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the first thing he does the moment he gets home is close every door. the front door shuts behind him, and he makes it a point to lock it and use the security chain for good measure. he moves to the windows next to the door, making sure each one is closed. deaton’s voice rings in his head like a warning. you must close the door on your own.
grief weighs down his movements, slowing him down as the feeling of suffocation seems to overtake his senses and blind him for the briefest moment at the feeling of wind against his skin. such a measly thing to be terrified of, and yet all he could think about was how the nogitsune had stood in the cold unwaveringly and taken innocent lives in his body. the window slams shut under his fingers, and stiles momentarily flinches.
next window. it’s a desperate need to feel safe, he reasons with himself, despite that being terribly pathetic. he tries to avoid looking into the reflection of himself. it was so hard to discern whether it was the nogitsune looking back or if it was him. each memory so carefully woven into his head that it gave him a stifling headache everytime he tried to wonder which memory was of his own will, or under the control of a spirit. his hands move with a little more force than necessary, his panic too overwhelming to let him worry about the handles of the windows.
the sound of his own footsteps make him flinch, and just momentarily, stiles wants to stop and just fall to the floor. cry until there’s nothing left because there’s so much that’s wrong with him and he can’t tell anyone because he’s not even sure what’s really so incorrect about him anymore. he’s never been the strongest mentally and it’s only seemed to get worse and worse, a downwards spiral so sudden he’s not sure what’s new and what’s always been there. it’s almost laughable how badly his life is going, but his strength has rapidly dwindled, and he’s sure a laugh would take more out of him than anything.
stepping into the kitchen, he’s almost overwhelmed by the cabinets. he slaps himself in an attempt to anchor himself back to the real world before he becomes an even bigger mess. the stinging doesn’t alleviate his thoughts, his mind still a mess of weak weak weak close the door close it every door needs to be closed shut the door stiles close it , he takes an achingly long time to shut each one, hearing the soft click noise of it falling into place, returning to it’s rightful position. and just for the briefest moments, stiles is envious. of a door. his seemingly biggest fear, he also envied. what a joke he was.
he wishes it was that easy for him. one small push or pull and he’s right back into place. the role of the comedic weak best friend who’s got brains and is so easily unaffected by everything. his palms are clammy, and staring down at them only makes him wonder if he will ever return to that role. if he can, or if it’ll be another mask he wears so seamlessly not even scott would be able to tell anything was wrong. yet, he wants scott to know something is wrong. isn’t that so selfish of him?
his best friend had just watched the girl he loved die in his arms because of stiles ’ decision and maybe it wasn’t really his decision but the nogitsune had weaved the memories into his head so intricately that maybe it really was his decision and he just couldn’t remember ever making it. but stiles still felt like he was the one who’d plunged that sword into allison’s body, the sound in his mind like a painful symphony merging together with the pained or shocked noises from everyone. all witnessed by the nogitsune (or stiles? everything was so fucking confusing ).
he kicks a cabinet door shut, and curses loudly at the pain that blossoms in his toes. it’s only a further reminder of weak weak weak in his head that seemed to be the only companion he had these days. his dad was swamped with sheriff work, scott and lydia were grieving, derek was off.. being derek, issac and chris.. last he’d heard they were planning to leave beacon hills, which really, seemed like something he should be doing too.
wholeheartedly, he’d just wanted to run. run until he couldn’t do that, and then walk where the wind will carry him. just stop existing for a few days, or maybe for the rest of his life. stiles had never been particularly into suicidal ideations, choosing to pointedly ignore every thought that came up about them, but in this moment, the idea that he has to live whilst allison, talented amazing and loved allison, wouldn’t, just couldn’t sit right with him. or maybe that was simply because he was staring at the knife rack sat innocently at the corner of the counter.
each knife was familiar in his hands. after all, it’d been him who picked up the pieces after his mother died. far too young to know how to cook and yet learning because his dad had found a new relationship in alcohol after the death. maybe it was not normal to do the things he did, or to know the things he knew, but stiles has never really been normal anyways, so maybe he couldn’t have been the best base plate to start off.
and how badly he aches to reach for the knife, to plunge it into his chest and watch the blood bubble out, staining his fingers with the red that haunts his nights, the same red that allison bled so fiercely, helping everyone out even in her last moments. stiles would’ve done anything to swap places with her, just to avoid hearing the pained cry of her name from scott’s lips. so grief stricken and wet with tears, unsteady and shaky, the same sound he always hated hearing from scott.
but he couldn’t. despite it all, even after all the beautiful longing for death’s arms he seemed to consistently do. he just.. wouldn’t be able to push that knife into his chest. couldn’t, maybe, even. cowardice was his friend in this moment, and possibly even the only reason he was walking out of his kitchen and not letting his father watch the only other family member he had bleed out and die.
damn everyone for being so damn amazing and weaselling their way into his heart even though it was a tattered broken thing. constantly finding ways to save him no matter how desperately he told them that if it came down to it, taking down the nogitsune would’ve been better. he couldn’t be so rude to the people he loves so unconditionally, couldn’t let their rescue efforts be in vain because allison and aidan had died for him , and if he had to live through torture for the rest of his life, he’d find a way to survive because they wouldn’t get the chance he did.
the stairs creak under his movement, and stiles pretends he doesn’t wish for them to swallow him whole. he makes it a point not to stare at the walls filled with pictures of memories he can’t find the willpower to remember. he’s just so tired and the bed sounds so appealing but closing his eyes without the confirmation that every door was shut because it had to be that way, would leave him restless all night. tossing and turning in sheets that felt far too overstimulating and underwhelming at the same time.
his dad’s room greets him. the place looking as untouched as it always does. his dad doesn't move, or maybe wouldn’t move anything around, and stiles when cleaning up the house, finds that he can't either. despite the fact that his mom’s perfume had definitely expired and her makeup products had to be unusable now. they’re in the same spots as always, and he ignores them in favour of shutting his dad’s closet door. a relieved sound escaping him. two more doors.
he makes a mental checklist, going over every window and door in the house. maybe windows were a bit extra, but they were entrances and stiles had used them as such so many times that if he didn’t lock them, all he would hear is the whisper— let me in stiles. — and god, does he want to avoid having to hear that crackly voice.
the door shuts behind him as he enters his room. exhaustion creeps up on him, originally having been forced back by the sheer willpower of fear coursing through his veins. stiles doesn’t look at the walls. not today, he decides. moving down to his bed, he stares at the familiar sheets and pillows. instead, he takes a seat on the floor, curling up.
stiles doesn’t think he deserves the bed. if he can’t die, then he can at least make sure he suffers, just a little bit. the floor is cold and unforgiving in it’s existence against his side, but it’s nicer than the possible feelings the comfort of his bed would’ve brought him.
i closed all the doors.
is his last thought, and he falls into a dreamless sleep.