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They had a thing going.
It was awkward, fumbling. But it was a thing, and it was theirs. Stiles & Scott & Isaac & Allison & Lydia. They had a thing.
See, the ties between them, between the five of them, were tangled up and convoluted. Twisted, crossed, frayed, broken and patiently repaired, newly formed and tentative, or old and forged in iron.
Scott & Stiles have always been a thing. Best friends, or brothers, or awkward boys fumbling under blankets together when they’re barely teenagers, exploring their own bodies, and each others’, tentative touches in darkened rooms, then bolder ones, dipping beneath waistbands and belts. Taking one another in their hands and looking at the difference between them. Fingers trailing, laughing when they realize just how far down Stiles’s freckles and moles, skin stars blemishes, go.
They enter high school and it stops, because they’re gonna get girlfriends; both of them. Lydia Martin is finally going to notice Stiles, is finally going to notice him and see how perfect for each other they are. And Scott- Scott will find someone. Someone will see past the wheezing and realize- realize he’s got a heart three sizes too big, a smile like sunshine, rainbows even, and a laugh like bubbles in a glass of chocolate milk.
A year and a half later, and he meets Allison.
Allison.
Allison who comes into the picture right when everything is changing. Right when shit is hitting the fan. When the wolves are running wild. When people are dying; violently. Allison – who fits against Scott like a puzzle piece. Who slides into a groove they didn’t know was there. Who fits. Perfectly.
There was Scott & Stiles and then there was Scott & Allison and Stiles, still staring after Lydia Martin with no hope of ever catching up to her. It’s not a new scenario in the book of potential causes of high school melodrama, but time, murders, werewolves, kanimas, and suicides leave no one time for shallow teenage angst.
Scott & Allison become Scott, Allison. Lydia is no longer spoken for, the King to her Queen having fucked off to greener, rainier pastures. Stiles & Scott are still Stiles & Scott, if a bit strained by the weight of secret wolfsbane pills and bright red bruises that take a month to completely fade away. If a bit tense, because Stiles has no more illusions about his chances with Lydia Martin and Scott has no illusions about the certainty of his inevitable reconciliation with Allison. There’s a distance, and Stiles finds himself thinking back, nostalgic and longing, of their awkward, thirteen-year-old fumbling.
What does form, however, is a tighter Allison & Lydia. All secrets dissolved between them, all half-truths gone with the wind, gone with sadistic grandfathers and former murder-lizard boyfriends. What’s left is a brand new Allison & Lydia, a taught, strong string tied between them, kept solid even when their only interaction is skype while Allison is in France and Lydia is in Bermuda.
And when they both come back, to the little town with too high of a death count and too many bad memories and too many red stains, copper-salt-iron smell heavy in the air. When they return, they come together like a thunderclap. And it’s not a slow, teasing thing. Allison sleeps over at Lydia’s two nights after she returns from France, her room still thick with memories of Scott, tangled up in her bedsheets, hiding in her closet, under her bed, outside her window. And Lydia smiles, and pulls Allison’s hand down, guides her fingers to the dip between her thighs and whispers we’re too flawless to let ourselves be pulled down by idiots like them.
And they’re not flawless, either of them. They’ve got cracks that are badly sutured, pains that will always ache, but Allison smiles tentatively back, and slides forwards on Lydia’s bed. Because if she’s brave enough to raise her bow and shoot, to confront a kanima, to turn on her friends, she’s brave enough to push her hand underneath her best friend’s skirt.
Fingering someone else is different then fingering herself, but Allison has fingers made for plucking bowstrings, for twirling knives. Fingers that are long and nimble and quick and Lydia spreads her legs, let’s her head fall back and smiles wide, laughing for the first time in months.
(“I don’t know why we even bother with boys,” she snipes afterwards licking the taste of Allison off her lips. “We get along perfectly fine on our own.” And Allison smiles softly, but it still aches. It aches and aches and-)
A new school year starts. And they are Scott & Stiles, who are together but not together (Because Scott is convinced he and Allison are destined, are certain, and Stiles is tired of fighting for things the world tells him he’ll never get), and Allison & Lydia, who don’t kiss, don’t ever kiss, but touch in all the right places, trail hands up each other’s sides and laugh breathlessly into the curves of each other’s necks.
And then there’s Isaac. Who has spent his summer searching for the two people he’d begun to circulate with, turn in orbit with, become close to. Whose scents he had begun to intimately recognize. Isaac, who has an Alpha who is drowning in self-hatred and guilt. Who doesn’t know how to be an Alpha, or how to be a guardian to a troubled, orphaned teen.
There is Isaac. And then there is an Alpha Pack. And a Darach.
There is Scott & Stiles, and Allison & Lydia, and Isaac.
And then there is Isaac, and Allison, and one too many dangerous situations. One too many close corners. One too many times of the enemy of my enemy is my friend. And Isaac looks at her and doesn’t feel daggers digging into the meat of his shoulders, anymore. Looks at her and thinks of having things he’s never gotten to have before.
And Allison- Allison has grown up pragmatic. She had a whirlwind, fairytale love, and it had felt like the endgame. Had felt like IT.
But Allison has done some growing up, and she feels Scott everywhere, on every inch of her skin, the taste of him never fading from her lips, from her tongue. But she’s ready to expand, ready for more. Ready to try and taste and touch and experience. She has a thing with Lydia, but the love between them is an entirely different entity, different then the roots that Scott has burrowed deep into her, the tendrils that Isaac is just beginning to put down.
But it’s complicated.
Scott is still in love with Allison, and she- she’ll never not love him, as much as she wishes she could move on. Not necessarily from him, but from the person she was when she was with in. And it feels like her identity, her identity from the moment she set foot in Beacon Hills, was so tied up in Scott McCall, her and him, together, that joining again would be setting herself back. She can’t be that person anymore, she’s grown, still growing, and she knows Scott is too, is turning from a boy into a leader, but she doesn’t know if he fully understands that she’s not who she used to be.
And beyond that, Allison is also interested in Isaac. Isaac, who is also interested in her, but-
but-
Scott has grown into a sun, a star, a mass of warmth and light with a gravitational pull that drags people into his orbit. And Isaac falls for him, hard. He likes Allison’s smiles and her laughs and the lines of danger pulled taut along every inch of her body, but he’s in love with Scott. Scott is warm, every type of warm. He’s everything Derek wasn’t, and Isaac is pulled to him, feels safe at his side, wants to bask in his light.
But- Allison.
And Scott, Scott loves Allison, will always love Allison, but he and Isaac grow close, closer. And Isaac always smells like aftershave and dandelions and those 90 cent cookies you get in packets of fourteen at the cornerstore. He’s got too many bumpy scars along his back and in the palms of his hands and his skin is weirdly soft considering lotion makes him sneeze and he avoids it like the plague, and his curls aren’t as soft as they look, they’re thick and wiry, trapping Scott’s fingers in them, sometimes. Isaac. Isaac.
It’s a dance, a merry-go-round. It goes round and round and round and-
But they complete it, eventually. Their circle.
It’s Scott & Allison & Isaac and none of them know what they’re doing. Allison and Scott don’t know each other like they used to. New scars, new callouses, new hard lines of muscles. Forehead wrinkles and ghosts in their eyes. Scott used to touch Allison like she was fragile, like precious China, porcelain. But she’s steel now, hard lines of ice and metal. Her hands are firm and insistent. Pressing hard enough to bruise, teeth following with lips chapped and dry. Rough to the touch, nothing soft about her.
Isaac can fit with her better, like this. He’s only ever known her to be ice. Knew her cruel before he knew her kind. He can meet her bruises head on, bite aggressively into her mouth as she claws at his back, knees digging into his sides. Hair pulling and lips pulled back, a wild, animalistic frenzy in the way that they come together.
And Scott- when Scott meets them it’s like the ice melts. Isaac can meet aggression head on but Scott’s soft ministrations have him arching, head thrown back and mouth hanging open, tears beading in the corners of his eyes. His fingers claw at the mattress, and his stomach muscles clench, ripple, hips rolling and thrusting desperately into the air.
It’s Allison who pins him down, gets her hands on his hips, hard enough to bruise, her mouth on his dick, teasing, only taking in the head.
She stops only when Scott moves his hands from Isaac’s nipples to reach down between her thighs. When he comes behind her, noses at her neck, and bites.
It’s a sharp shock, shooting burst of pleasure that has her gasping out. Her moans are swallowed as Isaac surges up from beneath her, lurches forward and captures her mouth in a kiss.
They learn, they relearn each other, and they grow. Isaac to be gentle, Scott to be rough, Allison to balance the two, to reconcile her past and present and rise up to meet her future. Scott/Allison/Isaac.
And Lydia understands, always understood that the evenings of Allison between her thighs, the soft tickle of her hair across her cheek- was temporary. Her heart always belong to McCall- though she’ll admit that Lahey was a bit of a surprise.
Lydia understands, and she uses Aiden as a distraction, uses him because using people is what she has always known how to do. What she used to do- before kanimas, and summers skyping with French not-girlfriends, and new schoolyears fraught with danger, spending time with guys she never use to give the time of day to.
Stiles’s crush on her is something that’s faded to the background in lieu of death, murder, and the general terror that’s overcome and taken over Beacon Hills. Sometimes, it’s easy to forget it even exists.
But she still catches him looking at her, sometimes. Looking at her like she’s the sun in the sky, like she’s starlight and hellfire, wondrous and dangerous and captivating. The difference is, he used to look at her like she was something he’d do anything to attain. Now he looks at her like she’s something he knows he’s never going to reach.
It’s sad, if only because he gives similar looks to Scott, sometimes.
(There was that time, at the Motel, where she almost caved. Where she wanted to bury herself in them- all of them. She and Allison curled up together but her skin lacked. Her hands ached to reach for the boys- Scott & Stiles and even Isaac, and feel their pulses thrumming beneath their skin. Feel their heartbeats sing, press the warmth of their bodies against hers and reassure herself that they were all alive-)
Things shift, things change after the Nemeton.
Things shift, because death is just another string, another connection, another knot tangling them together. There’s a tub of ice cold water, there’s the tangy scent of fear, fear of not coming back, fear of not finding their parents, fear of everything. Then there’s air, and light, and resurfacing, and everything changes between them. Everything becomes bright and raw and open.
Tangled red treads between anchors and those whose hearts are touched by darkness. Bonds that forged in the cold chill of ice water, sixteen hours without breath or pulse, the cold burn of past memories and the blinding whiteness of that empty room.
For Allison and Scott, it’s just another thread forged between them. Another tie among the many that bind them that have bound them from the moment he heard her voice from outside the window. From the moment she took the pen from his fingers, warm and long and with a promise.
For Stiles and Scott, it’s carving in stone, branding in flesh, words that were written long ago. Reaffirming of an old, weathered bond, recasting it in heat and blood. Something warm and wild familiar, like Scott’s dimples and Stiles’s freckles, stretched and grown but the same as they’ve always been.
For Allison and Stiles, it’s the weaving of a thread that’s always been tentative at best. Present, tangible, but tentative. It’s strong now. Vibrant and pulsing, shiny new and electric, like lightning, the smell of ozone heady in the air.
Scott guides Stiles’s hands to the clasp of Allison’s bra, his other hand steady on the small of Stiles’s back. Allison smiles and arches, up, into the touch. Her bra falls away and she surges forwards, grins into Stiles’s open, gaping mouth and captures his face between her hands. She pushes Stiles backwards until his back is thudding into Scott’s chest. Unnatural werewolf warmth radiating through all of them. Scott presses his lips to the side of Stiles’s neck, underneath his jaw, and lets his tongue lick and lathe at the rapid-beating pulse point. The scent and taste of life and blood and heartbeat and being alive. His hands roam down Stiles’s body and it’s all the same but different. More length to his limbs, and more strength. A broadness in his shoulder and chest, hardness in his arms, down the contours of his stomach. Scott licks the shell of Stiles’s ear and it’s the sound, the same sound he’d make when they were younger, fumbling explorative kids. That same sound tears itself out of Stiles’s throat and Scott presses his nose to the dark spots on Stiles’s cheek and wonders how they ever. Ever. Stopped.
Allison’s hands lift up to push under Stiles’s shirt, search him through, flick her long, archer’s fingers over his nipples. Slides herself into his lap and grinds against the hardness in his pants while Scott’s hand reaches forward to rest over hers, guiding her fingers to dip below the waistband of Stiles’s pants.
They come together, and fit, and it’s all so immensely right. It all feels perfect and warm, a fire and hearth to beat away at the lingering chill left by the ice and the water and that cold white room.
It’s a new thing, but everything about it is right. Bright new threads, vibrant and hot and powerful. But they don’t erase the old threads. Scott and Allison and Isaac still exists, still meet and writhe and surge under the electricity of each other’s touch. There’s a new, burning bright thread between Allison and Isaac. The thread of a lifeline. Of a hand reaching up, grasping, desperate to be pulled out of the water, and the strong, long fingers that reached down and pulled.
Isaac was Allison’s anchor. And that’s important. That’s not going to fade. That’s going to stay with them for as long as they’re alive. They’re entwined now, and it’s intense and burning and hot hot hot all the time. It’s brilliant. It’s perfect.
For Lydia, it’s hard. It’s hard because she feels it, the connection, the pull. And she knows she can’t do it like she did Allison. She’ll break Stiles if she does. She feels him like a knot in her chest, like thick lines of yarn wound around her fingers. But there are things she can’t let go of, people – a person – she can’t forget.
But they have one evening, one time, where they rest their foreheads against one another, where they breathe into the creases of each other’s necks, let their hands trail over skin, let their breath mingle, their chests rise and fall in time. But it doesn’t go further than that. And Lydia goes home that night, leaves because she’s not ready. Not yet.
Stiles is okay though. There’s hope now. Little pinpricks of ‘someday’ instead of ‘someday, maybe, probably, hopefully?’ And he has Scott again. He has Scott bucking under his hands and gasping under his mouth and it tastes and feels like everything he’s ever wanted.
And he has Allison. Scary, scared, brave and valiant Allison. With those amazing, amazing, fingers.
When Scott falls asleep first, they like to curl into one another, whisper into each other’s ears. Allison is always, constantly continuously, worried that she’ll turn into Kate. And Stiles is a firm believer that being morally gray on occasion doesn’t mean you’re a horrible person destined to become a homicidal, serial arsonist, crazy cougar. Stiles is morally gray. Stiles doesn’t give a shit about it either. He says as much, and Allison laughs, brittle but genuine, lips pressed to his nose, to the corner of his lips.
(his neck, of course, is Scott’s territory)
And it’s a surprise, just another weird thing in his life that Stiles can barely wrap his head around, but he’s got Isaac too. They don’t get along, not exactly, but they operate on similar wavelengths. Similarly destructive wavelengths. It’s not enough for them to fall into bed together, but it’s enough for them to share a floor of pillows with Scott and Allison, for all four of them to end up intertwined and entangled. Flushed and covered in mouth-shaped bruises. Strands of hair stuck to sweat-slicked skin.
Scott is bright-eyed, wondrous, looking at them all as if he can’t wrap his head around how he could have possibly got this lucky. Allison is breathless with laughter. Forgiveness, reconciliation, friendship, and love. Things she’ll never be quite sure she deserves. But things she is now being given easily and freely. She laughs, and feels lighter than she has in a long, long time. Isaac is quiet, but his eyes get dewy easily, and he buries his face into Scott’s shoulder sometimes, overwhelmed. Feeling safe, feeling loved. It’s a thing for him now. A thing he gets to have. Huh.
And Stiles babbles, babbles until somebody’s lips shut him up. Grins into mouths, into the hollows of throats, into the space between breasts, between legs. Grins and talks and gasps. There was a time when he thought himself incapable of love. Too loud, too abrasive. Too skinny and sarcastic and too much of a smart-ass. But he has this now. He has this, and it’s his to keep.
Lydia is lonely, and she’s scared, and Allison knows what that’s like, knows how that feels. She presses her lips to the back of Lydia’s neck and holds her hand and rubs her thumb up and down the soft skin of her cheek. Because she loves her, this shallow, vapid girl who had the world and lost it. Who feels hurt and abandoned by the boy she gave her heart and body and soul to. Who has never had real friends, real relationships, and for all her intelligence, doesn’t know what to do or how to be. This girl, Allison loves her.
She presses kisses to her head and temple and rubs her hands in circles over her breasts and when Lydia asks ‘what about your boys?’ Allison smiles and says ‘they’re ready for you when you’re ready for them’.
And that’s a surprise to her, for a moment. She starts, and her lips part into an ‘o’ for half a second, before she remembers herself and turns her face, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
It’s a surprise to Lydia, for a moment, but she remembers that while she may not be sleeping with any of them, it’s not like she has no relationship with the boys. She and Stiles are close, are friends in a way that seems to require quotation marks around the word. He used to say he was in love with her, and it always sounded like a joke to her ears. Pitiful, and almost insulting. He doesn’t say it anymore, and she doesn’t think he ever will again. Because his flippant, frequent ‘I’m in love with you please give me the time of day’ declarations always seemed hollow and callous, and are weak and baseless when compared with the meaningful soft looks he gives her now. And they are looks that she is capable of returning.
He loves her, she knows. And it’s nothing like the ‘in love’ from before. He loves her like he loves Scott, like he’s growing to love Allison. And it’s a pleasantly strange feeling to her; being cherished instead of desired.
It’s different, but the same, because it’s Stiles, something familiar, and constant, and she knows, she’s always known, that he’s ready for her when she’s ready for him.
And Scott, Scott McCall. Well. There’s a lot to say about Scott McCall. A long, lengthy story to tell. Because Lydia gets people, she does. It’s why she was so good at manipulating them, using them. And when all this started, when a new girl entered their grade and the hierarchy of the lacrosse team changed, Lydia understood Scott McCall. He was a person she knew, a person she thought she had figured out, but who proved all of her expectations to be wrong. He was someone she thought she could control, manipulate, use. He was someone at the center of all the chaos, all the havoc, all the lies invading her life.
And then he was someone to turn to, someone to depend on. Someone who was far more than a loser wannabe at the bottom of the totem pole. Too desperate and too needy and nowhere good enough for her new best friend. That wasn’t him anymore. Or maybe, it never was.
And Lydia’s not sure she’s qualified to give a full review of Scott. She’s the crush of his best friend, the best friend to his ex-girlfriend. She knows him in conjunction to others. But what is he to her? And what is she to him?
(‘Lydia’, he says, the lightest note of exasperation in his voice. She smiles back, right again about something or another. Free to be right. Free to speak her mind. He blinks, and then smiles back, a note of fondness in the crinkles around his eyes, the slight wrinkle on his nose, the bubble of laughter that follows.)
She doesn’t know.
She doesn’t know what they are. What type of ‘friends’ they classify as. Not best friends, not devoted crusher turned closest friend. Certainly nothing romantic. Not that kind of spark between them. Nothing to that kiss, stolen behind a closed door, long, long ago.
So what is he to her?
He is warm, and soft, and tough. Hard lines of corded muscle, rough palms, rough hair, like bristle. Soft smiles, cheeks, fingertips. Soft manner, soft tone. Soft when he rubs her back, soft when he brushes aside her hair. Soft when he squeezes her hand reassuringly, just once. Soft but firm, sturdy, dependable.
What is he to her? He’s there. He’s present and constant. And there’s an unstated promise, in his eyes, in the set of his jaw, in the stiff line of shoulders, to always get there in time. To always be there. To run, jump, be beside them. Be at their sides.
He is there. And his eyes promise that he will always be there. Which is more than she can say for the other, for the one person she can’t forget. The person whose ghost she can still feel laying phantom kisses along her forehead, throat.
Scott McCall is always there, and Lydia can believe that he is there now, waiting, ready.
Isaac is a different animal altogether. There’s no history between them, not really. There have been mutterings from Stiles and Allison at him once glibly stating that he was going to kill her, and Isaac hadn’t seemed too apologetic about it. Apathetic, more like. Looked fondly amused at the memory, actually.
She can’t say she likes his personality, or his past choices, but she does admire how unapologetic he is. There is something very frank about Isaac. Blunt. He doesn’t hide much, which should make him an easy person to read. But he’s unpredictable, oscillating between sweet and cruel, caring and callous, like a pendulum, he swings.
Scott and Allison keep him a bit more centered, maybe. Keep him steady and on the straight. Or perhaps it’s that he messes around with Stiles, channeling his destructive urge into some of the pranks, the foolhardy expeditions, that the Sheriff’s son enjoys coming up with.
Isaac is Isaac, and in any other world, under any other circumstances, it’s unlikely that Lydia would have had anything to do with him.
But in this world, in this time, there were sixteen hours. Sixteen hours spent waiting, spent listening for a gasp, the sound of a water surface breaking, the slightest hint of a heartbeat, anything. Sixteen hours, with their loved ones dead, and nothing to do but wait and hope.
Sixteen hours, and Lydia and Isaac talked.
(‘They won’t die’ she’d whisper, chest hurting with the pressure from repressed screams. Throat dry. ‘They can’t.’
‘People die’ Isaac says, and his eyes are dry where hers are dewy, a blank, resigned look on his face. Loss is not new, losing what he cares about is not new. He might cry, if Deaton breaks his own vigil, walks over and officially pronounces them dead, but until then he sits stony-faced, eyes half mast and lashes brushing against the skin of his cheek. There’s a silence, several silences, but he turns to her, in one of those long hours, and blinks, unassuming expression on his face.
‘So…is it true that popular girls have their own separate washroom, or is that like, just a myth. I always wondered about that.’)
They don’t speak the whole time, sit in silence primarily, but every so often Isaac would break the silence with an inane, unrelated question. Some dumb topic, which they could both ramble on about for a few minutes, break the disquieting stillness of the room.
They didn’t speak about themselves, didn’t speak about what they had gone through, but they spoke, and they comforted each other, kept each other going through those cold, sixteen hours.
They didn’t speak about themselves, and so she still doesn’t know him, just as he still doesn’t know her, but Lydia doesn’t hate him, and Isaac doesn’t hate her, and Allison and Scott love him, and Stiles thinks he’s funny and useful.
Lydia thinks he’s just Isaac, and that’s refreshing, that simplicity. Refreshing, and more than enough.
These are the three boys who are waiting, who are ready, who tumble with Allison, cover her in marks fresh almost every day. Isaac and Scott kiss her cheeks when they see her, and she has taken to reaching for Stiles’s hand, lacing their fingers and squeezing, briefly, before letting go.
It seems to work, intricately, intimately, and there’s no easy crevice, no ready-made nook for herself that Lydia can see. No place to slide in, no body to line herself against, press. To her, it doesn’t seem like she’ll be an easy fit.
(she’s wrong)
It’s a coming together without fanfare, without trumpets or streamers. She’s at Allison’s house, painting nails, when Scott walks in. Walks in, bypasses Allison, and kisses Lydia. Kisses her, nothing like that one stolen, barbed kiss from sophomore year. Kisses her, not tongue heavy and hungry and needy. Kisses her, with his lips (soft) pressed against hers for a few long seconds. One beat, two beats, three. And then pulls away, a nervous, sheepish smile on his face.
“Sorry”, he says, not looking sorry at all, “You just looked like you needed that.”
Which is ridiculous, because Lydia makes it a point to never look like she needs anything ever. But she finds a blush creeping upon her cheeks all the same, a red along her neck, and beside her, Allison laughs.
(this is a precipice, she thinks. A turning point, one way or the other. Where they go now is up to her. Entirely her.)
“McCall, that was pathetic,” she says, eyes rolling, “Everyone in this room knows you can do better than that.”
(the hesitation is finished now. She falls. )
Scott grins and surges forward, holds the side of her face and gives, kisses like he’s pouring everything he has into her, everything he has to give. And she takes it. She takes it because she’s only ever known how to take and because she deserves it. She deserves to no longer be lonely. She deserves to no longer be waiting. And she deserves Scott McCall, his chest pressed against hers, and Allison Argent, her lips on Lydia’s neck and her hands resting lightly on her waist.
And she deserves Stiles Stilinski, who appears shortly after and grins up at her from where he’s kneeling on the ground. ‘I’ve always wanted to, uh, you know, between your, I mean-,’ he says breathless, before he finally gives up on language and buries his face under her skirt. She expects great things from that tongue of his, and she’s not disappointed, arching, keening, back into Allison, forward into Scott, hands scrambling for purchase in Stiles’s short, short hair.
And she deserves Isaac Lahey, who sits on the bed beside Allison and begins kneading his fingers into her shoulders, leaning in to breathe onto the flushed skin of her neck and sneaking furtive glances at Lydia from under his eyelashes. He breaks eye contact only when Scott leans over to kiss him deep, both hands running through his hair, their bodies pressing against each other until they become lost in the movement, the touch, the rocking motions.
Watching them sends heat surging through Lydia, and when Allison kisses her, for the first time, and Stiles’s tongue lathes and flicks over her clit, lightning surges through her veins, and she cries out, starburst and hellfire behind her eyes.
It’s a glorious start to the five of them, their story, and it’s beautiful and hot and impossible and perfect. It’s jagged in some places, where Stiles and Isaac clash, or Scott and Allison get too caught up in the past to look towards the future, or Lydia loses herself in the memory of someone who is never coming back. But the ragged corners don’t ruin the perfection of the entire piece.
It comes together, and they have one day where they go on a ‘date’, all of them, brave and shameless and in love and lust and passion. Scott in the center, with Allison on his right, holding his hand, Isaac on her other side, and Stiles with his arm slung across Scott’s left shoulder, Lydia on his arm as if he’s escorting her. They walk.
And they’re young, living wild, dangerous lives. And everything is fleeting, everything is ephemeral. But they have this now. They have this, the warmth of skin, the lacing of fingers, searing hot touches of tongues, lips, and the safety of each other’s hands. They have this, and it feels like it’s eternal.