Stiles knew Beacon Hills would be the death of him as soon as met Peter Hale that faithful night all those years ago. He had written and rewritten his will more times than he can count - the amount of ownership increasing for each of his loved ones as they dwindle down by death. And despite how morbid it may be, he already had his spot in (afterlife) picked out. A patch of green next to his father and mother, surrounded by foxglove.
However, he didn't think he would be dying like this. Underneath water, watching as the waterline rises higher and higher above his jeep. He finds himself wondering if they'll - the small amount of pack that's left - will even find his body. Or will he fall under the assumption of finally succumbing to the desire they all have, and leaving town.
It's what Peter did. Not that, that's important as he watches the sunlight fade from around him. But somehow it is, probably because it still stings. The memory of waking up to empty sheets and a letter. Walking through the preserve and calling Peter's known (and unknown) associates until he found him in a cabin two towns over - gone.
Stiles in this moment wishes he didn't burn the letter in rage. That he paid more attention before and saw the signs. That he left Beacon Hills with Peter when asked all those times before. Before Peter decided to leave. Maybe then he wouldn't be here, drowning in the bottom of a lake.
Its a strange feeling knowing that he is going to die. He feels a serine peace. Only to be interrupted by the hysterical laughter brought by the simple thought that with him dead, who's left behind to place flowers on everyone's graves?
YOU ARE READING
Simply Steter
FanfictionA collection of Steter short stories. Some are happy, some are sad, but all of them are about love.
