That first day, that first morning, he's alone with his thoughts

– everyone has it but no-one can lose it everyone has it but no-one can lose it everyone has it but no-one can lose it figure it out, Stiles, figure it out –

and he wonders where the others are. Wonders how they can leave him by himself after

– fireflies and school buses and explosives and arrows in stomachs and blood and blood and blood and –

everything. Wonders how they can trust him.

(They don't.)

His dad comes around first. There's a heaviness to the way he walks and a sadness in his eyes that wasn't in them before and Stiles knows he put it there, knows it put it there, and he struggles to untangle himself from all the red thread inside of him to say I'm sorry.

John just sits by his son's bed, hopeful smile on his face, and Stiles wants so bad to be okay, wants so bad for it all to be over, wants so bad for things to be back to normal

– back to MRI scans and Adderall and late night shifts and bottles of whiskey and lying and lies and sneaking around after dark –

between them. So when his dad asks how are you, son Stiles grits his teeth and smiles and says okay, Dad, I'm

– still not sure if this is real –

okay.

(After all, what's one more lie compared to all that red thread?)

The others come in increments.

First Scott

– the sword and the blood and the way it enjoyed inflicting pain, the way Stiles scrabbled at the walls of his mind to let me out let me out because it was Scott, it was his best friend bleeding in front of him and he's had nightmares like this before but this is it, this is real this is real –

who gives him those puppy-dog eyes and a big, dopey smile and says no-one blames you, Stiles.

(Lie.)

Then it's Lydia and Kira

– 19 53 88 and screams screams screams –

who ruffle his hair and kiss his cheeks and cry a little when he cracks a joke.

Isaac and Allison and Malia come after

– electricity and nogitsune kisses and needles in an asylum and he. can't. breathe –

and manage to make even smiling awkward and uncomfortable. Malia stays when the other two leave, sits next to him and listens as he tells her it was never me, I'm sorry, you seem really lovely but I don't like you that way. She's nothing like her father

– old memories of lacrosse fields and bloody prom dresses and offers of the bite that he used to think were bad but now now he looks back on with something akin to longing –

and for that Stiles is glad.

Derek comes when everyone else – Melissa, Deaton, even the twins – has left. He actually uses the door this time, walks in and doesn't smile

– conversations through locked doors and prison bars and Derek clawing the gun from Chris Argent's hand and all the rest is a jumble of smoke and blood and guilt –

but instead berates Stiles softly for the coffee cups littered in his trash can. It's a moment of normalcy that Stiles is so infinitely grateful for, and so when Derek gets up to leave, he's tugged back down again into a quick one-armed hug, because

– Stiles is so sorry, he can feel the words thrumming all the way through his bones –

of all people, Derek understands what it's like to feel guilty.

(They both have blood on their hands, after all.)

As soon as he's well enough his dad drives him to the hospital for a scan. They pull up in the parking lot and Stiles shudders at the memories clawing at him from all sides

– water and bandaged faces and shadowshadowsshhaaddooww –

but when his dad asks if he's okay, he says I'm

– a murderer a liar a cheat a thief a killer a psychopath insane broken gone dead void –

fine.

They do the tests again, and Stiles tries to forget about the last time he was having an MRI. When they're done, the doctor turns to them, smiling, and suddenly his dad's crying because his scans have come back healthy, and he's not dying, he's okay, he's going to be okay.

They go for ice-cream to celebrate, and Stiles feels

– like he doesn't deserve this, how does he deserve this, all the blood on his hands is weighing him down, is gushing from him, because how is it that they're dead and he isn't –

like a kid again.

(He doesn't deserve any of this.)

He eases back into school, Scott flanking him on one side, Lydia on the other, kids who he thought never knew he existed giving him strange looks in the corridors, and he tries to pretend everything's normal again but

– his nightmares are even worse, now, because they're real memories, and he has a panic attack every other day because there are just so many people and he could've killed them all, would've killed them all, and he's taking twice the amount of Adderall he should because he can't focus in Chemistry without remembering potassium, iodine and radium, can't concentrate in English without seeing Jennifer's scars and the nemeton which started all of this to begin with, can't listen in Economics without seeing Coach sprawled in the leaves, bleeding out, dying –

he was never any good at pretending.

(He's gotten better at it, though.)

He doesn't eat like he used to. Can't eat like he used to. Curly fries taste like ashes in his mouth, burgers like paper, milkshakes like dirt, and he gets skinnier and skinnier and skinnier and no-one says a word.

(It's the layers.)

He's not failing his classes, exactly, but he sure as hell won't be winning valedictorian any time soon. His dad gets rung up by the school, of course, and when Stiles gets home one afternoon John asks why his son didn't hand in his history paper. Truth is

– the paper was on goddamn fucking prisoner of war camps, he was expected to write about death and disease and torture and how the fuck is he supposed to research that when he can't even look at a paper cut without his heart skipping a beat –

he just doesn't see the point of school anymore.

(Why should he, when all it does is remind him of the life he could have had?)

The nogitsune visits him in his dreams most evenings, even the good ones.

He's dreaming of his mother, one night, as she spins him around and around and sings to him Mary, Mary, quite contrary, but suddenly the bandaged man is there, fingers clutching around Claudia's neck, choking her, and it's singing too, and Stiles tries to drown out the words but they're so loud, they're all around him, pulsating, and

– Szczęsny, Szczęsny, quite contrary, how does your garden grow? With old tombstones and picked clean bones, prettily, all in a row –

he can't breathe, this is just a dream, but he won't wake up

– Szczęsny, Szczęsny, quite contrary, how do your murders go? With blood all red and people dead, you're headed down below –

and his mom's eyes roll back into her head and he's watching her die again, again, again and

– Szczęsny, Szczęsny, quite contrary, tell us what you know. Bombs and knives and taking lives, blood seeping through the snow –

suddenly he's shouting himself awake for the third night in a row. His dad is at work, the house is locked up and dark, and Stiles stuffs a fist down his throat to keep the screams inside.

(It doesn't work.)

Lydia finally says something about him weighing less than her, and suddenly he's being swooped by everyone. They ask him why he isn't eating, and he says

– he can't get the smell of burning human flesh from his nostrils, can't get the sight of twisted lifeless bodies from his mind, can't get the taste of his own metallic blood from his mouth –

he doesn't know.

They ask him why he isn't sleeping, and he says

– he sees his friends and family die over and over each time he closes his eyes and it's his fault, it's always his fault, and he feels like he's suffocating into the pillow whenever he lays his head down to rest –

he doesn't know.

They ask him why he's not handing in his homework and he says

– Calculus problems seem irrelevant after you've had human blood on your hands, and English essays seem redundant since you already have your own heart of darkness to deal with –

he doesn't know.

They prescribe him anti-depressants and he says

– they're going straight down the drain because he's hyped up on enough drugs and caffeine already –

thank you.

(He isn't getting better.)

Eventually, people start trying to guilt-trip him. After everything your dad went through, Lydia says. Everything we did to keep you safe, Scott adds. This is what you give us in return?

Stiles doesn't listen. He doesn't owe them anything.

(He'd be better off dead.)

Derek slithers in through his window one night as Stiles is tipping his pills into the drain. They look at each other, just look, and Stiles is tired of making excuses, tired of pretending he wants to get better, tired of telling everyone that he's okay.

He looks Derek dead in the eye and says

– they should've killed him when they had the chance –

I don't deserve any of this.

Derek nods, smiles with his mouth closed, and says no, you don't. But you're getting it anyway.

He moves forward and

– memories of Derek's teeth and claws and eyes and roar and oh, God –

gently pries the prescription bottle out of Stiles' hands. Don't waste them all, he says, and sets it down on the sill before slipping out as quickly as he came.

(Stiles doesn't flush away any more pills after that.)

Slowly, in baby steps, things don't get better, but they don't get worse.

He eats more than he did, but more often than not it lands him in the bathroom, retching his guts into the toilet as macabre memories claw their way to the surface.

He still has the nightmares, still wakes up screaming, but if his dad isn't there then Derek is. They don't ever talk about the dreams, and Derek doesn't pretend to understand them, but his presence is a solid comfort by Stiles' side, and soon his four hours of sleep a night turn into five.

He won't ever get back on track for school, and his dad's stopped trying to make him. But, one day, Stiles picks up a paintbrush and pours his heart of darkness into the canvas. Art becomes his best subject pretty quickly after that.

Scott comes over some days and they duke it out over Halo. Stiles lets his friend win sometimes, if only to see his smile that lights up the room. Lydia takes him shopping once, and, surprisingly, a new wardrobe full of clothes the nogitsune never touched make more of a difference to Stiles than he ever would have guessed. Allison and Isaac even take him shooting one sunny afternoon, and the three of them laugh over how monumentally terrible Stiles is with a bow.

It's almost like old times.

(Except.)

Derek kisses Stiles the first day he swallows and keeps his anti-depressants down. It's a Tuesday, and they're sitting on the bed together, and Stiles opens his mouth to show its emptiness to Derek, when suddenly:

Warmth. Heat. Softness. Teeth.

They pull away from each other, minutely, but before Stiles can lurch back in (because he can't deny he's been dreaming about this since sophomore year), Derek reaches out to clasp Stiles' face in his big, callused hands.

You deserve this, is all he says, not breaking eye contact, and Stiles is drowning in those blue-green-grey eyes, but it's the good kind of drowning, the kind that makes you want to hold your breath to find out what's waiting on the other side.

(It's a kiss.

A good one.)