Chapter Two
May 1, 2025 at 6:56 AM
The next morning proved to be a truly lovely one; the sun was peeking from behind lightly gray clouds, its rays were breaking through the blinds on his bedroom window and painting the room with a soft, bright light. The boy lay in his bed, feeling pretty good, for his surprise — although he always feels good every morning, but this one, the brown–haired boy was in a super good mood, and that’s why he woke up so easily.
His mom kissed him on his forehead when he came downstairs, as she usually does every time to wake him up, but this time, he got up by himself. His dad was in the kitchen too, already dressed in his uniform, standing by the coffee machine with a cup in his hand, smiling at the boy, and wishing him a good morning. This breakfast, basically, was no different from any other — just some pancakes with a glass of orange juice; his mom drank her tea, while his dad talked about his latest accident at the station; nothing grave happened, though the little boy wasn’t quite sure — and yet it seemed to be cozier and nicer. He had no idea why, though he didn’t complain.
He always loves it when his parents smile, laugh, or communicate about some things. He does.
After, the brown-haired boy gathered up quickly, grabbed his backpack where it lay on the desk chair, and then followed his father to a front door where his mother was waiting for them to give them a hug and finally walked out of the house into the street. The roads were sadly grayish and wet; the many puddles reflected the slightly cloudy sky as if a large mirror had been shattered into small pieces and then scattered across the town. The little boy, full of joy and amusement, jumped over one of them, supported by the hand of his father, who held him in order to keep the boy from slipping up and falling into the muddy water. It wouldn’t be so funny.
And they got into his father’s car — which actually belongs to the police or something — where both of them talked about his lessons and his dad’s work, but only a little: his father is a cop, a deputy, and so he shouldn’t expand on this subject with anyone. His son is not an exception. The sun poured its warmth all the way to the school, giving passers-by its welcoming embrace, caressing their faces with its stripes of bright warmth. By the time they drove up the parking lot of the school, the sky, where a few blue patches peeked out from behind hazy large masses, had been pulled in by thicker and more huge clouds that threatened to bring the rain down. So the boy and his dad had to quickly say their goodbyes to each other and then hide under the roofs, one of the car and the other of the school.
That's how he appeared in an English class, and now he’s sitting at his desk, writing down something in his notebook as his friend, who’s sitting behind the boy, leans forward, whispering lowly that he got a new game and that they just must try and play it. Preferably today, after school, while his mom is at her shift at the hospital. And the boy reaches back to show him his thumb in agreement. He needs to tell his mother he’s going to Scott’s, so he will be a little bit late.
English passes him, and he enjoys the break as all the students do, wandering all around and loudly talking among themselves. The boy heads to his locker along with his friend, who’s shaking the inhaler and, after one draw, starting to speak.
"Christmas is soon. Do your parents have any plans for it?" Scott asks him as the brown-eyed boy flings open his locker door.
He shrugs with one shoulder and hums noncommittally.
"I’m not quite sure; we haven’t talked about it yet. What about you and your mom? Have you any plans?"
"We usually celebrate alone, just my mom and me, but—" his friend cuts himself off, and Stiles wonders what’s the matter, so he turns his head to Scott. His face is stuck in something uncertain, like he doesn’t know if he should word his question or offer or anything else; whatever it is, Scott apparently comes to a decision. "I wanted to talk to my mom about, uh, maybe we could invite you and your parents to celebrate... all together?"
Stiles stills then, completely motionless, and Scott hurries to say, looking more worried at this second, startled even.
"Of course, if you want or don’t mind! I just thought it would be totally the best party ever. So..." He looks at him sheepishly, trying very hard to be as casual and normal as he is on a normal day.
The boy stares at his friend dumbly, frozen, unable to form a word or a thought as his mind draws blank. He's not sure how much time passes, but it seems to be enough, because Scott started to shift in his place at some point, fiddling with the edge of his shirt. Stiles becomes embarrassed at himself right away, and he puts his palm on Scott’s shoulder, coaxing his friend to look up at him. The boy smiles softly.
"Dude, that’s an amazing idea!" he exclaims with growing enthusiasm, and Scott’s lips stretch into a quivering, genuine smile as he continues. "I’ll make sure to convince my parents to agree. Oh, it will definitely be absolutely cool!"
The boy pats his friend’s shoulder as Scott smiles very broadly now, nudges at Stiles’ arm with his fist, and says a soft kind of 'yeah.' Withdrawing his hand from Scott, the brown-haired boy turns back to his locker, thinking that his friend’s offer is so true and sincere, that he has a friend he can talk to, play, and hang out with. That he is someone’s friend and they like almost the same things, have some words that only they can understand, and... it feels so big, so close, so... just so. The brown-eyed boy can’t help but focus on his suddenly new goal — to get his parents to say 'yes' or 'okay' or some other affirmative answer to go to a party over Scott and his mom because it will be the best Christmas.
He spirals down into his reckless and relentless mind full of many jumping thoughts about the party, though the boy has to pay attention to more important things like his next lesson. It’s a little bit hard, but he manages somehow. Honestly, that’s not true.
The sudden bell makes both boys jump and exchange warning glances, and then they rush to run to their classes.
Just as the boys are leaving the most boring place ever, Stiles calls his mother to tell her that he will be staying at Scott’s for a little while and tugs his jacket closer to his neck at the same second as a sharp gust of wind blows at him very hard; the weather turns out to be even worse than it was at the lovely morning. Dark gray and blue clouds have closed the view of the warm sun, blocking it from everything alive, making everyone squirm and shiver at the cold wind. The same puddles on the ground and the cracked pavement he saw earlier today are now rippling, a circle by a circle going around and around again as the gust brushes them, many different reflections blurred out by its strength. The two boys couldn’t care less about the cold air, though; they just make their way to Scott’s home.
Colorful leaves play with the wild wind, scattering all over the road as two friends walk across the street, bouncing around some ideas for the party. They’re one hundred percent sure that their parents wouldn’t mind. Then, when they can’t come up with any gifts for their family (not that the boys have any money or that they’re going to buy anything at the very moment, but still they couldn’t go around this talk), they switch to another topic, while the houses around them change, the concrete carpets pass them, stay behind, and get far away, yet the view doesn’t shift; the same boring roads, the same houses, the same grasses, and the same damp. What a dull picture it all makes.
Scott explains to him the rules of the new game they are going to play, and Stiles just nods every time Scott ends his speech and asks, "got it?" and then he goes on speaking anew. The brown-eyed boy barely pays attention to his friend’s words, barely aware of that they’re almost there, and Scott keeps talking, but he doesn’t hear.
The boy gets stuck in thoughts about his dream, vivid and beautiful, about those words of that someone. Somewhat heavy, meaningful, and mesmerizing, even catchy, and about the Nameless himself — he still hasn’t said his name, amazingly — who is hidden from vision, has an impossibly good talent for telling every single story, legend, or some other tale. It nags at him, eats him up, and makes him think and think and think, over and over and over again — like something the brown-haired boy can’t understand. Some kind of particular reason for that, kind of why the stranger is in his bedroom, why he doesn’t show himself, why he chose him to tell his stories, why stories like this, why...
It's just a gigantic why. The boy hasn’t found any answer on it yet.
Staring at his feet, the boy continues to walk without entry of his mind. Maybe he should ask a question. Maybe he should have asked him before; he definitely should have, because the stranger might be a bad thing, a bad sign of that he might be going insane, he’s sick, or some other bullshit. Perhaps he should report on it, talk to somebody about this situation, to his parents, who don’t even know what’s happening in their own house. If something is happening. And he does hope it is.
"...and what do you think?" Scott asks him at some point as Stiles gets lost even more, forgetting that he’s with his friend right now, that they’re going to his friend’s house to play at his friend’s new game. Blinking away his very mixed and confused thoughts and looking up, Stiles has to awkwardly admit that he wasn’t listening most of the time.
Obviously, he has to put aside his wild thoughts for another time.
"Uhh..." He opens his mouth without saying anything; Scott can only raise his eyebrow up in a clear question. "I’m sorry, I missed what you were saying. Could you repeat?" Stiles says politely, trying to guess what his friend is thinking about right now. Maybe Scott was talking about something important, and the boy just wasn’t listening. That would be pretty rude on his part.
Luckily, his friend is the nicest of people, because Scott’s response is just a snort.
"Oh, dude, I was telling you that I once heard that there’s a really big tree somewhere in the Preserve. Something like the oldest huge oak, just imagine!" Scott throws his hands up as he says his last words, which means that he is very full of enthusiasm at the moment. Stiles makes sure that he looks so surprised by his friend’s news, and at the same time he recalls his dream and the Nameless’ tale, thinking that whatever that tree is, it would in no way be bigger than the one in the story. Still, Scott speaks up again. "Yeah, and then I asked you about an idea to look for it, to check it out, and all that. If those rumors are true, you know," the puppy-eyed boy says, unlocking the entire door of his house (when did they go here?) and waving his hand uncertainly, then opening the door and waiting for Stiles to walk in. As soon as he does, Scott, apparently, repeats his previous question. "So... what do you think about it?"
Shaking off his shoes, the brown-eyed boy smirks at Scott as his friend walks deeper into the place of the house, looking over his shoulder.
"Hm, it always seemed to me I was the one who all the time pulled us into something really mindless, huh?" Glad about himself, the boy joins his friend in the kitchen, throwing his backpack onto a chair. Scott just rolls his eyes at him as he makes two sandwiches for both of them. There are only two slices of bread in one of them, a piece of cheese, salad leaves, and a sausage between them.
"Well, today’s probably your day off; you can rest," Scott mocks, giving him a plate and sitting down on the opposite side of the boy; his plate already sits in front of him. Taking a good bite, Scott speaks up again, barely coherently with his mouth full. "’Kay, I thought it would be interesting, like, why not?"
Stiles hums lowly as he occupies his chair and takes a look at Scott, who is chewing happily as if he has never eaten before. Tapping with his fingers on the table’s surface, the brown-eyed boy mulls over the idea, even though his whole being is calling out to go and find that damn tree in the middle of the woods, or wherever it is. He's curious, after all. So...
"I do think we must find that damn tree, Scotty."
They nod at each other with serious expressions, and then two boys burst out chuckling. Once they settle down and continue eating their sandwiches, they drag into a thread about some homework. Stiles finds himself hoping to successfully find the strange tree in the Preserve, to find evidence that it’s as big as an oak, maybe even bigger. It's a bit too silly, but he can’t bring himself to be worried or scared. As though there’s something magically magnetizing about that tree, that place where the tree stands (or doesn’t), something like— like supernatural. An idea comes suddenly into his mind, out of nowhere, and he immediately throws it away; the brown-haired boy doesn’t see any point in it. Not that he realizes what it actually is or what the source for this is.
His current goal is to play in the new game that Scott has been talking about all these hours. Nothing else, nothing weird, nothing, even if it would be supernatural creatures, will prevent them.
"So..." Swallowing the last piece of his sandwich, Stiles pushes his empty plate further down the table and looks up at his friend as Scott stands up and takes their plates and puts them in a sink. "Where’s your epic game?"
Scott grins widely, waving his hand as if beckoning the boy to come with him, and his sight almost looks like a devil, tempting and inviting, making human go to wherever that devil wants them. The analogy makes Stiles laugh in his mind, and he gets up too, following his friend who leads him to his room upstairs. As they go upstairs, Stiles sneaks a glance around and notices some pictures with Scott, his mom, and, only in a few of them, a man. A very tall man, with too-dark brown eyes, olive skin, and a bright white smile in one of the photos. And the brown-eyed boy knows exactly who that man is.
He is a father who abandoned his child, who has left his family, his wife, went somewhere, and seemed to forget about them. A drunken man. The boy remembers that evening call talk, how Scott’s mom called his dad, told him her situation, and remembers how his father talked to her with a worry on his face and asked about her and Scott, if they were fine. Then, after a few minutes, he told Stiles to stay here, said something had happened to the McCall family, and moved out of the house, drove into Scott’s to check everything out. His mother slept in her and his father’s bedroom upstairs, so he had to stay awake all night, worried about his friend, reckless with his waking time. His dad returned in two hours after he left, but it felt like an eternity to the boy.
He was unbelievably happy when his father spat out the full story at the table the next morning — his dad decided to wait with it until the morning so as not to worry his mother, who was still asleep, and then sent his son to bed over all of the boy’s protests, so Stiles had to go to his room — that everyone was all fine. Scott had just fallen down the stairs and hit his head against a step, but he was fine, only a small bump. Stiles heaved a sigh of relief then. That day, his mom called Melisa right away after their breakfast, and they had a very, very, very long talk. Stiles couldn’t find out something more of the conversation: his mother locked herself in her and his father’s room, so the little boy had no way to overhear.
Still, Stiles was only happy that Scotty and his mom were fine, but he was angry with the man who was theoretically counted as Scott’s damn father. There was a raging storm inside the boy, burning all of his insides up, flooding him with a fury, and melting away the logical and kind part of the brown-eyed boy until it left him with an unforgiving, evil wish in him, pure and sincere. He was afraid of it when he came to himself after a second — a second — and he was afraid of... himself. He had never experienced such emotions and feelings like that; it was so, so bad, so tempting, so violent... The little boy didn’t share it with anyone, not even with his parents, so, after he calmed down and shoved those thoughts far away from him, Stiles decided not to tell his friend about the reason why his father left. He was, and still is, determined not to broach the subject.
Especially since he has known that it was Scott’s father’s fault too, mostly.
Since Scott still doesn’t know the exact reason why his father left. And there may be some cause why Melisa doesn’t tell him. The boy has been pretending to be out of the picture all along, just giving his support and solace as much as he could, and now he tries to bury this... little secret of his, Stiles isn’t sure how to call it, in the deep back of his mind, so as not to recall it, not to flare himself up, to just keep on living without this dark moment in their lives.
So, as soon as they get to their places, forgetting about all the damn homework (the weekend is in five days, anyway, and so both boys want to rest and play and have fun), Stiles just lets himself... swim away, dive into another chasm, and dig into his normal routine, and, thankfully, Scott always helps him out with that. Unknowingly, of course, he just does something without a particular mind in his moves, with his usual lightheadedness and his slightly naive nature; his friend can, without a conscious thought, make it easy for him every time, whenever Stiles is sad, or not in the mood, or feeling bad, or whatever. Ah, why does he do it unconsciously? Because the brown-eyed boy doesn’t tell him his concerns. Never does. Anyone.
The little boy doesn’t think that he has to worry at least one of the people he cares about with this. He thinks it’s not worthy of anyone’s attention. So, he has to take what he possibly can from of every moment like this.
"So," Scott suddenly speaks up, it’s very loud after a little drawn-out silence of intense play, and Stiles jolts but never stops holding the joystick and staring at the screen, "I knew you would like it, dude!"
"Absolutely! It's very cool, man!" After Stiles says this, he takes a victory right out of his friend’s hands. Again.
Scott can only blink; his mouth is open.
“No way! You play at this for the first time, but I've been even practiced! Not fair...”
The brown-haired boy turns his head to his friend — eyes wide and eyebrows raised in shock. Scott slouches at some moment, looking like he lost a million dollars. For the fiftieth time in a row.
"You been... practiced?" Stiles asked with confusion and a slight tease at the same time, making Scott look at him with an expression full of grieving of the whole world. Stiles can’t help but laugh, long and full-hearted. He falls onto his back, his hands clutching at his stomach as his body shakes with pure laughter. Scotty turns around with a confused face, just like a puppy looking at something strange. When the boy finally settles down and calms his breath enough to just lie down on his friend’s bed and inhale deeply, he gives Scott a quick glance, grinning.
"What the hell was that, dude?" Scott asks, a note in his voice that pushes on an idea he is so reeling. Then his friend spreads his arms wide, holding his stick in his palm.
The boy shrugs, tucks his hand under his head, and puts the controller away as Scott waits for any response, so Stiles traces the room with his gaze, trying to bite back a smile threatening to stretch his lips, then locks his eyes with Scott’s.
"Are you serious? You spot out such a funny thing, and now it’s my fault that I just laughed at it? You’re very funny, dude. You need to just accept that fact and get used to it. That's it," Stiles replies sarcastically, sitting up to pat his friend’s shoulder and all but giggling right now. Scott curves his brow at Stiles’ words and snorts as the boy smiles at him, reaching back to take his joystick again and pointing at the still image on the screen. "Come on, show me how many times you practiced."
Scott smiles, flaunting his dazzlingly white teeth and the happy glint in his dark brown eyes, then he settles back into his position once again as Stiles starts the game again, clicking on the buttons of his stick, harsh and with determination. Hours are getting lost in the chaos of exploding sounds and shouts and sharp movements of the boys’ hands and legs, while the light dusk is already embracing the streets with its vast and incorporeal arms, forcing the people with its hazily dark to flare the lamps up, making the town’s lights pour their orangish and whitish glow through the streets, catching on the roofs and walls of the higher houses so that light can’t graze the blackest alleys. Leaving some places in the dark.
Eventually, the two friends have to wrap up their feral game when Stiles’ mother calls him and says that he has homework that needs to be done, preferably tonight, so he’s forced to go back and do things that he needs to do. And after about ten minutes of gathering things up and chatting about their next school day and the idea with that bizarre tree, when the boys come downstairs and discuss Scott’s game (which is fantastically awesome and interesting; they should definitely play again later), both of them stand in front of the door and do their goodbye thing with their hands. Then Stiles puts on his jacket and throws his backpack over his shoulder, which has been sitting on the same chair in the kitchen all this time.
"That was cool," Stiles begins to speak, tilting his head to the side as Scott stretches out his arm with the phone in his palm. Stiles’ phone.
"Almost forgot... You left it in the bedroom."
"Oh, thanks!" the brown-haired boy says in gratitude, taking his phone back and checking it out for any sign of calls before slipping it into the pocket of his pants. Curving his lips into a grin, Stiles looks up at his friend and nudges him at his arm as he adds with smugness. "I’ve won more times than you have either way. I guess your practice has failed today."
Snickering at that, Scott exhales an exasperated breath and shakes his head. Stiles is pleased with himself.
"One day you will regret your words, because I will snatch the victory from your own hands, so, for your own good, you better not laugh."
Stiles chuckles, rolling his eyes as his friend threatens to him and tries to be scary, but there’s no way he could ever be even the tiniest bit a scary guy. The boy is pretty sure of that.
"Well, you better hope so."
Chuckles and giggles fill up the space around Scott’s house door, and finally Stiles says one last goodbye before he steps outside and makes his way back to his house. He lives not too far from Scott, but the brown-eyed boy has to walk a few blocks to get home. The streetlights point his way like the truest guiding stars that have fallen from the sky. Some strangers pass him, pulling up the collars of their coats or jackets to protect themselves from the powerful wind that whips their and faces necks. The boy just walks on without noticing them; the surrounding darkness doesn’t frighten him now. What he cares about is only a cold air biting him at his nose and cheeks. Well, because it’s cold. He picks up his pace, walking down the street a little faster.
Stiles thinks about the warmth and comfort of his home. About his cozy bed, his puffy pillow, and his fluffy blanket. About the familiar and smooth voice.
Unexpectedly, he wishes the night would come sooner.
***
His dad still hasn’t returned when Stiles arrives home as his mom is finishing dinner. The boy quickly changes his clothes and washes, then his mother and he have to eat alone — his dad is a deputy, after all, so he has to do his job, and Stiles knows that something always happens in this town when Christmas comes up. Like a ridiculous accident on some road, or a drunk man doing some strange things that the policemen have to deal with, or a stray dog surprisingly going insane for no apparent reason, biting everyone in sight and jumping on children. In short, these days are always crazy and unusual, and his father often lingers at the station, taking care of mounting the documents or whatever it is. His father tries so hard to get over it to come back home earlier. It rarely happens, though. This ongoing evening isn’t a different one. And so, it means that he will only come in the morning and won’t be able to drive him to the school, will just say hello to them, and go to sleep right away after a shower. It's a little upsetting; the little boy likes to drive with his dad, not that he doesn’t like it when his mom takes him in her blue jeep, it’s just... a male company or, maybe his dad is cooler; he’s a cop, an authority figure and all that; and he’s his dad, all in all. And Stiles is his son, hah. After dinner, he climbs straight upstairs to his bedroom to take care of his damned homework. It's only 7:32 p.m., and he’s done with one lesson, and three are left, and the boy seems to be so lazy tonight for such a curse. So, gnawing at the pen and trying to read at least the beginning of the given text, Stiles decides to do something he can master and remember and solve; the rest he can do at school itself, sort of reading and writing some things down. He’s a horrible person, and he knows it, but he doesn’t care. Sue him. Still, he’s doing the hardest part right now, suddenly managing with this. His watch counts the time for him, steadily showing on its display the numbers and shifting them with each passed minute or hour. The brown-eyed boy is unusually glad to see them running so fast. He's a good enough student, though. Capable, as his teachers once said. Even with the too hyperactive pace of his reckless brain and too drifting thoughts, the boy is able to focus on significant things and listen to what the teacher is saying, even if he can never sit still, always squirming in his chair, tapping with his fingers or a pencil on the scratched surface of his desk, his eyes darting all over the classroom. He can focus his restless mind on useful matters, but this turns out to be hard enough for him, as if his very brain prevents him from doing it. But he tries. The brown-haired boy also really likes it when he’s praised by his teacher or his parents, because his whole being preens at such moments. And, maybe, this is how he takes more attention for him alone. He’s not a bragger, no. The boy simply likes these feelings. The way they warm him from the inside out, the way they spread something thrilling through his body and his very core, the way they pull him into an inexpressibly nice feeling that makes him smile impossibly wide and causes an urge to dance and sing — that is what he aims for. And it delights him when Stiles sees his clock on the desk right in front of him displaying it’s 9:41 p.m., which means it’s time for bed. But for the boy, it does imply his special someone he can gossip with; he wonders if the invisible stranger has another story for him tonight. The brown-haired boy feels too excited and very much alive for someone who should go to sleep and see their dreams. Dreams aren’t his favorite part, though. Stiles madly likes to chat, to joke, and to tell his own stories, while his stranger listens to him, making some comments at certain points and never interrupting him, as others might do if they got bored or didn’t find it interesting. On top of that, the brown-eyed boy can sometimes ramble fast and about anything that occupies his mind, talking with full excitement. He's like a bomb, stuffed with different facts, vibrant memories, and information, that is ready to explode. Sometimes this characteristic of him repels other kids like him, makes any conversation go to hell, and leaves him almost alone in the middle of the crowd. But it rarely happens, only when he’s worried or excited. But that’s probably the point... he’s excited most of the time, full of endless enthusiasm. So, the boy cherishes the nights with his Nameless so, so much. Even though he doesn’t quite realize that. It’s a deeply inmost feeling. As he goes through his usual nightly routine before going to sleep — brushing his teeth, washing up, changing his clothes into pajamas, and then exchanging a few words with his mother when she peeks at him from behind his bedroom door to check on the boy — he gets his goodnight kisses, and after his mom goes, the boy closes the door. It steals the light from the hallway, and the only gleam in the room is his bedside lamp, which pervades his bedroom with a soft white. He needs to turn it off for the shadows, to let them show themselves, let them swallow his room whole, and let that someone in. He needs to steel himself, whatever that sounds like. The little boy exhales one long breath, almost pushing the air out of his lungs, and with determination reaches up to press the small button on the lamp. There's a swift click in the bedroom, and the last light spot of this space fades into the unfamiliar-familiar fallen darkness that hides within itself someone he hopes to hear. That's the only reason why he’s lying in his bed under his thick blanket, trying to handle the trembling part inside him that wants him to curl in on himself and cover himself from the dark. But the brown-eyed boy doesn’t do that at all. He longs for the Nameless to appear in the space of his bedroom. And he waits. He waits for that unmistakable sound in the room, like the ringing of little bells, so thin and so soft that it is almost inaudible to his ears; he would miss this change if the boy wasn’t so attentive and so aware of the quiet noise proclaiming the coming of the hidden-from-the-sight Nameless. It's not something he’s able to compare to anything the boy has ever known; he only knows the fact that it seems to be an extremely miraculous occurrence, as if it’s the magic itself. The one he could never see before; can’t see now. Stiles can see it in another way every time that very moment comes up; can see the way those bells jingle in the open air, the way they’re so tiny but so distinctly tinkling for their very small sizes, and the way the sound is silvery and so melodic. The soft ring always makes him shiver with its first bell out of nowhere; there’s nothing that can make those ringing sounds, and yet they’re there. The brown-haired boy smiles brightly whenever it comes, his very breath catching in his lungs and his pulse speeding up the rhythm a little, and he could never ever explain his restrained emotions in him. It's nice, though. The boy is unable to understand it; he just feels a warm sensation in his chest, some fond and gentle thing. Stiles feels something similar towards his parents, but— it’s not the same thing. They are his parents; he knows them for his entire life, and his someone is not someone as much familiar; the Nameless is not even someone the little boy can look at; he hasn’t seen him yet and has no idea what the stranger looks like. Everything the brown-eyed boy knows about him is just his voice. This voice could never get bored or annoyed or whatever; this voice can tell any story so fascinating and captivating and interesting that the boy always wants to listen to it like forever. It's deep, slightly rasping, and definitely rich, so much that it varies between a barely there purr or even a growl and a low, rumbling murmur, making him somehow sink into what it’s talking about without missing any part of the picture it draws with the rough notes and the vibration of its timbre. But the voice can also be smooth, liquid, and all but velvety, just with a tinge of husky quality, as it just talks to him about whatever they possibly can. As it shares with him its soothing presence, even if there’s no one alive in the little boy’s bedroom. At least, no one visible or physical. Stiles occasionally tries to imagine the owner of this voice: if he is a grown man with a light beard, if he has long or short hair, if his eyes are gray, almost like quicksilver (maybe they are brown too, just like his own), or, for example, if he has a strong, muscular body and a noble face with a nice nose and sharp cheekbones. And after all this wondering, the boy can’t help but think if he even... exists, if he’s a real person (the brown-haired boy is pretty sure he is, because, well, the Nameless speaks in the same language as the boy does; it's enough for him for now), if he’s a... human or at least something like a human. Even though the little boy is almost convinced that he is the same human as the boy is. Still, Stiles has an odd idea that he’s actually a spirit, but the boy can’t say where that thought came from or when he started thinking in that way and why. But there he is, and the idea is still sneaking behind him, and it seems like it will not leave him alone. It's as if it has some weight of the truth. And if it’s the truth, if the Nameless is a real spirit, then... what kind of spirit is he? Kind or evil? Peaceful or vengeful? Where did he come from? Stiles couldn’t get any answers from their conversations, from the stranger’s tales. Stiles couldn’t ask the Nameless because he didn’t want to scare him off with his ridiculous (very logical) questions, with his irrepressible curiosity, even though it was and is so relevant in this matter. And when Stiles hardened his courage to finally try to ask his question at the moment the Nameless seemed to be mostly silent and quiet, as if he was busy so he couldn’t talk much (but he could listen, the boy constantly told himself), the boy lost his mind every time something solid and hard enough to miss it brushed against him. The touch always laid down on his forehead or one of his shoulders or his back; there was no weight to it, and yet the brushing was noticeable and palpable, as if it was some distant form of palm. Stiles always got so excited about it to remember his initial thoughts after it had happened, and the longer it lasted and continued, the more he got into the whole thing. That's why the little boy doesn’t know the Nameless’ name. This someone didn’t respond when the boy asked him what his name was, going around this topic so cleverly and making the boy forget about it; he only said to Stiles that he would tell him later or that Stiles himself would know it in the future and then switched the topic to something they usually talked about or mulled over. So, yeah, the brown-eyed boy only knows the voice and probably the touch that always feels like a palm. But he wants to change it, at least the tiniest bit. He's going to do it tonight. That's why Stiles waits for the sound, waits for the voice to say to him its purring gritting, wrapping itself around the boy’s body and too sensitive senses to its tone and vibration and the familiarity in it he has no idea where it comes from, and yet he could resign himself to that fact and go on living, and yet... he needs to get close to his someone, to know something about the one with whom he shares his room. The boy thinks his intention is right because he should know about the stranger—if the Nameless is up to no good. He's a smart boy after all. At least, he’s going to try and find out the name or the age. The little boy doesn’t notice how many minutes he has been lying in his bed. He doesn't notice how many hours have passed by that moment when those amazing bells ring in the air, making his ears attuned to hear this silent sound that slightly reverberates in the walls so it’s hard to feel it at all. The strangeness lies in the fact that it is always the bell ringing; the boy all the time imagined the shop doors as if some person would walk inside and the bells would announce the new guest with their soft jingle. Maybe that is the exact point of it; the Nameless just warns him like this that he is back here again. In this case the brown-haired boy could appreciate his good and nice manners. Thinking about this idea and getting lost in the train of thought, the boy dumbly stares at the wall until he decides he’s got bored, yawning and feeling the first cloud of the sleepy haze that creeps on his mind. Stiles turns on his other side to the window in an attempt not to give in to it so fast, preferring to examine the darkest spots of his bedroom instead of just heating the bed up. After minutes of fruitless efforts to shove away his drowsiness until the Nameless’ coming, he finally sees the way the shadows in the corner start to writhe a little. And, after a split second, the smooth and now very familiar voice sounds unexpectedly somewhere near Stiles.
