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Most of the time, Stiles is sleepy. Sometimes, a voice drags him back but all he can do is watch himself hurt and betray everyone he loves. It's so distant though. Reality doesn't seem so real when you're watching it from far away. It's warm and muted where he is, like being buried inside yourself. Weirdly the feeling of being buried inside himself is something Stiles is familiar with, had been for a long time.
Its being this kind of powerless spectator that feels all kind of bizarre.
So naturally, he pulls himself back to the deepness inside himself. He knows that that sentence wouldn't make sense too most people, but it's the only place that feels like home, far from anything real in the obscure and quiet deepness inside himself. He travelled the pit of despair in every direction and yet he still always end up here, keeps getting lost there, over and over again.
He remembers a feminine voice from long ago, soft but firm telling him “If you're going through Hell, keep going,” it rings like a mantra in his head, like something he should hold on to, something simple to follow, to help him out, to keep him going, and he really would like to but he's so deep, everything is so far away, he doesn't know where is forward or where is up anymore. He can only go further in the deepness, keep sinking deeper. He's not sure that where he is, there is even an exit anymore.
The first time, he remembers hiding there -inside himself-, he was just a child. After month of worrying for his mother, of being pushed away without being able to explain why, of crippling anxiety, of living through the unbearable desire to disappear under the fearful gaze that She laid on him and yet being nearly unable to leave her side, she finally died.
It wasn't sudden, it wasn't out of the blue and some would argue that sometime the death of a loved one, barely living anymore under the weight of their disease and suffering, can be a relief. But not for Stiles, there is no way an 10 years old could be relieved by his mother's death. Though he did finally exhaled for the first time after months, years of sucking in deep breaths without letting anything out. Suddenly, he deflated. He let go of all the worries. Of all the insane, unrealistic hopes a child can't help but nourish for the magical recovery of their mother. He let go of all that kept him going, worries and hopes, undistinguished, and found himself empty. He became nothing more but an empty shell containing a void inside.
Somewhere where neither sound nor light could enter.
And he decided to hide there.
And somehow it was comfortable, he was held in by his own skin, held in a way since his mother wouldn't be holding him again. Hiding where the outside world couldn't reach him. Hiding where he could hide forever. Where time doesn't pass. Where everything hangs still frozen in a suspended eternity. And he would never say it to anyone but it felt like death and he liked it. He liked the cold that didn't make him shiver, the eternity that never felt vertiginous.
From the outside it took months to reach him but eventually Scott and Melissa, who took him when the sheriff -who barely was a shadow anymore- found himself unable to take care of anyone, himself included.
Scott and Melissa managed to reach him at the time. From afar. Despite their distant muted voices. Stiles remembers not understanding his best friend's words but appreciating the familiar tone when he talked to him, like one talk to a relative in a coma. He remembers Melissa's firm yet tender hugs, the one she gave him before leaving him sleep. It did a lot. It was always hard realizing he couldn't remember his mother touch like that but it redefined the boundaries of his body. He felt his skin from outside... If that makes sense. He felt for the first time in a long time himself in his skin, in his borders, which meant he left his bottomless stomach void.
Inexplicably what really brought him back was a bad dream. He woke up drenched in sweat, full of fears and worries. Full of feelings. Suddenly, he realizes he hadn't been really present since the night his mother left. It was now the beginning of summer and he felt the hot beams of the morning sun for the first time. For the first time he felt hunger but most of all, waking in the McCall's spare
room, he felt an overwhelming wave of worry for his father. The last “real memory” of him was at the funeral, his face so closed that the waterfalls of tears running along his cheeks were barely visible.
He worried which meant he cared.
He cared which meant there was once again forces that pushed him forward inside.
Without thinking, he started running toward the station, he was weak, frail and small but determined. He ignored his rumbling stomach and his dizzy head and kept running until he reached the station. He stormed in ignoring the worried look of the deputies and entered his father's office. He waited for him to notice his son, to take his frown of his papers and to look at him in the eyes.
His Son. Alive again.
The sheriff noticed immediately, in a coordinated movement, they stepped toward one another and held each other in a tight embrace. Stiles started crying but he couldn't tell if they were happy or sad tears. Didn't really matter. He knew that he escaped, still felt the menacing presence of the void inside him and felt his hair raise in the back of his neck as he recalled the overwhelming darkness swallowing all that made him him, as he recalled feeling nothing but sadness. Sadness around him. Holding him in a reassuring tight embrace. Sadness inside him, paralyzing him, numbing all that he couldn't accept anymore.
His dad ran his hands in Stiles somewhat long hair and whispered “Missed you, Son”.
And muffled against the older man's chest, he whispered back “Missed you too, dad”.
At this exact moment, Stiles knew they ought to stick together. He went back to his room and started to sort up his things. He took all his childhood toys and put them in a box up a cupboard. Found out that he grew out almost all his clothes. He sorted them in another box. He cleaned and finished tidying up the place. When he looked at his clean and tidy room, he felt an immense clarity in his mind. In the mirror, he was messy and untidy. His hair was unkept and tangled, somewhat long and somewhat curled. They felt nice and warm on his shoulder, tingling his neck. He grabbed the thickest strand and cut through it. And again. And again. Finished it off with the razor. He was not a child anymore. He didn't need all the unnecessary hair. His mom wasn't there to cut them anymore. He needed to learn to take care of himself without her. He needed a buzz-cut to feel the wind on his head, the cold and the biting. Just to prove himself alive. He knew he couldn't let go anymore. He couldn't allow himself, curves or messy, warm and tingling. It was too comfortable. Comfortable was dangerous. He was fine with being shook awake. He was a boy on a mission.
So he went downstairs to finally indulge his raging tummy, he found only junk food and remembered “the strong advice” from the doctor to his dad, telling him to eat healthier. He knew that was something he couldn't trust his father with. The content of the cupboard being proof of it. So he made a promise to himself to take care of his dad diet and everything that his dad couldn't take care off himself (-anymore-).
He had a new code.
And so he left to go grocery shopping and made dinner and so on. Stiles fueled himself through the love he carries for other, always loving, thoughtful. Of course, he still had harder times, but it never came down to the death-like lethargy in which he passed his 11th birthday. Now whenever, he started sleeping all day and slowly slipping in a more long term depressive episode, his dad and Scott multiplicated efforts to keep him there, to make him feel joy, to make him feel love and affection.
They didn't understand that joy had a downside. Constraint had none. It was plain and simple. That's one things he and Derek had in common, probably the reason of there connection. They kept going because they had to. Stiles could loose his hapiness, but as long as his dad walked this Earth, he had obligations.
But this time around, he didn't fell into the hole inside himself: This time around, he was violently shoved there. And though the feeling was way similar, the death, the comforting nothingness, the stillness of time, it was completely different.
But if he made it back before, surely he could once again, no?