Only He saw

The Funeral

Sitting against the wall, Stiles watched as the rain ran down the window, racing against the cool glass beneath the dull sky. Frowning, he regards the grey clouds, wondering how it could reflect his mood so perfectly. Besides, how often did it rain in California?

It was Scott's funeral in four hours. In the forest, only steps away from the sight of his death. Melissa didn't have the heart to move him, and Stiles could easily think of why. The charred remains were only the rawest form of his remains. No one wanted to see the final form of Scott Mcall.

Fiddling with his sleeve, he sighs, slowly letting his head fall back, eyes still on the water droplets marring the clear glass of his window. Looking up, he stiffens, then relaxes, a tight smile on his face. Peter.

"Peter." Stiles hums, shifting over as the Were joins him, sitting on the rough carpet of the floor.

"Stiles" Peter replies, taking his hand and lacing his fingers through Stiles'. letting him lean into him, his thoughts drift to the upcoming funeral. "Are we going to go to the funeral?" He ventures quietly, unwilling to hurt Stiles further, but unable to ignore the everpresent issue.

Stiles squeezed his hand, a faint scowl on his pale face. He didn't want to answer the question so soon, because he wasn't sure he had an answer to give Peter. But unlike some problems, this one couldn't just be ignored in the hopes that it would disappear, alike to many that had happened in the past year.

"Your dad is going, to support Melissa," Peter started, keen eyes on Stiles' expression, so far it remained as closed off as it had been for the entire conversation. "But if you...don't want to be there, then that's absolutely fine." Peter soothes, worried by the usually loud boy's silence.

Stiles frowned, and sat up, adjusting his now aching back with a grimace. Finally, after stalling as much as he could, he turned to Peter. "I want to go." He said slowly, leg bouncing up and down as he internally wished it to stop. Peter nodded cautiously. "Bit his entire pack will be there-" His voice cracks. "And I really don't want to see them." He sniffles, smiling wetly when Peter pulls him in for a hug. He wanted to be there, for any remnant of his best friend, who had died before his body had, but the old pack still tightened his chest, constricted his breathing, whenever they were near.

"Then it's not an issue, little spark." Peter smiles into his hair, clasping his arms around the wiry boy.

Stiles miserably drags his knuckles across his eyes, trying to get rid of the tears, and snickers. "I'm not even a spark, creeperwolf."

Peter rolls his eyes fondly, both at the nickname Stiles had given him, and the return of his ability to snark and joke. Looking out through the window, he idly watches the passing cars and the people scurrying down the streets, off to their own lives, through the rain, each thinking their own complex thoughts. People watching had become something of a sport for Peter, and he found it rather entertaining to imagine the stories going with each person.

Jolting back to the current moment, he softly chuckles, smiling warmly as he sees Stiles had fallen asleep against him, slumped over his chest, head lolling to the side. Gingerly, Peter stood up, carrying Stiles to the bed and tucking him in, sitting next to him and studying his face.

The shadows highlighted the gaunt aspects of his small stature, and the toll Scotts death had taken on him. Peter let out a huff and took in the softness of his features that only showed themselves when he was asleep, his face vulnerable and calm.

Getting up, Peter sat in the desk chair finding a book and plugging in his headphones, content to sit with his mate until he woke up. As the shadows lengthened and Peter finished his book, Stiles hadn't woken up, but Peter was unsurprised. He hadn't been sleeping well, his night terrors were back. Peter climbed into the bed next to him, hugging the Werau who snuggled closer in his sleep.

Waking slowly, Stiles blinked hazily, enjoying the warm embrace of his mate. His eyes shoot open, and he looks at the clock. The funeral began half an hour ago. With a sinking feeling gathering in his chest, he calculated the likelihood that he could get there in time to be there for the tail end of it. Shifting slowly from his position, he kisses the bridge of Peters' nose, smiling as he wrinkles his eyebrows, opening confused eyes.

"Did I miss something?" He murmurs, pulling Stiles in for a hug. Stiles hums appreciatively as he hugs the Were, then shakes his head.

"Nope, but I'm going to see if I can...catch the last few minutes of the funeral," Stiles mumbles, eyes downcast.

Peter stares, then catches himself and nods encouragingly. He hugs him soundlessly and leaves him with a final kiss, watching as his mate traipses through the muddy aftermath of the rain underneath the window. He hunches over himself, red hoodie wrapped tightly around his small frame. The sky is moody above him, but at least doesn't threaten to overflow just yet, so far satiated with the earlier downpour.

Trudging through the sloughs of mud, Stiles shivered, wrapping his hoody further around him in an attempt to shield himself from the cold and lingering damp. The water seeped into his shoes, and he huffed, breath coming out in icy clouds. Holding his hand out, he managed to summon a small flame, drawing power from the surrounding forest to help heat himself. Cupping it close to his face, he hurries onwards, not wanting to lose the light. Or the funeral.

Twenty minutes later, he slows, kneeling down on the rough, damp ground of the forest to place a hand on the dirt. Closing his eyes, he breathes deeply, seeing the pack pass the trees a good twenty minutes away. Heart thudding, he stands up, dusting off his hands worriedly, and quickening his pace.

Passing the trees, he hears their whispers and drags a hand across their trunks as he stumbles past, a wordless thanks for their help. The forest was alive, every single part of it, but most didn't see a fraction of the life living there. The heart, the Nemeton, the lungs, the trees that winded throughout, overgrown with vines and wilder creatures than the human mind could ever conjure up. The ethereal beauty was something Stiles would miss greatly, but he could find more, if not better beauty without the danger of the Hale pack! They were an abundance of shadows leeching all positivity out of Beacon Hills, and Stiles wanted to leave before the oncoming storm broke.

Wiping the screen of his phone free from the rain, Stiles noted he'd been walking for fifteen minutes, and hastily put a muting spell over himself, rendering the sound of his heartbeat null behind the shield. He could move to and from without being heard. Cursing his three AM brain, he wished he remembered the exact way to blank both his visibility and sound, but for now, being rid of the annoyances of sound would work just how he needed it to.

Approaching the sight of the grave, Stiles' breath caught, his feet stuttering to a stop as he stands behind a sheltering tree, the bark a rough, reassuring reminder that the wildlife in the forest would take care of the additional body in its soil.

Staring around the branches, he watches as the old pack hunch over the grave in silence, accompanied by Melissa, who was only just holding onto her stony facade, and John, with his arm held tightly around her. Letting out a shuddering breath, Stiles let himself lean against the tree, watching Melissa disentangle herself from John, and walk slowly to the front of the gaggle of wolves and humans. She cleared her throat, eyes troubled, and Stiles hid further behind her trees, in an effort to stay hidden from her prying eyes.

The rain had returned, blanketing the clearing in a fog of silence as Melissa spoke. Stiles focused, honing his hearing in on her. Her speech was drowned out by the steadying hum of the forest, and Stiles began to think the forest had not taken a liking to the McCalls.

The huddle of people said their goodbyes, not lingering long as they cowered against both the rain and the pressure brought on from the grave, and the ceremony. A pale boy watched from the safety of a tree, unsure as to whether the people were at all bothered by the death of his friend. Finally, they left, trudging wordlessly away towards the town, leaving the clearing one by one, until only the gentle swaying of the trees remained.

Stepping forward, he shoved his hands deep into his pockets and stared at the dirt mound, struggling to accept that the formerly live boy was buried under there, charred and destroyed, a product of his mistakes. Karma really was a bitch.

Taking one steady breath. Stiles nodded slowly, a sense of acceptance settling in his stomach. The wind whistled, its cold fingers caressing his bony cheek and chilling him to the core.

Turning away, the boy returned home, to pack up his life in Beacon Hills, to start anew.