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Stiles can’t wrench his gaze away from Scott during the bus ride home. Scott’s head is pressed against the window of the bus, jaw slack, eyes closed, breath even.
It’s probably… it is the only sleep he’s had in days. The streaming sun highlights the planes of his face differently than the dim light of a flare. He looks peaceful. Like he hadn’t just…
Stiles stops the thought before he can finish it.
The scent of gasoline is still too strong, even mixed with whatever Lydia had used to help get it off. Stiles puffs out a breath and snuggles closer. The smell is worse when he lies his head in the crook of Scott’s shoulder and grasps his wrist. The pulse beats steadily against his palm.
Scott’s skin is warm. Alive.
Stiles swallows and closes his eyes. The seat of the bus rumbles underneath him, lulls him into a doze.
“You’re drooling.”
Scott says it so lightly. Like nothing is different. Bumps his shoulder like he hadn’t expressed that being dead would be better for everyone. Like he’s fine.
Stiles sits up, rubbing his neck. He swallows. Doesn’t have the faintest idea how to begin this conversation. Doesn’t know how to tell Scott that he matters. That he matters so much. How to tell him enough times that he’ll believe it.
“Your face is drooling,” he says instead.
Scott rolls his eyes and shoves at Stiles playfully. His lips are upturned in a small smile. Stiles doesn’t put more distance between them. Can’t stand the idea that when they get off this bus they’ll go to their separate homes.
“How was the trip?” his dad will ask, half listening at best, nose likely buried in some useless information about the murders.
“Oh, you know, a darach poisoned my best friend, and he tried to kill himself. Same old, same old.”
“Sounds fun, son,” his dad will say, like it never happened. Because that’s how it is. How everything is. Like it never happened.
Erica is dead, but the world still just thinks she’s missing. Jackson is in London. Gerard is gone. The wound that Allison stitched up in a filthy gas station bathroom is gone. Like it never happened.
And Scott’s teasing him like he hadn’t been seconds from lighting himself on fire.
Maybe that would have healed too. Peter is walking around like it never happened.
Stiles rubs his hands against his sweatpants. “Scott…”
Scott’s head is against the window again, eyes closed. He snores a little. The bus passes the sign for Beacon County. Stiles balls his hands into fists and stares at Scott’s peaceful face.
He’d seen his mom’s face. At the funeral. He wasn’t supposed to. He’d snuck into the viewing room. His new brown suit had been tight, stiff, constricting. He’d taken the stupid tie off and bunched it in his hands.
His Baba had cooed over how handsome he looked. How proud his mother would have been of how brave her little boy was being.
“Not even any tears,” she’d said, ruffling his hair.
Scott had found him. Held his hand as he peered into the casket. His mom’s face had been slack. Relaxed. Peaceful. Scott had sat with him, never once asking him to speak like everyone else.
Stiles hadn’t spoken for weeks. Scott still came over after school every day. Sometimes they’d play video games or watch tv, and sometimes, he’d sit and listen to Scott telling him about school.
In the end, Stiles had spoken again. He’d gone back to school. Life had gone on. Like it never happened.
Scott had translated for him, then. Had known what Stiles wanted and needed. So many things between them have always been unspoken. Except maybe they need to be spoken.
Except for that three weeks, Stiles has always been full of words. They tumble from his lips faster than he can think about them.
Scott blinks as the bus rolls into town. Stretches and yawns. His black t-shirt lifts enough that Stiles can see there’s no blood. No gaping wound. No scar. No evidence. No outward sign of pain.
Stiles has never been good with pain.
The bus grinds to a halt in the school parking lot. There’s a flurry of activity as everyone tries to get off the bus. Scott stands.
Stiles brushes a hand against his thigh. The flow of words is plugged up. He needs Scott to translate. For the first time in his life wonders if Scott will understand.
Maybe not the first time.
Things have been different between them for a while.
Surely there had been signs that Scott was suicidal. And Stiles had missed every one.
Scott sighs. “It was the darach.”
Maybe things aren’t all that different between them. Stiles stands and exits the bus with the throng of teenagers. Isaac in front of him, Scott behind him.
And maybe they are.
Because Stiles can’t tell if Scott is lying.