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Stiles can count their safety in the number of runs Scott takes, the number of time he uses his inhaler. One if it’s been a good day. (Sunny or rainy as long as it doesn’t smell like blood, or Peter, or wolfsbane). Two if something happened. (A 98% on a test or someone moved a little too quickly, right at him.)
They’re on edge, like all the time, just for different reasons.
Scott is aching to get out of Beacon Hills, and it’s prominent in every move he makes, a little too aggressive on the field, hand always raised in biology, hyper aware of how right he is. He moves quick and sharp, like he’s running away from something he has no chance of beating.
Stiles is always, always moving. Fingers twitching, pens tapping, nails biting into his skin or jacket. He wants to run, far, far away, and never look back, but he can’t. He’s done too much, seen too much to think that this place would ever let him get away. So instead of running, he plants his feet and lets the instinct go into something less destructive.
Sometimes it will be late and it will be quiet, and they will be alone. Sometimes Scott will curl around his clenched, shaking fists like they’re the only thing that grounds him.
Sometimes he’ll bring Scott’s head to his shoulder and hold on.
But today, he throws things into his duffle, shoves clothes and books and old DVDs into a bag, leaves a note for his dad, and locks the door behind him.
Today, when he shows up at Scott’s house, he looks at him and they know. He follows Scott to his room and they’re moving in sync, like they’re in battle. It’s almost too much.
“Let me call my mom first,” Scott says, voice quiet but eyes burning, and it’s the first bit of real fight Stiles has seen since Kira left. Scott steps out of the room and it feels emptier. When he looks around, all he can see is their memories. The guitar he had given Scott for his fourteenth birthday, the posters of movies they’d been to see, pictures scattered all around the room.
He practically lived in this room. Or at least, he had.
He really hadn’t been in here for at least two months. Nothing had really changed. It just felt off.
“Okay, let’s go.” Scott came in, moving a little bit faster, a little bit more forcefully, flinging his duffle bag over his shoulder and only looking back when it was clear that Stiles wasn’t following.
“What’s up?” His fingers tighten almost defensively around the strap of his bag.
“I just—things have been so off with us lately and—are you sure you want to do this?”
Scott takes a step closer, “I know that I want whatever’s going on with us to get better. I know that I want to get the hell out of here, and I know that I want you with me.”
“I’m with you.”
Scott grins at him, tired but happy, “Then let’s go.”
For the first hour or three, they drive. They listen to pop punk and Stiles breaks out a bag of chips and they go down the highway without looking back.
It’s nice to not have anyone ask him if he’s okay. To just exist.
It’s even nicer to exist with Scott.
That night, they sleep in the back of the Jeep, and everything starts to feel lighter.