Chapter Text
Stiles lasted until the start of summer vacation after the nokitsune was destroyed before leaving. He disappeared that very first day. Well, at least that what it felt like to everyone. The Sheriff made sure to pack his bags and Deaton arranged most of the ‘vacation’, so it wasn’t that no one knew that he was going, just that no one was prepared to feel the absence. Stiles never fully came back to himself after he was released by the nokitsune. But at least he was physically there. That counted for something, right? Even if he ghosted through the school hallways like a creepy doppelganger, real enough to convince his classmate, but a wisp of his previous self to those closest to him.
He spent a week in isolation after the exorcism of the nokitsune, missing school and ignoring his friends to lock himself in his house with his dad doting over him. Luckily, a new virus was sweeping the school, putting a lot of kids out of commission with fevers and instructions for bed rest, so no one thought twice when Melissa McCall forged him a note from the hospital, excusing his absence. When he did return to school, his classmates noticed that he was tired but otherwise didn’t detect any glaringly different behaviors. Stiles laughed and joked during class and actively participated in conversations with everyone, everyone but the pack. They did notice that he seemed to spend more time alone in the library, but assumed that he was catching up on a week’s worth of missed work and SAT prep. He always sat in a far corner near the windows, working intently on his laptop and writing crammed, color coded notes in notebooks that he probably couldn’t even read. He refused to interact with his friends, pretended as if they weren’t there and changed seats to be further away. Stiles and Scott had a falling out, the rumors said, probably over a girl or something else typical. No one would guess that Stiles was still traumatized with the fact that he shoved a katana through his best friend, because things like that didn’t happen to normal people.
Stiles’ teachers and peers didn’t know that anything was wrong, so they didn’t look too closely at the signs. But isn’t that always how it goes? People will make up logical excuses in their heads to make up for what they see. They overlook the symptoms in the beginning because it’s easier to ignore them and move on with their own hectic lives than to acknowledge and help someone in need.
The pack noticed, but were too afraid of his backlash to intervene. Scott trained his eyes on the back of Stiles’ head from the corner of classrooms, wincing at every neck spasm that Stiles covered up with a stretch and yawn that caused his joints to audibly creak and pop. Lydia stubbornly held the bottom of her skirt to stop her hand from reaching out when she saw Stiles at his locker swallowing four pills multiple times in between classes instead of his normal two in the morning. Isaac watched him from afar in the library, feigning concentration over the spines of books, while listening to Stiles muttering to himself, words hidden under breath, whispers of random numbers, colors, objects, or people as his hands froze over the keyboard.
Table. 1,2,3,4. Good. Greenberg. Brown. The phrases were followed by a large exhale and a hand digging a circle into his chest before he continued his work with fervor.
Kira and her dad noticed in history when Stiles would stare at Scott’s fingers when he wasn’t looking, eyes scanning each digit and averted his eyes quickly before Scott noticed. All of the wolves noticed when they passed him in the hallway, crinkling their noses at the combination of something overly sweet, sulfur, and stale sweat clinging to his skin as he breezed past them. The sulfur was the strongest, spreading from his pores and surrounding him like a pungent cloud. The smell didn’t diminish as the weeks went on; it clung to his skin like a brand. But this brand was invisible, burning deeper into Stiles’ brain every time he shut his eyes, or saw his friends. It was like a physical pain, shooting across his forehead and traveling down his spine like molten claws poking into the space between bones.
It was one of those moments that finally pushed him over the edge. He was driving home from school, having succeeded again in avoiding his friends. He was only a mile away from home, when he jerked his jeep into a sudden stop and swerved to the side. A flash of blue and gold shone from the tree line, but Stiles focused solely on the two golden orbs. Neither Derek or Issac stepped out from the greenery and Stiles did not, could not move his suddenly heavy limbs. His eyes locked with the golden irises and his throat closed around itself, lungs felt like they were collapsing. His vision was crumbling around the edges and his grip on the steering wheel went slack. The golden eyes shone with a new vigor, glowing like beacons in the dark. The orbs seemed to come closer, startling Stiles into scrambling back against the car door, clutching at his chest. He scratched desperately at the cotton separating his fingers from his chest. His fingers came back speckled in blood but Stiles didn’t notice. The gold was gone, vanished into the darkness. The walls continued to recede around him as Stiles clutched madly at his chest, fingers finally reaching under the torn collar and pushing into his scabbing skin.
He can’t. He can’t. No. He can’t do it again. He can’t.
“Stiles!”
Panic.
Blue.
STOP.
He can’t.
Red.
Never…again.
Black.