Stydia one-shots

64. His Room

"I'm sure I have some. . ." Stiles muttered, not actually intending to finish his sentence while throwing open desk drawers, raking through one before searching another without closing the last. He left Lydia in the doorway, still crying though slightly quieter than it had been earlier. There was the occasional hiccup or sniffle that made him glance up from his mission to make she was still where he had left her: wrapped in his jacket to hide her bruises from his father. "Just gimme a minute." He mumbled. She nodded though she was sure he hadn't seen her as he was still shuffling through his desk. The girl stepped inside his room fully now, barefoot, her heels neglected on the mat near the front door, and she closed his own door behind her. He stopped completely now, staring at her with concern lacing his eyes.

"I'm sorry." He crossed over to her and her head hung low as she began to bawl. "I'm so sorry." His arms enveloped her but he was carful not to squeeze too hard. When she hugged back with all her might, he knew it was okay and pulled her closer. "Let me get that bandage for your shoulder."
She nodded.
He began his search again.
She instantly missed his touch.

Lydia sniffled, her voice croaking when she spoke. "I've never been in your room before."
The walls were a deep blue, like the color of the ocean he loved so much. The ocean they visited when the pack wasn't being threatened by Beacon Hills' newest creature, the beach that Stiles ran along so freely. She loved to watch him run up to the waves, turning up sand along the way, and then thrown himself carelessly into the water. He was such a California boy and there was no doubt about that; he could spend hours in the sea. One wall was plastered with pictures and red yarn but her eyes didn't linger there for too long. That's the last thing she wanted to think about.
"Sure you have," he appeared behind her, a bandaid in one hand while the other helped to get his jacket off of her.
Another wall was drowning in band posters, some that she had heard of and others that were so unfamiliar she was sure she didn't know who they belonged to. Surely not Stiles. She thought she knew all of his favorite music.
"No, I've been downstairs in the living room or the kitchen but not in your room." She argued quietly. He pushed aside the strap of her dress to reveal a small but blood-gushing cut. "I even slept in the guest room once or twice. . ."

His bed was messy and unmade, a few pairs of old sneakers and comics beneath it. He had stale potato chips and a thick book on his nightside table, as well as a lamp and some form of medication. The desk, which was positioned directly to the right of his door, was probably clean when she walked in but now had all the drawers open and spilling with half-filled notebooks and partially chewed on pens. Scott's name was carved into the side of it, paired with Stiles' and a date from ages ago when Lydia still believed in princesses and happy endings.
"You're sure?" He asked, carefully cleaning up the cut before applying the bandage. She nodded. Because none of his room looked familiar, though she wished it would in some way or form. But the clothes over flowing out of his closet, she'd never seen him wear, and the books on his shelf she'd never read, and the annoying little tick-tick-tock sound his clock made, she had never heard.

"You could sit if you want." He offered, noticing that odd glossy look fawning over her eyes again. So she mindlessly flopped down on his bed (though he had ultimately meant his desk chair) and sighed a bit and tried not to think about how she looked crying or the fact that she still wanted to cry. His jacket still hung from her lower arms, revealing more cuts and bruises that didn't look as bad when he had first picked her up from the forest. She kept her gaze to the floor when he sat beside her. She liked his carpet. She almost told him out loud. Thinking of what to say to her only made the silence they were in seem longer. He wanted her to tell him what happened, he wanted her to tell him why she called him and not anyone else. Why him? It had never been him, so why change now? But he knew she was in bad condition so he let the silence dance between them.

His touch made her jump so he apologized quietly for the nth time but moved his jacket back onto her shoulders. It was her favorite kind of material, not quite a windbreaker but it made a swishing noise when you walked, his name etched into the top left (near the collar) with 'Beacon Hills Lacrosse' right below it. Scott's had an additional 'captain' underneath that.
"I hate crying. I hate the way it makes you feel," she sniffled, "like everything's worse than it actually is."
A tear fell down her cheek and he nearly went to wipe it away but she was quick to do it herself, as if she didn't want him to see it even though he had watched her weep the whole drive to the Stilinski home. He nodded to agree with her. Words caught in his throat. They always did around her, even when she was sad and broken. "It could be worse though right?"
He shrugged. "I dunno, I think you might've hit rock bottom."

She snapped her gaze to his, ready to burst into tears again, but relaxed at the cheeky grin on his face. She sniffled. "Not exactly the best time for sarcasm."
He apologized. . .again.
Go for it go for it go for it.
Do it do it do it do it
STOP IT STOP IT STOP. NO.
He argued with his heart.
She's right there
NO
IF YOU DON'T DO IT NOW, YOU'LL NEVER DO IT EVER
He knew it was true and the phrase 'now or never' hit him hard in the chest. There was no easy way to slip into it. So, he went full throttle.

"Would it be mildly inappropriate if I kissed you right now?" He asked. Before he had even finished the words though, she had leaned towards him and did it herself. Her lips were soft and left a cherry-Chapstick shine across his own when they broke away. His brows furrowed and she almost laughed but there was still a twisted knot in her stomach. "I wanted to do that." He whined, this time she did laugh, a small chuckle that set his chest on fire. He loved her. He loved her and no matter how many times he thought it, said it, or heard it, it would never be the same as feeling it. It nearly hurt to love this much: his lungs never seemed to get enough air and he ached more than he ever had after lacrosse practice.
"Why do you look at me like that? Like you always do?" She whispered. She knew why but she was dying to hear him say it. She had been for a while now. She craved to hear his voice utter those three words just for her, only for her, forever for her.
"Because I love you."