Everything you do is simply delicate
Everything you do is quite angelicate
Why can't I be you?
Why can't I be you?

—The Cure, "Why Can't I Be You?"

Theo takes in a swift, shuddering breath, feels it scratch and scrawl against his lungs, before he obeys Liam's dictate. He wants to put it off, this moment of reckoning, but . . . A flutter of his lashes and he's peering down at Liam and into his eyes. This close, with only a couple inches and a decade of regrets separating them, Liam's eyes gleam a mix of silver and blue that's impossible to turn away from. Even though he does want to glance away, hide away, from Liam's eyes and whatever they can see of him and his secrets and his fears and the litany of things he still desperately wishes he could change, even though his deeds are carved in stone.

"Is that the only reason you keep trying to save my stupid ass?" Liam asks. He finally relaxes his hold on Theo's shirt; Theo tries, unsuccessfully, not to miss his touch. Tries not to care. But if Theo is rock, Liam is water, bubbling and sliding over him again and again, rounding and smoothing Theo's jagged edges.

You're going soft. He's making you soft, Theo thinks with a hint of panic he quells mercilessly. The Doctors' vicious, static-laden voices reach across the years with stinging, poison-tipped claws to say: Emotion makes you weak and pathetic. Emotion is for the weak and pathetic. But those same voices labeled him a failure. And he is; they were right about that. However, they were wrong, dead wrong, about so many other things. Maybe— Maybe emotion—

Liam's arms fold tight across the breadth of his chest. The movement lures Theo's focus to Liam's thick biceps before he can help it. As quickly as he can, he tilts his chin and forces himself to concentrate on a thin, wispy cloud floating under the moon, hoping Liam didn't notice where he had just been staring. When he thinks he can control his attention, Theo turns back. He crams his fisted hands in his pockets and plants his gaze firmly on Liam's face. He's getting careless. That's not something Theo can afford, but he's beginning to think he could shatter every last fragment of himself on Liam, and turn, bruised, bloody-lipped, and broken, and still beg him for more.

"Isn't that reason enough?" Theo asks slowly. "I deserved it, but there's not much worse than what I went through down there with my sister. You weren't there; you don't understand exactly what you saved me from."

"Yeah, sure. Okay. But . . ." Liam's voice trails off, and his mouth segues into a frown. With rough hands, Liam shoves at his hair. He presses fingertips to his temples as his face contorts in a grimace.

Something pricks at the edge of Theo's awareness. Their mouths are moving; words are coming out. They're having a conversation, but Theo has the odd sense that he's missing something crucial. He can read Liam's chemosignals, sure, and his expressions, too, to a certain extent. But he can't read his thoughts. Right now there's a great deal Theo would willingly barter or even outright sacrifice to have that ability. Eyes narrowed, he trains his gaze on Liam.

A sigh drops, stone-heavy, from Liam's lips before he shakes his head and squares his shoulders. "Your sister— You said she still wants it. Your heart, I mean."

"She does. I think she'll always want it," Theo says. "It's hers; I stole it."

"Well, she can't have it." Liam bites his lip, drawing the cushiony bottom one between his teeth. Watching Liam worry his lip makes Theo wish for impossible things. It makes Theo wish he could— "If she wants it back"—Liam lifts a hand and lets his claws flash out from his fingers—"she'll have to get through me first." Liam's mouth twists, then settles in a hard, stubborn line Theo recognizes; he's seen it often enough to know one thing: Liam means what he's saying.

Theo blinks. "Why…?" He doesn't get the entire sentence out on the first attempt because it lodges in his throat, nearly choking him. Which is strange because Theo isn't used to tripping and fumbling over his words. That usually falls in Liam's territory. But Liam has an inexplicable knack for surprising Theo, for sneaking over the walls of the citadel he's erected to protect the small, vulnerable particles of himself that life hasn't yet burned away, so Theo really shouldn't be taken aback by his current bout of Liam-induced verbal clumsiness.

Since he didn't succeed on the first try, Theo tries again to speak his aborted sentence: "Why would you do that?" There's a plaintive, need-filled bassline thrumming beneath the top layer of the question; Theo hadn't intended to put it there.

A faint smile softens the steely line of Liam's mouth, and Theo's heart clenches. Liam's eyebrows climb toward his hair. "Why do you think, dumbass?" he asks, and Theo's fingers tingle with the need to smooth the creases in Liam's forehead.

Theo shrugs, hand swiping over his jaw, and shifts his weight from one foot to the other and back again.

"Theo, for a pretty smart guy, you really are an idiot sometimes."

"Takes one to know one, Liam."

"Har har. Always the comedian." Liam clicks his tongue and lifts his hand in a mocking, finger gun salute.

Theo just lets his eyes roll in response, and waits.

As the silence stumbles off the cliff of comfortable and hovers on the edge of awkward, Liam sighs and clears his throat. "Hell if I know why, but you've got my back, and I've got yours. People can change. You've changed." He pauses and eyes Theo like he's expecting him to respond. When he doesn't, Liam puts his hands on his hips, shakes his head, and flicks his gaze to the ground. "We're friends, Theo. That's why I'd fight your sister if I had to."

With his arms open and palms held up, Liam slants a look at Theo. Even messy haired and tormented, Liam remains beautiful—so beautiful he steals Theo's breath—and every piece of the medley of animal and human that constitutes Theo wants him so badly, in every way it's possible for one person to want another.

Liam's gaze grips Theo's and holds on, sharp and unblinking. Skewered by that keen regard like a butterfly pinned to a display block, Theo doesn't avert his attention as Liam says, "Because we're friends. Friends protect each other."

Theo's mouth turns arid. When he'd returned to Beacon Hills, he'd come in search of a pack and in search of power. Neither had materialized, but to think there might be even a slim chance for him to have something, have someone like Liam, leaves Theo lightheaded and dizzy.

He doesn't need Liam's protection; Theo knows how to take care of himself. He's done so for a terrible decade; Theo's seen too much to believe anyone can shield him. Nonetheless, he can't remember when last someone had wanted to protect him. For Liam to be the single person to offer him protection and friendship drives the thoughts from Theo's mind; the words from a mouth that's too used to being facile and insincere.

Liam fiddles with the hem of his shirt and scuffs his shoes in the dirt, pausing now and then to throw another weighty, considering glance in Theo's direction. He's waiting. Theo knows he should toss back a glib rejoinder—something light and sarcastic that shows exactly how unaffected he is by Liam's comments. "Friends," Theo finally says instead, voice gravel-rough, and wants to smack himself in the head for sounding like a moronic parrot. Friends. The word tastes foreign. Not bad, just strange. Unexpected.

Theo's been a monster; a means to an end; a pawn; a necessary evil. But a friend? Probably the last time anyone used that word in reference to Theo—maybe Scott or Stiles did?—and meant it, was when he was eight or nine-years-old.

(It's only a figure of speech. It doesn't mean anything.)

Now, at eighteen, Theo stands straighter and returns Liam's scrutiny without flinching, though his skin prickles under the heady pressure of the other boy's regard. He wipes a hand over his mouth and fights back the goofy little smile that threatens to stretch across his face and ruin the dregs of his battered dignity; he loses the battle, however, against a slow warmth that spreads steadily up from his stomach and into his chest, where it settles, glowing bright even in the September night.

Liam drums his fingers against the bend of his forearm. "Yeah. Friends," he says, and shrugs as if that settles and explains everything.

For Theo it only makes more questions buzz in his head, so he asks, "Is that what we are—friends?" in a hushed voice. Sudden heat blooms on the back of Theo's neck. He winces when he realizes his mouth has moved without his explicit permission. (Reassurance. Theo's begging for reassurance, like a needy child, whether Liam realizes it or not.) If it would help, Theo would punch himself in the face. Sadly, it's a lost cause because that wouldn't erase the stupidly bold question he uttered. For some reason, it's always Liam who gets Theo to take idiotic risks, risks he wouldn't take for anyone but him. One look at Liam and Theo's good sense vanishes like it never existed.

Theo tries to slow the embarrassing gallop of his pulse, all too aware Liam can hear it if he's being observant, but Theo's heart doesn't seem to want to obey his commands either. Liam is hell on Theo's self-control.

A gust of wind jostles the leaves in the trees near where they stand. Shivers start on Theo's bare forearms. Across from Theo, Liam's expression tumbles into thoughtful lines. "Mmm-hmm," Liam eventually says. His warm hands clutch at Theo's shoulders while he sways close, closer, and closer yet. The heat, scent, and sound of him flood each of Theo's senses in a rapid succession of cascading waves. "Friends," Liam whispers, his lips moving right up against Theo's mouth, and Theo shivers again and again as every synapse in his poor brain explodes in flames.

Author's Note: Thanks for reading. Got any thoughts for me? A single comment would make my day. :) I'd love to hear from you.