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For once in his life, Stiles stands truly speechless. There’s so much he wants to say right now: how much he loves them, how much it means that they’ve stood by him through all this shit—are willing to bear his burdens with him for the rest of his life, how far they’ve all come despite the endless obstacles thrown in the way, how much they’ve grown—individually and together—these past months, how much farther they’ll go together, how ecstatic he is at the idea of sharing the rest of his life with these wonderful, wonderful men who for some unfathomable reason love him beyond his understanding.
But he can’t find the words for it, though they wait patiently as he blinks back tears, and finally he manages, “You keep me going, you know that? And maybe it’s not going to be perfect, but it’s going to be awesome. All three of us; all equal; all awesome.”
“Stiles Stilinski,” Isaac says, knowing better than to use Stiles’ given name. “D’you hereby call dibs on the rest of our lives? No matter what awesomeness or hellish shit may come?”
“Hell yeah.”
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