Chapter Five
June 14, 2025 at 8:01 AM
And here Christmas is, finally.
It’s Stiles’ best Christmas ever, because his best friend is going to be with him. Yet, there’s also a sense of sadness inside of him. Something bitter and prickling around the boy’s heart, clenching tightly around the pumping organ every time the brown-haired boy stirs up memories with his mysterious Void. It echoes in his mind and chest, evoking a feeling akin to a distant longing. Perhaps it’s because he thinks that his special invisible being won’t be near him in any way tonight. It steals his breath every time the boy recalls the night of confessions when Void talked about his situation and trapped state, which doesn’t allow him to live freely or do whatever he pleases. Ultimately, this leads him to the last thought, scilicet the being lurking in the inky black darkness, which very possibly knows only the pitch blackness and dark acts that happen within it, won’t experience the fullness of the fun and beauty of this holiday. The boy finds in himself a childlike wish to share this beautiful thing with his... his roommate.
Because Stiles is certain that Void doesn’t even imagine what it is or what it feels like. Because Stiles is certain the invisible being has been trapped for so long that he has already forgotten all positive, light feelings and impressions. Stiles is sure that Void is so hopeless that he believes there is nothing good left for him. Stiles is more than sure the stinging web has devoured Void almost entirely, leaving just a pitiful wisp of the so-called possibility of talking with the only living being from the whole damn world — with a little boy who can’t even tell anyone about him, whom no one would believe, dropping this on the boy’s vast imagination. So... Stiles would really want to give Void something good.
Still, despite these morose and gray thoughts, the day is going well. His mother is cooking, and Stiles occasionally helps her. His dad, who slept until the very afternoon, carries the kitchen table into the living room and helps to butcher the chicken. In short, the whole Stilinski family is extremely busy today, though the brown-eyed boy does less work than his parents — either his mom tells him she’ll take care of everything, or his dad says to him that he can manage himself. So, Stiles manages to sneak around and steal pieces of the fruit salad made for him and Scott. If he can’t help to make it, then he can do little mischiefs. He also manages to lounge on the couch and watch cartoons while all the bustle passes him by, without touching him, letting the boy rest and lie down through it.
After a little while, when they all have gathered in the living room and arranged plates, bowls, and glasses on the table, Stiles unexpectedly remembers Scott’s gift, which he has wrapped in red, rustling paper and hidden deep in his wardrobe. He quickly runs to grab that and put it under the tree. In the process, the boy picks out the outfit for tonight, choosing his best jeans and a peachy-colored shirt with contrast brown buttons.
Then Stiles fools around with his dad on the couch, watching TV, while his mom is probably preening in front of the mirror somewhere in the parents’ bedroom.
It lasts this way for almost two hours until Claudia — now in a stark indigo dress and with cute curls on her head, sitting on an armchair with her phone in her hands — speaks up and shatters the buzzing silence filled with the low voices of Noah and Stiles.
"Mel is already on her way, so they will be here soon. Son, shall you go and get dressed, alright?"
"‘Kay, moom," the boy draws, sliding down the couch to go upstairs.
Scott and his mother come right after Stiles hooks the last button on its right loop, standing on the lowest step in the hallway. His friend’s smile is so wide that, if it were a little more, it would reach to the very ears. It's so bright that it betrays all of his wonderful mood to everyone within a mile for sure. It can’t help but make the others’ smiles show on their faces, too. Stiles thinks it’s one of his friend’s features: the ability to gift to people a good mood and peppering them with his radiant self. Both boys exchange a greeting unique to them, with familiar and well-learned hand movements and obligatory head-on fist bump.
"Hello, Melissa. Glad to see you," Claudia says as she steps closer to Mrs. MacCall. "Hi, Scott. How are you?"
"Hello, Mrs. Stilinski. Everything is completely wonderful," his friend politely answers. Then, with big genuine happiness, he adds: "Thank you for inviting us!"
"You’re very welcome here, Scott." Noah unexpectedly appears in the hallway right behind Stiles and puts his palm on the boy’s shoulder. "Hi, Melissa. Let me take that pack you’re holding there."
"Oh, yes, here. There are a couple of salads and a bottle of good orange juice for the boys," she says, handing over the packet to his father, who walks away with it into the depths of the house. "And hi everyone! It’s so nice for me to see y’all tonight."
"Me too, Mrs. MacCall!" Stiles agrees eagerly, deciding to share his opinion with the others.
Moments later, leaving the grown-ups alone, the brown-eyed boy waves his hand to get his friend’s attention for Scott to follow him into the living room. Melissa walks out of the house. The click of the door notifies them of her departure as the boys sit on the two armchairs and smirk at each other with identical sharp, shit-eating grins. As they watch Claudia brings two full mild bowls, their eyes travel over the entire table to size all the dishes on it. And there are so many foods that will fill every presenting stomach in this room up for the next several days, no less: a tray with chicken, roasted potatoes along with carrots; a few bowls of different salads, including a fruit salad; and even lasagna. Scott leans forward a little to whisper something about how real, giant a feast it is. The boy nods vigorously, adding, "The best feast." After which his friend hums in agreement.
Once everything is nice and ready, everyone sits down in their chairs, and the party finally begins. As it turned out, Melissa went for other packets, bigger ones, that already are under the Christmas tree, waiting for their moment. There is a sparkling anticipation sizzling inside of both the boys, an unbearable urge to abound all right now and jump up to look inside. Only one thing keeps them from doing so: they’ll uncover them all anyway. For now, there’s a table full of food and drinks before the two friends’ eyes. Besides, Stiles’ mom asks them what they want to have from all these dishes, so they’re fiddling with that.
Once every plate is filled, here sounds the talking. The adults tell stories about their jobs. His dad’s are about funny moments from his callings, and Mrs. McCall’s are about people’s silly actions that led them to the hospital with minor and even serious injuries. The brown-eyed boy’s mother is a French teacher (she comes to her students’ homes from time to time), and her story is about a girl who didn’t want to learn this language but was forced to by her mother, who always wanted to live among French people, but, unfortunately, she was unable to move there.
His mom tried to talk some sense into her, explaining that her daughter didn’t want any of this, that none of it aroused her daughter’s interest, and that it wouldn’t benefit her. But the obsessed woman told her that it really didn’t matter, that it wasn’t her place to have a word here; she just got the money and studied the girl. And Claudia agreed with her — she was right. Partly. His mother needed the money back then, so she had to come and study that poor girl.
As time passed, she and the girl got close. As soon as Lucy, the girl, got to know Claudia better, she began to learn French far better and with more enthusiasm than at the beginning. She told his mom that she had had several teachers before Claudia, but none of them had explained things to her as clearly and simply as she did. After all, when the woman’s whim disappeared and Lucy was allowed to stop her lessons if she wanted to, which she did, of course, their time together was over. Lucy was a little sad about saying goodbye, but she was very glad to have met and gotten to know Claudia.
"In short, she was at least glad to learn something new and spend time with me."
"Her mother is a real bitch!" is what tears out of Stiles’ mouth after his mom finishes talking, promptly getting two stern gazes and a surprised look from Melissa and a wide-eyed look from his friend.
"Watch your mouth closely, Stiles," his father strictly tells him, looking right into Stiles’ eyes.
"So sorry, but isn’t it true? She is an awful mother." He shifts his gaze to everyone presenting here, searching for support. When his eyes get stuck on Scott, the boy raises his brows and shoulders. His friend, after the way he stares at Stiles with confusion, aggressively nods his head, thereby prompting Stiles to nod as well. They look like two toys that settle somewhere in a car and whose heads shake every time the car shudders.
After all, all the adults sigh, and small smiles already bloom on their lips.
"Yeah, Stiles, I totally agree with you," Mrs. McCall is the first one who expresses her opinion, sending to the brown-haired boy the most mischievous smirk Stiles has ever seen on her soft expression. The next moment, she turns to his mom. "It’s so sad, Clod. I have never understood parents like that. And never will. Like, come on... why do you do this?"
"Mm-hmm," his mom hums in agreement. “And they do nothing truly good with such an act. They only make the relationship between their children and themselves even worse."
"I know a deputy," Noah, who suddenly decides to join the discussion, starts to speak. "He’s about my age, and he has a son who’s maybe close to twelve right now. This man is already pressuring the kid, telling him over and over again that he’s going to be a cop just like him."
His words evoke almost a perfectly simultaneous huff from every person at the table.
"I once met that kid at the station. His father went away to regulate some case, and the boy stayed with me for a while. And we fell into the talk for some reason, and that’s when he told me about his situation with his dad. Before this talk, I knew the man would’ve liked his son to be a cop, but without details. He said he didn’t want to be a cop, that he wanted to play the flute."
"Flute?" Scott asks, interrupting Stiles’ dad. His face displays all of his surprise and the tiniest bit of disbelief.
"Yep, I was surprised too," Noah says with a smile stretching his mouth. "So. The boy wanted to be one thing; his father wanted him to be another. Practically every evening, he told him how to handle weapons at home, distracting him from his homework. Then, he always argued with him about his school performance. Generally, the man was crazy and made his son’s childhood hell. And, of course, there was nothing this kid could do; he was his father, after all. Unfortunately."
The silence follows after this creepy story as everyone processes every word spoken. Frowns appear on their faces. Stiles is the first who doesn’t withstand and breaks it.
"What about his mom? Why doesn’t she do something to stop this madness?"
"She left them long ago, as far as I know. I’m more than sure she had a reason for that. So, that poor kid didn’t have any support from anyone except maybe his grandmother, who was his father’s mother. But I don’t know how he is now. I haven’t seen him or his father anywhere anymore. Perhaps they moved."
"How... sad, Mr. Stilinski... What did you say to him back then?" Scott asks, sounding worried as if all the movies in the whole world were at risk of disappearing, and he asks what we should do to stop this catastrophe. When Noah doesn’t utter anything, looking a little confused, Scott clarifies. "I mean, what did you say to the boy at that meeting?"
Stiles’ father opens his mouth, then closes, and opens again, but no sound pours from his lips. It's as if he’s overthinking his next possible words. The brown-eyed boy looks at him with so much attention, guessing, which is probably why he still doesn’t say anything. After a few quiet seconds, Noah finally speaks up, his gray eyes trained on Scott.
"Since he was just a little boy who was forced to do whatever his father told him to do, I couldn’t say something that would turn him against his dad, right?" He pauses here, traveling his gaze over the two boys, and waits until both of them shrug; then he nods. "Then I came to the decision to advise him to talk with his father about this matter. I told him to really talk to him if he does want to do something else in the future... to sit and tell everything that has been on his mind, but... calmly and politely. Just to try to express his thoughts and feelings. Maybe he should share some of his own ideas with his father, without blaming him or making other reproaches."
While he’s speaking, Claudia and Melissa exchange short looks, and Stiles and Scott stare at him intently. The boy’s dad takes a pause yet again, attaching importance to his words as though it’s another teachable moment from which they should learn something. Yet it seems he hasn’t finished.
"Well, basically, I told him he should try and tell his father what he really wants. After all, it might at least help him to get in touch with his dad. If this man is still adequate and in his right mind, of course," he whispers at the end, heavily sighing. The boys are quiet down a little. The next moment, his father claps his hands, scattering the spells that had settled on them, and smiles. "However, I hope they are doing well, so let’s swipe this gray, gloomy mood away and continue our party, mhm?"
And everyone voices their loud agreement and returns to the feast. The champagne and juices are poured into the glasses; the plates are filled with new portions of various salads. The atmosphere becomes as light and bright as before — kind and warm. Soon enough, the boys change the topic to some silly things that happened at school, though their eyes keep darting to the three of them. Or rather, under it, on the gifts and the packet. It seems they are getting spotted because Melissa constantly glances at Claudia with a secret smirk on her lips and a narrowed look. Stiles suspects that their time is going to come very soon; the adults can no longer keep the boys waiting. It would be real torture.
The moment the conversation gets too boring to listen to, Noah claps his hands, already twice this evening, drawing all attention to himself, and everyone knows what’s coming. Wide smiles split their faces, barely held back, but that’s what makes the air sparkle in exactly the right way during magical time. When he finishes his short speech — in which he says to everyone thanks for being close, says that this year has been so full of beautiful, joyful moments despite some minor troubles — Claudia stands up and heads to the Christmas tree.
Looking at her with suspicion, Stiles watches as she comes back and sits down in her chair near to him. She holds a box with a green wrapper. It's so small that she can cup it in her two palms. The brown-haired boy tries to guess what’s inside while doubts start biting at his mind from every possible direction. He frowns as his mother hands him this little thing; he is sure that his face shows to everyone everything he’s thinking about. Once Stiles tears the paper away and lifts the small carton lid, he spots the familiar key from their garage. His mother smiles at him so innocently the boy lets out stuttering sounds, and she finally speaks up.
"We remembered you wanting a bicycle, so this," she cuts herself off, pointing at the key itself, causing him to look down at it before giving the needed answer, "is your key to your wish. It stands in the garage."
It takes a handful of seconds for him to process what his mom just said before he abruptly raises his head to stare at her with probably crazy eyes. Then, he moves his gaze to his father and back to her. The boy can’t quite believe in this statement, as if he’s been told that Batman himself is waiting for him on the outside with a special surprise. He can only mumble...
"What?" And everyone breaks into short but loud laughter. His mom rushes to say:
"The bicycle. In the garage. It’s yours."
"No way!" Stiles keeps insisting on his own, but his disbelief trails off when his dad’s sight shows the exact opposite of the boy’s words. And then, furious, almost light-headed euphoria hits him, blowing him off the chair. Apparently, it’s something in the boy, maybe in his eyes or maybe on his face, because Noah raises his hand, calling for Stiles to sit back down and calm down whatever urge lands on Stiles.
"No rush, kiddo. That bicycle isn’t going anywhere; you can see it tomorrow in the daylight. Sounds good?" he asks quietly, and there’s nothing left for the brown-eyed boy but to nod feverishly.
Now it’s Scott’s turn to open his gift. Stiles quickly levels his breathing and exhales a deep sigh, stretching his lips into a smirk as his body lifts itself off the chair. His legs stop their way at the same second his friend stands up, too. It takes a moment for them to silently communicate and come to the decision to open their gifts together. With this intent, the boys sit down under the Christmas tree and hand over the package. The contents of it are unknown, and the box, which the boy with tea-like eyes wrapped up by himself. Both boys fall into tearing the wrapper with violent fury.
Pieces of paper fly up and slowly lower inch by inch until they touch down. Meanwhile, Stiles and Scott rip the wrapping paper off the boxes. They stop, looking at their opened-up gifts without blinking. Their hands reach down almost simultaneously, gripping the edges of the gifts and — shocked — slowly pulling them out... and here they look up instantly, staring at each other’s thing that they hold in their hands. Because the things are the top piece of the lacrosse kit. Scott’s eyes take on a bright twinkle that tells Stiles about absolute excitement surging in his friend. And Scott startles him a little when he all but shouts:
"It means we can play lacrosse together, bro!" he announces unexpectedly, causing their parents to take a closer look to see that the boys have gotten similar gifts. "Dude! Thanks a ton! Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Stilinski!" Scott says to Stiles’ parents, smiling almost like a mindless man.
"Yeah, Scotty, that’s the best plan ever! Many thanks to you and..." Stiles pauses and turns to his friend’s mom, "...you, Mrs. McCall, this is so cool I can’t even show how much it’s really cool." He huffs a chuckle then.
"Oh, Stiles, I’m always happy when you’re happy, so, enjoy yourself," Mrs. McCall all but coos, all but glowing at this moment. Little wrinkles draw themselves around her eyes as a light smile paints her soft face.
The two little friends get back to examining their given gifts, too preoccupied and keen to notice the shift among their parents. Both of them miss what Christmas gifts Noah and Claudia get, but they won’t remember this loss for a while, until the next day. Well, for now, the party will continue. They all will bounce around from one topic to another until the clock on the wall says it’s almost midnight, and Scott’s mom tells them it’s late. And everyone will begin to finish the night. After they settle everything — or at least most of it — back in its place, Mrs. MacCall and Scott will say goodbye and head for home, thanking the Stilinski family for this beautiful evening and wishing them a good and wonderful night. And, while the adults will be talking shortly, the boys will grin weakly at each other, perfectly knowing the time for their trip will come soon.
But right now, a friendly and cozy atmosphere sticks around with these present people who aren’t afraid to call themselves not the one big family, but indeed a tight-knit one.
And Stiles wouldn’t want it in any other way.
So, he just exists in this happy moment. Even though his special someone is not around.
***
He walks down a trial that leads to an infinite horizon. There is the darkness around him. The darkness and nothingness. And there is an echo of fear inside of him, chilling and making the whole being move forward faster with each passing ten steps. He feels how his heart pounds harder and harder when the location doesn’t change, even after what seems like endless minutes or hours of his passing through this unnatural place. Nothing shows up, nothing stops him on his way, nothing catches his eye, nothing emerges in the distance. Nothing. Only the sticky silence that he’s already running from remains, but its paws seem to wish to grab him in their scary embrace and never let him go, because he can’t even hear his own breathing. No rush of blood to his ears, no sound of inhaling or exhaling, no tapping of his bare feet on this unclear ground, no rustling of his pajamas. He speeds up his pace more. His feet hit something black and solid or what looks like black color; his arms pass through the airless air, while the surrounding emptiness tries to choke and break him down like something that doesn’t welcome him as he tries to run away. As if in acknowledgement of this idea, his ankle gets caught on a hidden-from-the-view thing, and he falls onto his hands and knees with a gasp. He whips his head around to look at his leg but sees absolutely nothing that gripped it just a moment ago. Swallowing the thick lump that’s stuck in his throat, he rises promptly from the faceless and indefinable ground. He’s not aware that tears are crawling down his cheeks as he’s running further, as the darkness is continuing to keep him locked in itself. The space grows cold, and he trembles not only inside with fear but also at the shift of the temperature, and the problem is that he feels a frightening numbness in all of his limbs, which don’t allow him to make any move. He finds himself helpless in the face of something that haunts him — something dark that seems evil, since the whole place feels like that. Even though he can’t see anything either in front of him or behind him. This doesn’t change the fact, though, that he’s forced to slow down soon, when his muscles become too unsteady to maintain the same pace, when he can’t feel his legs or arms. Doesn't change the fact that he falls to his knees soon — which don’t feel any pain from impact — without any strengths left, trying to catch his breath. And all he can do is look around and notice how black the darkness is, how empty this dark place is, how suffocating it is here. And all he can do is be afraid of what’s coming next, be unable to hear any sounds because here is a totally truthful emptiness. And all he can do right now is just wait and accept whatever decides to come, silently crying when, finally, the main fear extends its hands to him. As the darkness seems to start stirring all over him, making him shut his wet eyes tightly at the moment it really becomes unbearable, full of a cold and painful sense of the complete obscurity in its depths. With trembling lips and the whole core, the boy can’t help but register the way this coldness spreads from his legs and arms to further within him, encompassing all on its way without mercy, without a time for a break. A cry locks in his throat. After what seems a minute, it turns out to be hard to breathe in with every frozen inch inside of him, as if every organ in the body has turned into ice, and his lungs become exactly like their neighbors. And a possible thought that it can’t be reality, that it can be just a dream, another super bad dream, doesn’t ease an ounce of his agony from a sharp and unexpectedly burning pain in his whole body. Nothing could compare with anything the boy has felt, any pain he has ever felt, nothing could prepare him for it, never would. Even tears don’t feel hot like they would be in a normal case. They feel like they are the same tiny crystal of the ice, just like everything here. They are so cool, as if his body has lost all of the warmth. And that’s when the animal-like desperation comes as he chokes on violent, strangled sobs. He falls all the way on the thing that should be ground, curling in on himself so tightly while his hands fly up to grip his throat hardly and with so much strength as if he could rip the invisible vice around it off from him. If only his enemy was at least some physical thing... His breathing is shallow now, barely filling his numb and aching lungs, but for some reason, his heart still beats as fast as a rabbit’s one, furiously and heavily. The entire space seems to narrow, pushing those non-existent black walls closer and closer to squish the boy. He shudders and tries to open his mouth wider to take in air; he squints his eyes and scratches his neck with his blunt nails; he’s entirely helpless in the face of it. And the moment the mind is covered by a haze that foretells nothing good, his body is overwhelmed by a never-ending, torturous, agonizing mixture of feelings and sensations, and his brain screams at him, telling him he needs to do something, anything, the boy feels like he won’t be able to handle it anymore. His eyelashes are stuck together, and little droplets of ongoing tears are hooked in-between them, preventing him from seeing distinctly with the blurriness. They trickle down his cool cheeks, forming wet trails that freeze immediately on their way as they run down on his wobbling lips and drip into his mouth. The taste of salt pours into his mouth, persistent and slightly dull, and soon, a light copper tinge joins it, immediately becoming deeper, brighter, and more obtrusive. His throat is already very raw from sobbing, soundless crying, and croaking that escape from the boy, whose body, which is so cold and nearly utterly numb, begins to convulse wildly, even though he’s curled up way too tightly to have no give. And, when a peak of a mad, primal fear overtakes him, when everything is just too much, too overwhelming for such an empty place, the boy screams out as loudly as he ever has. "Stop it!" His voice spreads out like ripples on the water — first so clear and loud, then the sound gets quieter in the distance, trailing off completely the more it drifts away until it fades totally into the silence, somewhere too far away. But, at the same time, a thought flashes through his mind: as though the scream hasn’t extended through the darkness, it’s left with him instead, as if in a bubble that he’s trapped inside, echoing and creating this illusion. Though he can’t continue his train of thought — not that he ever could — because a new wave of deadly cold hits him with a double vindictive, making him gasp shakily. The surroundings of the dark nothingness push against him, making the boy feel awful and so lonely. So little. "Enough! Please..." the boy wails mindlessly, maybe hoping it will be over, maybe thinking it will change something if he keeps screaming and sobbing, maybe this thing will finally give him mercy if he looks so pitiful and painful. It doesn’t stop, though. He suddenly realizes that his willpower and strength, which he so desperately needs right now, are leaving are fading away quickly and rapidly. He feels his shaking stop, the breathing slow down, and the eyelids close, covering the eyes. He thinks that it’s the end, the last moment of his life, threatening to break down in the most horrible way: in the darkness, alone, and with big, strange pain. His curling loses the tightness, so now he just lies, powerless, while his arms and legs are dropped over the faceless surface, bent and motionless. His chest moves so rarely and inconspicuously that it almost seems like he is dead. But his lips barely stir, forming the same words over and over again without awareness or any mind. "Stop it, please, stop it, please..." he whispers feverishly, swallowing tears still trickling through it, struggling to hold onto the last pieces of his slipping away life, his swimming away mind. "Please, stop it..." he doesn’t stop his meaningless begging, trying to hold onto something so he won’t fall asleep forever. At the same second, he freezes as ice strikes into his whole body, and he can’t help but yelp. And, as if hanging out by the last thread already, his brain sends an impulse that makes the boy remember his invisible being that resides in the darkness. And here, the real hope is born. He tries to gather the fragments of his tortured soul and body to call on Void, tries to think of the vague silhouette from his dreams while he’s trying to stay alive for a few more minutes. He manages to clench his fists in order to clutch something real and center himself; he sucks in a sharp breath that seems to split the very space in half. With his whole heart and unwavering intent, he lets out his quiet, hoarse voice in a steady hissing whisper: "I need you..." And then he falls, keeping a violent sob from escaping his mouth. But he does his best not to fall asleep in the cold, in this oblivion, like some fallen being, undeserving of living in a world of light and warmth, like some worthless thing. He doesn’t want to die. He has his dad and mom, who obviously don’t know what’s happening or where to find him; a faraway thought that this may all be just a dream died when the dead froze took under his skin. Dreams can’t be that realistic. You can’t feel everything in them as strongly and clearly as in reality; you can’t feel like your life is slipping out of your own hands so quickly while watching the darkness get closer and closer with every passing second. How greedy it is, how sure it is that it will take away the living and beating sparkle from trailing off you, how certain it is that it will devour the bright flame. The boy is only scared of the possibility that it could be the truth. And this becomes his motivation to not give up on his trying, on himself, even though it’s so tempting to just... give in. He dares to open his eyes to face his encompassing dark enemy, putting all of his anger and determination into his gaze to show that he is not weak to its games. His eyes meet the same faceless blackness. Deep and horrible, it builds up a perfectly monochrome abyss — a horribly empty darkness that swallows everything until it turns into a hollow nothing. Having spent the last bit of strength on this act of demonstrating invincibility, he smoothly closes his eyes, shaking and admitting that he is still very much scared. And, as if the gesture is not approved by the space, the pitch surroundings stir unkindly and irately, ominously demonstrating their power to the lost boy and preparing to finally move on its initial plan for him. The second the darkness leaps into the most twisted and the cruelest actions, the second the odd coldness returns and hits with new harshness, the boy feels the insistent pain. Like something is changing. The expected chilling surge never comes. The ever-present cold inside slowly melts away, spreading an unfamiliar, potent, yet non-intrusive warmth that wraps around and pours within him. Something delicate covers the boy, taking away all the shaking and unbearable pain and giving him a surprising sense of safety instead, allowing him to breathe thoroughly and without any restraint. A sudden gulp of air seems to open his lungs up as if he were just born; it burns and makes him cough and causes tears, frozen on his cheeks and eyelashes, to thaw on his warmed skin and run down hurriedly. His numb limbs are able to move again, and blood accelerates through his veins, destroying the remaining coolness in his body. Relaxing, the boy releases a shuddering, wet sigh, his trembling lips stretch into a relieved kind of smile. A tsunami of emotions and feelings washes him away with its intensity and force. It leaves him crying from unbelievable, indescribable happiness and enormous relief. After a while—when he is completely warm and no longer shivering, the light, almost imperceptible covering is still over him, and most of the horror has passed—the boy decides to open his eyes yet again. He doesn’t do it for a couple of long minutes, though, as if he’s waiting for something to play a bad joke on him, but actually making sure his inner senses are calm enough to be sure in his acts. Once no single thing makes any effort to attack or kill him with a new way, he extremely slowly lifts his eyelids, which flutter with leaden heaviness, until a new environment opens before him. Entirely new, yet all the same for some reason. There is still the darkness all around him, and this almost causes the boy to swallow down his own stopped-for-a-second heart if it wasn’t for one thing. The darkness has a difference from that one he saw literally moments ago. This is still the darkness, yes, but the more the boy looks right at it, the more he becomes convinced that it contains not only a chilling blackness in itself, but also some dark blue, deep gray, and pale purple shadows scattered here and there in a personal manner. Those smudges come in all kinds of sizes: large, small, and tiny; some fill entire spots on that never-ending canvas that goes further into endless depths. It is so fascinating. So unlike that freezing, empty, pitch-dark darkness that presses with its choking sight, the boy can’t wrench himself from the smoothly shifting colors. Can’t help but notice little, almost too little to miss, dots within the black space, just like the truest stars in a clear night sky. Shimmering and sparkling, they preen proudly in the newborn surroundings, beautifying them with a soft but often light and giving the impression of undeniable perfection. For a brief moment, he forgets about everything bad that the darkness could hide in its thick abyss. He forgets about his own gut hunch that is tuned out a little for some bizarre reason. That’s exactly what makes him tense up slightly and, finally, look away. He traces his gaze all the way down to his hands, which are resting limply on the suspected ground. Not immediately, but he notices something else — some wiggling thing — next to it. It's very vague, very wide, and narrowing to what he thinks is serving as a tip of it. Mesmerized by the slow movement up and down his palms, the boy follows the unknown shape with his eyes until he comes across a larger shape to which the first one is connected. Intrigued and without lifting his head, he looks up and up and up, seeing nothing remarkable except a recognizable dark, blurry smudge, before he bumps into an almost painfully familiar silver gaze that is already looking right into his. His heart skips a couple of heavy beats. Without blinking, the two bright silver eyes stare at him. They are clear and real, so different from those stars around him and the silhouette beside him. While the stars are just shimmering in the faraway distance, the two silver spots are glowing like something otherworldly, reminding him of something he couldn’t remember seeing before, if he saw something at least distantly resembling it. He could look at them for a very long time, but his attention is caught by a few things behind the still figure reminding him of a fox, and he forcefully has to shift his focus to them. He already understood that the shape petting him over his hands is a kind of colorless tail, but the boy sees the same shadows swaying back and forth from behind the mysterious animal. It's difficult to examine them properly because of the practically black background and because the supposed tails are almost black, too, making it hard for the boy to see clearly. But he can tell in total there are more than five tails, no less. This pushes him toward the idea that it might nevertheless be a dream. Then, though, he feels something nearly warm touches—rather, nudges—on his shoulder, lingering long enough to cause him to pay his attention to it. With difficulty, he tears his gaze away from the long, shifting shadows and unexpectedly finds a paw, or what looks like a paw, patting him slightly several times when it gets the boy’s attention. Noticing that the paw has big enough and very possibly sharp claws, he risks raising his weak hand a little to brush the petting tip of the tail and breathes out quietly when the fox seems to ignore his action. Instead, the animal sniffs and leans in to nuzzle into the boy’s slightly damp cheek, nudging lightly at his soft skin and making him squirm a little with a light giggle. Which is cut off by a delightful squeal when the fox’s wet, hot tongue licks briefly across his cheek, slightly rough and long. Without stopping, it continues to lap, coaxing some more giggles from the boy, which break into loud chuckles and then fall into a pouring laugh. The sensation is surprisingly warm and... somewhat strange. Once the fox decides that it’s enough torturing the boy with unintentional tickling, the silhouette leans back and calmly watches him rub his harmed cheek with his shoulder, without pausing to laugh. Suddenly, the boy realizes that he doesn’t cry anymore, doesn’t feel any cold or pain, or anything else that happened to him. The darkness no longer freaks him out at this point; instead, it seems to be more welcoming and peaceful towards him. It's the kind of darkness that lulls people at nights, that takes everything bad away from unhappy folks, that embraces every lost soul to comfort their wounded spirit. He thinks his variant is the second and third ones, since he is someone who can’t be lulled by any dark thing that might exist. At this moment, he is the one who’s a lost soul in the middle of the purest nothingness, who has experienced something very bad and evil, cruel, who wants for someone or something to bring him at least a tiny bit of comfort. He would gladly take it from this strange fox silhouette. Noticing more strength now, he puts his palm flat on the ground and rises himself from it with one slow move, sitting on his heels and shaking a little. That invisible, warm covering still lies on him, hiding every part of his body under itself, for which he is very thankful. The fox watches for him so closely and carefully, as though checking for the presence of something that isn’t available to his senses. Its tails — some of them — never leave his back, stroking and occasionally simply pressing against him. This somehow grounds him, gives him the support to stay in his mind and not to give in to treacherous desperation again, and helps him to chase his curling into a small tornado of thoughts away. He looks into the silver eyes, which seem to drown him in their pure glowing, as if the boy is wordlessly asking the fox what he should do now, pleading with it to give him any answer. He doesn’t know what his expression looks like, but the silhouette’s tails freeze for a long moment, as though it can feel everything raging inside him. But it doesn’t last because the fox stands up harshly on its four paws. It waves all of its tails once and then, just like in his recent dream, curls up on its side in front of the boy. Its eyes don’t lose their contact with his for not even a second. It takes a few moments for the boy to understand the message the fox shadow wants to convey. And when it sinks in him, he instantly changes his pose to the one from that dream — lying beside the silhouette with his head on the soft, fluffy side of the fox. The tails tickle the back of his neck and head; the warmth of the shadow’s body underneath him, the light, almost inaudible purr under his ear that vibrates right through him — this all cradles him, slightly pushing him to somewhat another level of this horrible dream. There is a calmness behind a line and a wanted peace he welcomes with his whole being, wishing for nothing else but to finally just fall asleep. So, when he feels a gentle pull, he willingly gives in. And, just before oblivion takes him fully, a warm nose nudges his forehead so weightlessly that the boy almost misses the touch. He lets his eyelids flutter closed as he feels completely safe. He lets the darkness consume him — but only this time. As soon as his breath becomes steady and even, his mind comes to the thought that he may have summoned not quite what he needed, but something very close to it. A stray idea — what if the strange fox is actually the... — tries to get through to him, but for some reason, it’s swiped away by another idle thought that appeared from nowhere. A little later, the boy is too far away to form a coherent sentence, though two simple, heartfelt words leave his lips. "Thank you." Then, he is washed away by the long-awaited dreamless sleep.***
The days after significant Christmas go by smoothly and botherlessly, and yet his mother still forces him to do his homework. He doesn’t want any problems when their special day comes, preferring to listen to his mom, finding this doing partly useful. He won’t be caught by his parents and blamed for his undone responsibilities. So, yep, he does his homework for several days in a row. But otherwise, the boy lazes around, doing practically nothing. He reads comics and walks with Scott, and re-watches some favorite movies with his mom in the evenings. His father comes too late to see him because he’s already asleep by that point and leaves too early for Stiles to see him before he goes. Maybe this upsets him just a little because the boy has a friend he can walk with, just like he does, and hang out at different playgrounds to entertain themselves with many things in there. They often talk about lacrosse, discussing everything they can remember or have heard about this kind of sport from older guys going past them at school. Both friends have always wanted to join their school team, and it has always been the wrong time for them. Now, though, now the boys can play together and without anyone else. Could it be any better? But their moms don’t allow them to play because of the quite bad weather — it’s very windy. After all, Stiles and Scott have to erase the idea of having lacrosse right after Christmas from their list of the closest activities for a while. That doesn’t mean the friends can’t think about it all the time, though, and pester their parents about this topic. It has lasted like that for four days already, without any little change, gradually and nicely. Nights have become calmer and dreamless, much to Stiles’ great happiness, because he really gets sick of it: the permanent fear and the ever-present chasing away from something scary but hidden from knowing. The brown-haired boy could never rest properly or explain what kind of feelings and emotions he experienced. He couldn’t even remember what his dreams were about! Stiles only felt a wild fear when he suddenly woke up as sweat was dripping down his forehead, with his hands clenched into tight fists around the blanket. Although it hasn’t always been this way, the brown-eyed boy has been sleeping far better lately, for example. Even if he also doesn’t remember anything from his dreams, that perspective can’t help but gladden him so much, since he feels like himself again. And it’s not just a metaphorical form. Stiles can really feel how full of joy and energy he is, like he’s ready to move mountains. The only sad fact for the boy is that he still hasn’t gotten in touch with Void—at least, that’s how he convinces himself. Because the truth is, he’s upset that he can’t talk to Void, can’t tell him about how awesome his Christmas was, can’t share every spoken story and expressed emotion with him, or what he got as a gift... For some reason, Stiles can’t admit it to himself — maybe it’s because he’s a little scared to confess that he misses something (or someone, he hasn’t decided which is better) that emerged from the very darkness. Or, maybe, Stiles doesn’t want to shatter himself against the rough surface of grim reality if he accepts that the invisible being seems to live in his... head. It will— would be hurt so much. But that changes nothing of the way the boy feels a little blue about the whole situation, even though he understands that his feelings might be a little bit ridiculous. Still, the brown-haired boy tries to focus on his own real life. Especially after the Christmas night, when he woke up with very labored breathing, with a too heavily pounding heart and dried, itchy trails of tears on his temples and cheeks. Though there was a crystal-pure serenity inside of him, in his core, which was so mind-boggling because his body indeed felt exactly the opposite way than his inner state. While the body felt animal fear, felt nothing else but a trembling mass full of subdued whimpers and whining noises, and the stomach was curled into a tight knot, the mind felt entirely calm. There was nothing but the most peaceful thing; there were no worries or memories of anything that could dream of him. But his bed told him a different story: the covers were thoroughly rumpled under him; his blanket was a messy heap and kicked out of him utterly to his feet; his pillow and covers were damp. Perhaps the oddest thing was that Stiles had no idea what the reason for it was or what his possible nightmare was about that led him there, to that outcome. Because all he could remember was the black fox, or what looked like a fox, or that’s how the boy’s consciousness drew that silhouette. So, after this unexplained and resistant-to-any-understanding incident, Stiles gathered himself and tuned in to his life, enjoying every lazy evening, every talk with Scott, and every minute of his holidays. And, to his surprise, the brown-eyed boy has almost stopped waiting for any sign of any presence somewhere near him. When he has stopped hoping for something to show itself in that hateful dark veil, his dreams have unexpectedly stopped coming to him. He’s absolutely okay with that. So now, he’s putting on the clothes he chose for the trip into the forest, making sure they still look good enough for his mom not to suspect his true intent for the day. He’s also making sure he puts two flashlights, two full mild bottles of water, and a small box with several sandwiches inside in his walking backpack. It's already past noon. Scott’s mother should be at the hospital by now, Stiles’ father is at work, and his mother will be home all day as in previous ones, so their plan — to meet at Scott’s house, then Stiles will call his mom to tell her everything is fine, after which they will go into the preserve — should be out of danger of being discovered before they can even take a step there. Once Stiles is completely ready to move on, he takes a look around, eyes sliding over the space of his bedroom, trying to note something he could forget. And, yep, he had forgotten about his orange boots sitting in the closet. Grabbing them with one hand, the brown-haired boy rushes out of his room, practically skipping down the stairs — that’s how anticipation flames in his core. The boy stops in the living room where his mother sits in an armchair and glances at him, seemingly noticing how glowing he is. She looks at him curiously, as if she somehow already thinks about everything that she shouldn’t know about at all. "Where’s the source of the infinite youth?" his mom asks him so casually, as if it’s not her who just confused Stiles with such a strange, out-of-place question. And she’s sitting on the couch, oh, so innocently, holding a book. "Uhh..." is the only thing that escapes his mouth, and then: "What?" His mom laughs quietly. "You just blinded me with your joyful look, and I thought you had found something. So... what’s it?" "Oh," the boy manages to utter, but he quickly pulls himself together. "Nothing, honestly. I’m just excited, you know." Stiles tries to say something banal and simple, and his mom nods shortly, lowering her head back to her book. "All right, I’ll go. Yep. Bye-bye." "Have a good time," she wishes before he walks away into the hallway. "Thanks!" he shouts already from the hall. The boy thinks it’s weird that his mother didn’t say anything about his boots when he actually has another pair in the hall that he usually wears in such rainy weather. Stiles isn’t going to complain either way. Putting on the jacket and holding the keys in one hand, Stiles walks out and heads to Scott with an irrepressible sense of approaching something interesting. As soon as Stiles can deal with one step of his friend’s house, the door before him suddenly opens with a loud beat against the wall, making the boy flinch and look up. Scott stands right there with a wide, almost maniac smile on his face, not moving until Stiles is within reach. Then he hits his shoulder with his fist (his usual friendly gesture for greeting when he’s in some mischievous mood), and his smile immediately turns into a smirk as the brown-haired boy pushes his clenched palm into his friend’s shoulder. "So. Call your mother, and then we’ll go. I’m almost ready," his friend impatiently demands right off, which causes the big rolling eyes to radiate out from the boy. "And hi to you, Scott," Stiles bites jokingly, and it makes them chuckle slightly before they go inside; the door closes, Stiles stays beside it, picking his mother’s number, while Scott leaves upstairs. While he assures his mom that he’s here and everything is cool, his friend gathers all the stuff left for the trip too and checks the whole house in case there is something threatening to burn it out accidentally. Waiting for his friend to finish his checking, Stiles thinks about how they should enter the preserve and comes to the idea that it would be best to use the same route that he and his father took when they visited Hales. It's familiar, and maybe it’s the shortest way. So, the choice is made; all the rest will be dealt with later — they will assess their situation (if something happens, they always have their phones). "I’m ready. You?" Scott asks, throwing his backpack over his shoulders and looking right at him, as though he’s trying to guess what Stiles is thinking about at this point. He raises his brows as Stiles lifts his tea-colored eyes to his, silently asking the same question. Before answering and even thinking about any answer, the brown-haired boy puts his phone in his jacket pocket and zips it up. "Yeah," he simply responds, pushing his hand at the door to open it. “Well, Scotty, today will be our either the grandest or most fatal day of our lives,” the boy says with a sharp smirk that gives an identical one in response. Glad by this, Stiles jumps out of the house and waves his hand for his friend to hurry up finally. So does Scott; he just shakes his head slightly with that small smile of his, steps over the doorstep, and locks the door before joining the boy. After exchanging looks and smirks for a second, they nod at each other and turn around to make their way into the preserve. The boys walk steadily and quickly enough to pass several blocks in a few minutes, never stopping to talk, occasionally laughing as they continue to crash every bit of the distance to the green sign. The road keeps being like a big gray tape, separating two islands of lands, the houses, random trees, and bushes by its long, wide line flowing seamlessly between them and holding two narrower walkways on either side. Light rain makes the road slightly damp, and it shimmers a little as grass traps minuscule droplets on its stark green stripes. Stiles and Scott pray to any highest powers to convince the rain to change its plans and pour somewhere else than the town or, most importantly, the preserve. It seems to work because the sun tries to tear through that thick layer of fat clouds soon. Its rays land on the boys’ faces and trickle down their noses, prompting the two friends to rub them periodically. The boys don’t stray off the pace; they go still at the same speed, which is higher than they would normally go. Actually, the slosh of enthusiasm around them and a small surge of adrenaline do the trick, making it easy for Stiles and Scott to keep up. Very quickly, the monochromatic road becomes an ordinary, earthy path underfoot; it’s not wet, but very close to it, with a slightly mushy texture. It's disgusting and a bit uncomfortable, but they have what they have, so they should be more careful in order not to slip up and fall into it. Both boys hope that it will be better inside of the woods than here. As long as there are big, small, or tiny rocks occurring in their way, the two friends try to jump over solid and comparatively stable spots to make the path easier for themselves. But when these very rocks resist meeting them yet again, the boys have to find a clearer place for their own sake. "How do you think," Scott suddenly speaks up, breaking down the lingering silence as they begin to approach the sign, "where we should start to look?" The question is a reasonable and relevant one, Stiles thinks, humming lowly as he considers where they actually should start. Kicking a small rock, Stiles says, sharing his thoughts with Scott, who walks slightly behind him and waits patiently. "If that tree is so big and looks like an oak, then maybe it’s standing somewhere deeper? And we need to manage not to get lost in those woods. So... let’s find distinct paths and stick to them, okay?" He unconsciously takes a pause, not implying anything by it, but behind him, Scott nods in agreement all the same. "What ‘bout a place— Dunno, let’s go deeper into the forest. Gradually. All in all, this all might just be old rumors, and we could end up in some unfamiliar place. I offer to pick one particular direction and follow it the whole time. Then, we can come back following it without any trouble." They stop right in front of the green sign that says, "You’re entering the Preserve," and look closely into the depths of the forest, feeling nothing short of clear, unfeigned excitement. "Okay, man," Scott’s voice sounds in the fresh air as he twitches his shoulder to settle the backpack more comfortably. "Let’s do it." "Let’s go, dude," Stiles’ voice responds with an equally cheerful tone. And then they step into the woods. At first, the wide, long trail leads them deeper into the preserve, but a little after, the boys notice smaller and narrower paths branching off the main one. As they had hoped, there is less wetness inside of the forest itself than outside of it, so the pair of friends follows the path without worrying about getting dirtier than they necessarily would. After going a little further, they decide to turn at right and, picking a winding and even narrower way up, remember a special tiny tree and a large patch of some interesting sort of grass — very light green and short. Scott even makes a note, "strange bright grass," in his notebook, which he, as it turned out, took with him. Stiles silently thinks it is a good idea, especially since they’re just starting to make their way, promptly guessing where to turn or where to go; the deeper they walk, the easier it is to forget or mistake key places and then to get lost. The weather’s frown creates an almost mystical atmosphere in the forest, making all colors and shades take on an especial blend of a riddle and unique peace all together. Every flower, tree, and leaf of the many crowns is cloaked in a slightly dull, light haze that hides the edges of the woods in itself, and a tiny drizzle, which settles with its little droplets on grass and leaves, blankets the entire preserve. And only rare sun rays show through that thin veil, letting them shine a little and breaking the dullness. The dark and light bark on the fat and thin trunks sticks out of the main picture, accentuating the richness of the shadows and brightness of the colors, all but preening against everything around the trees. There are countless different branches for the boys to have to step over (when they are so big and wide, lying down on the ground) or to battle, waving them off (when they hang right in front of them, full of intent to hit them right in the eye). But otherwise, their way seems easy and fun. They don’t either meet any animals or see anything alive and moving throughout their journey. The boys turn four more times, while the surroundings stay almost the same to the untrained and raw eye. However, it’s an illusion of permanence because the picture changes all the time, and Scott’s new notes only confirm that. Stiles checks the time on his phone as they go through a little thicket, registering that an hour and a half has already passed. The boy with tea-like eyes believes they should hurry up or reconsider their next route because they will come back not very soon. After the way they come to another fork in the road, he suddenly stops, causing Scott, who’s behind him, to almost bump into him. His friend goes around him to see if there is something that made Stiles freeze. Not finding this something, he turns his head to glance at Stiles. When Stiles says absolutely nothing to explain himself, Scott decides to speak first. "Have you found the danger, or why are we standing?" he asks, his voice hinting at concern. Keeping the silence a bit longer, Stiles tears his gaze away from those three paths to look at his concerned friend. "No, nothing’s wrong," the boy rushes to calm a possible nascent storm of worry. He guesses that Scott could remember his words about the stray and wild animal in the forest. Choosing his words, he tells Scott his thoughts. "I thought that we should try to hurry because we’ve already been going for practically two hours. If we continue going like this, we’ll get back late in the evening. It’s going to get colder," he says, giving a steel argument that causes a thoughtful expression to appear on his friend’s face. It gives them both a pause. It seems like Scott thought about it too because a few moments later, his friend breaks this tense mood settled around them straight away. Even despite, he says a bit unsurely: "Maybe we can go only straight through this time? I wrote down all of our past turns and paths we’ve taken, so we’ll be able to go back easily. What do you think?" Stiles, actually, mulls over what his friend just said, but he likes this idea too much to resist it right now. Looking around to notice something that would catch an eye, the brown-eyed boy extends his arm to point to a tree with five long enough and distinct scratches on it. When his friend turns his head to take a look, Stiles demands: "Take a note, that tree is our beacon." He waits until Scott finishes running with the pen above the paper, then he adds, as an afterthought. "I hope we’re not going to meet whoever did it..." "Oh, duude!" Scott drawls with round eyes, chiding him a little for that musing. "I don’t wanna know any of it. So. Forget it and go." And Scott taps him on his shoulder, while Stiles rolls his eyes so hard that Scott worries that they will never stand back in their normal position. His worry proves fruitless at the moment his restless friend returns the gesture with a mischievous smirk and proudly goes to the damaged tree and further, looking over his shoulder at Scott, who’s still standing. Who is actually just memorizing more details to recognize the place later without trouble and doubt. Making sure that he definitely remembered at least the most part of the place, Scott jumps to catch up with his friend to continue deepening into the forest. The direction they picked up is unlike any other path. The pair of friends just has to go straight, navigating through thick walls of bushes and tall grass and trying not to stumble over roots peeking out from under the ground. There are so many roots here for their own good and health and safety. After a few dozen minutes, the boys stop in order to eat and drink, sitting down on a wide fallen tree and hooking their backpacks on a broken branch thickening to the base and managing with the weight without any problem. The surface of the bark is the slightest bit damp, radiating a light coolness from the inside of the tree. Though the two friends barely can pay attention to this fact, too bothered with talking about which ice cream is better at any time: chocolate or pistachio. They only fall into the shortest silence when a single bird makes a sharp sound somewhere in-between the tops of the woods, much louder than any previous noises both of them could hear. However, they get back to their meal. Stiles lifts his bright eyes and looks through the thin lines of the branches at the darkening sky — and the fact itself makes him tense, forcing his whole being to scream at him to run back before the sun rolls all the way under the horizon — and nudges at his friend’s knee, raising up from his warmed spot. Catching the gesture, Scott stands up too, gathers everything he took out from his pack, and puts it back in. The brown-haired boy checks the time yet again before they can walk down a small hill and cross a narrow stream; the dirt under their feet squishes unpleasantly. The light drizzle, which was just light and little, has almost faded by now, finally letting the haze melt away. The boys can finally see clearly what’s going next in the distance, even though neither Stiles nor Scott can actually see anything unusual in the front. They don’t despair, even after half an hour more of useless searching and walking even further and further into the depths of this damn preserve. "Dude," Scott speaks up after a long, dead wordlessness, startling Stiles, who already got used to the drawn-out silence, "after all, it could be only rumors," he says, and a hint in his low, level voice is so much telling for everyone within a mile of them. Stiles sighs but never stops to go, stubbornly continuing their move to an almost unreachable goal. Yet, he decides to tease his friend. "You wanna tell me that you want to go back home, back to your cozy bed, huh? Just speak your mind, Scotty, and tell me you’re tired." He risks looking over his shoulder and sees a confused and slightly embarrassed expression on Scott’s face. He sends to his friend his brand grin, showing that he’s only mocking him and doesn’t want to hurt him. Scott blows out an annoyed breath through his nose and kicks a little rock in his way that flies right into Stiles’ left leg, leaving a wet spot on his jeans. The boy yelps at the sudden, sharp sensation in his ankle; his grin instantly fades into something surprised as he darts his eyes at his giggling friend. "Hey!" he utters with very reproaching notes in his high tone. "My advice to you, bro, is to focus on our present task," Scott says with a very wise sight, trying so hard to hold down laughing, which only makes his shoulders twitch slightly. When Stiles isn’t impressed by his smart-ass words and asks, "Or what?" And Scott smiles softly as his threat pours out from his lips: "Or my foot will find something bigger than that pity little rock." And now, Scott is the only one who shines with a smug grin. By the end, Stiles’ mouth is wide open. He has to shut it to release a long hum, stretching his own lips into a small smirk, all too amused by his friend’s cold, quiet threat at his address. The brown-eyed boy turns away from Scott, adopting an unflappable look as he articulates his response. "Alright, Scotty. But don’t you dare to leave us locked in here all night by some skipped place. Who knows who we’d meet here, huh?" And then Stiles winks at Scott, who grimaces at him, in a word, teases. After a few insignificant threats and joking backtalk, the boys decide it’s time to finally move on. They head down the path they chose, hoping against hope to find that tree or at least something curious. All in all, the time is tick-ticking. With every passing minute, the boys’ unwavering hope starts to fade right here — in this preserve, which seems to persistently hide everything from them and prevent them from finding what they’re looking for. It's as though there’s a supernatural power there that makes a choice about who is supposed to do what here, and there’s nothing the two boys can do about it, so they can but walk. Just as they are almost ready to just throw it all out the window and give up, Stiles, all of a sudden, stops, and this time, Scott does bump into his back. Scott can’t even open his mouth to ask what’s wrong now because the brown-haired boy turns around to look at him with big, round eyes. But, in fact, it’s as if he’s looking somewhere past Scott instead of at him. That's a little creepy. Looking at Stiles — whose eyes dart a quick glance here and there, whose head turns this or that direction, whose body is stunned, as if it’s ready to leap at any second — Scott can tell that his friend looks like a skittish animal that has heard its predator in the trees. In turn, Stiles feels like anything but a pitiful prey — quite the opposite, he feels like it’s him who is a predator that has noticed something he has been looking for a long time. He’s aware that his smirk is slowly stretching on his lips and seems more like a grin, wide and rapacious, like the truest snarl. His wandering eyes finally get still and cling to his silent friend standing right before him. They get more focused than a couple of moments earlier as he throws his arm out to his left (Scott’s right) side and points distinctly at even the thicker jungle. Even if Scott doesn’t quite understand what Stiles wants to say by this, he at least guesses the direction of his thoughts. He releases a continuous, long-suffering whine from within his very core. The brown-haired boy extends his other hand to grip his friend by his jacket, dragging him where he feels they should go. He shakes his head when Scott is about to speak up and start spitting out everything he really thinks about the matter, cutting off every possible word. "I can’t tell you why we should go there, sorry for this. But I literally feel like we need to go there," he tries to explain his meaningless act, apologizing for his urge of doubtless stupidity. His friend doesn’t say anything for a while, apparently considering it all, because, well, why not? As soon as he seems to come to his own decision, he pulls Stiles’ hand away from himself and walks steadily behind the boy, following him wherever he leads. "I hope you understand our state and won’t do something mindless," is the only thing he says to him, but doesn’t add anything else, just going right behind the excited boy. Flying through the woods and many roots that are interwoven between themselves on the slightly damp ground covered by pale grass, skipping a random fallen tree, Stiles dives into some very unfamiliar place. And this makes Scott doubt even more. The most important thing is that there is no single path for them to follow; Scott worries about their safety on the way back. Stiles seems to be more bothered by some of his thing — that, apparently, calls out to him if he doesn’t take a pause to consider everything more carefully — than by all that could happen later. It almost looks like Stiles is possessed by something ethereal, like a spirit. If only they could know what kind of spirit it is: a bad one, a helping one, or something in between. Still, the farther the boys walk, the more often Stiles stops to take a look around, obviously searching for that thing just he knows about. Meanwhile, his true friend tries to memorize each spot he notices through the chaotic walk through what seems to be the entire forest. Not long after, the brown-haired boy loses his surge of the mysterious tugging. He ends his move, gets still for a moment before turning to face two trees, taller and thicker amid the rest, creating a symbolic arch by the way they’re bowed down and twined together with their long and thin higher branches. It's as if they’re showing here’s an entryway. Every three seconds, the boys throw glances at each other as they just stand there and wait for something they aren’t even aware of. Maybe there is a giant humanoid behind this so-called entrance waiting to eat some lost soul, or maybe there is a hidden place, like a secret laboratory fenced by really dangerous things. Both of them silently come to the decision to get closer. When nothing happens, they take an invite very gladly, walking in and through an improvised green corridor. Once it begins to fade, the boys can see a big, beautiful clearing before their eyes. Full of flowers and fresh grass, and it’s thoroughly flanked by tall walls of woods that hide it from others. But that’s not what makes both Stiles and Scott catch their eyes, which are rolled out of their sockets. No. There is a large, almost perfectly round, impossibly wide stump in the middle of this very clearing. It has unbelievably giant roots breaking through the already fragile-looking soil, vast circles on the light surface, and lush moss on the solid dark bark. It's that which makes the boys be so speechless and motionless. The only thought spinning in their heads is... It’s anything but an oak.
