Void’s gaze as he spoke. But it seemed his twin ignored it and simply was pleased by the warmth of his gratitude. "My pleasure, little one," Void only purred at the boy’s words. A second later, his twin shifted away from Stiles and lay down on the stump. He crossed his hands behind his head and trained his gaze on the sky. Frowning and trying to catch an act, Stiles crawled a bit closer to Void and stared at him, studying him curiously. "What are you doing?" he asked with confusion. "Well, I’m lying," Void replied with a mock-serious tone, at which Stiles only huffed. "Alright, alright. I thought you needed to sleep." "Why?" "Because we’re basically in your dream. And to get out of it, you need to fall asleep here. So..." Void tapped the stump beside himself, offering the confused boy to lie down next to him. "Get your ass here and try to sleep." Stiles took a look at his twin yet again, regarding his options at that point. Ultimately, he decided to trust Void. Stiles settled into the spot Void had indicated, carefully tucking himself close to his twin’s side. The boy didn’t know why, but this place and this moment felt very special now; it seemed as though right then the two of them were free from worries and troubles in their separate lives. As if they could enjoy the company of each other. However, some unsettling still stirred in Stiles’ gut; the boy turned his head toward his shadow, having no idea what he wanted to say or maybe ask. It was clear that Void noticed his unease; he couldn’t do otherwise. His living shadow smiles softly. "Just sleep, Stiles. Everything is alright," his twin told the boy firmly, his tone imbued with reassurance. "I’m here; I’m still guarding over your dream," Void suddenly let out a vaguely familiar phrase that he had already heard—like a chord deep within his mind. And then, suddenly, it clicked—his brain nudged at him, opening a veil for the boy to look more closely. To look at one of the nights when he and Void—known as Nameless back then—had hung out together in his bedroom. That night, Void for the first time brought up a topic about Stiles’ fear. That night, Void said those warm, impossibly meaningful words for the first time. That night, the boy felt unbelievably safe, knowing that even amidst the darkness, he had someone to stand guard over him and just be near to him. Just like at this moment, as he lay beside Void on the stump, Stiles felt exactly the same way, even if this entire place was just a dream. Because Stiles could see Void, not only hear, and that made this moment feel infinitely special. A warmth spread through his body, and a sense of peace of mind wrapped up his whole being. With a sigh that came from the depths of his chest, the brown-eyed boy tilted his gaze upward. Looking at the dusky sky, where the bright, luminous moon peeked through the crowns of the trees, Stiles couldn’t help but think that he probably already had his own moon beside himself. Or rather, the dark side of it. As he had always wished for. He let himself close his eyes and be pulled by insistent hands of the dream.***
After that kind of shared dream, Stiles didn’t meet Void anymore, didn’t even hear him. He supposes that moment with the disappearance has already clawed into his twin; that’s why his absence still follows after the boy everywhere he goes. Not that it occupies him; it’s just buzzing in the back of his mind periodically. Stiles doesn’t have the luxury of time to dwell on it anyway; his thoughts are consumed by his own sufferings as well as circling around his mother’s condition. So... The brown-haired boy tries not to be scattered on sadder things or waste himself and his strengths on something else. Perhaps Stiles looks like a ghost lately, a pale shadow of his former self; he thinks he should save at least a small part of himself from another weight on his shoulders and mind. It seems to him like he just exists right now, not lives, without being aware of everything that happens around him. As if all in him works only thanks to his brain that makes him wake up in the morning, eat something, do something, walk to school and back home, eat something again, wash and brush his teeth before finally getting in bed. Each day feels like a mechanical cycle. The system doesn’t change, except for those quite common trips to the hospital—they also cut into the boy’s schedule almost seamlessly and without any mercy. Sometimes, deep within the recesses of his mind, Stiles finds himself standing in front of a haunting thought: this might never end. Or, at least, it will drag on for a long time. Still, the grey, lifeless routine doesn’t ease its grip.
