♜Pairing: Briles ♜Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Brett Talbot, Isaac Lahey, Lori Rohr, Liam Dunbar ♜Tags/Warnings: getting together, mentions of blood, alpha & emissary, alpha!Brett, emissary Stiles, canon divergence ♜Words: 2,518
───────♜───────♜───────♜───────♜───────♜───────♜───
There it is again, that thing they don’t say out loud while everyone else cannot seem to shut up about it. Their song and dance that’s souring Mason’s mood, is stale gossip on Liam’s mind, and drives Lori and Isaac to the brink of insanity Still, Brett continues to lead, continues to absentmindedly draw warm patterns against cold skin.
And Stiles follows, albeit resisting the urge to curl his fingers into Brett’s shirt, to hold onto him like he’d do if he had the courage to unleash the words he’s caged in his throat.
♜───────♜───────♜───────♜───────♜───────♜───────♜──
The first sound cutting through the silence is his heartbeat pounding in his ears. Stiles surveys the carnage. His broken bat in his hand, blood covering the sharp edges, black in the dark of night. Moonlight fights its way through rain-heavy clouds. His pack members sprawl on the grass, eyes closed, their chests heaving, sucking in air as if they’ve just finished a marathon. They’re bruised and battered and bloody, but they’re alive.
He releases a shaky breath.
They’re alive.
A drop of blood falls from the broken bat, landing soundlessly in the wet grass. The metallic tang of disaster hangs in the damp air. Somewhere in the distance, someone groans – low and raw, a sound of painful survival – and curls into a ball.
Stiles curls his arms around his legs and puts his head on his knees. Exhaustion wears him down. Every inch of his body feels heavy, impossibly so. He sucks in a breath, holds it until his chest aches for a new reason, then releases it into the night.
Someone moves somewhere to his right. Forcing his eyes open, he raises his head and watches as Brett gets to his feet. Dark liquid covers his cheek and neck, trailing down until it disappears into the cotton of his shirt. His own blood mixed with that of the creatures they’ve fought. Either way, the wounds he’s suffered have already disappeared. His blue eyes burn red as he watches the other werewolves, unmoving and bone-tired, lie on the wet ground.
Stiles allows his gaze to linger until Brett looks at him, expression unreadable. It would take him no more than three long strides to get to him. But he walks slowly instead. He pauses at one point, eyes roaming over Stiles’ face and body, almost like he’s trying to find a reason to come closer.
Then his eyes snag on something on Stiles’ neck, and Brett continues. Every step he takes is measured, deliberate, almost like he’s approaching a wild animal that might bolt or attack.
Stiles couldn’t move, even if he wanted to. So, when he remains still, Brett sinks to his knees next to him. The scent of blood and rain clings to him like perfume, coppery and earthy. Moonlight catches the few spots of blood, highlighting them in a macabre way. Between them, the fresh air is like a barrier, pressing in on Stiles from all sides. His heart skips a beat, just for a moment, only once, before picking up speed.
Brett raises his hand slowly, giving Stiles ample time to deny the touch. As soft fingers curl around his chin – so warm against the ice that is his skin – Stiles’ breath hitches, yet he doesn’t pull away, allowing Brett to tilt his head to the side, to run his thumb over the two little holes at the side of his neck. “Are you okay?”
His touch, the worry, they wrap around Stiles like a sanctuary. He lets his shoulder sag, lets the tension roll off him with a long sigh. “I think I need to sleep for a month,” Stiles mutters as he closes his eyes again.
Brett chuckles. Perhaps his fingers linger longer on Stiles’ skin than they should.
It can be their secret. Nobody has to know.
Not even them.
After a moment that feels both too long and too short to define, Brett stands back up, offering Stiles his hand. Although he’d rather stay on the wet and soggy grass until his body doesn’t feel as if someone pumped lead into his limbs, he takes it. A groan escapes him, and he stumbles, right into Brett’s warm body. It’s only now that he realizes how cold he’s feeling. An arm curls around his waist, pulling him closer. His body radiates warmth that seeps through his clothes, destroying the icy cold refusing to let go. Stiles allows himself to snuggle closer, blames it on the fact that he’s shivering – freezing, actually.
If he pretends long enough, maybe they’ll both believe it, and so, they’re standing there, breathing in each other’s scent. Stiles listens to Brett’s heart, beating in his chest, and tugs his head under his chin. The arm around his waist tightens just enough to be noticeable, just enough to make Stiles’ heart jump into his throat.
Slowly, Brett drags a thumb over Stiles’ side, so intimate, it almost seems as if Brett is lost in a place no one can follow.
There it is again, that thing they don’t say out loud while everyone else cannot seem to shut up about it. Their song and dance that’s souring Mason’s mood, is stale gossip on Liam’s mind, and drives Lori and Isaac to the brink of insanity Still, Brett continues to lead, continues to absentmindedly draw warm patterns against cold skin.
And Stiles follows, albeit resisting the urge to curl his fingers into Brett’s shirt, to hold onto him like he’d do if he had the courage to unleash the words he’s caged in his throat.
Another groan splits the silence curling around them.
Reality comes crashing down like an avalanche. Stiles moves as if stung, startling them both. He stumbles, and Brett’s hand moves to his hip, worry etched into his features.
Stiles wants to brush the lines out of his skin. He doesn’t, keeps his hands to himself instead.
“I hate vampires,” Lori declares loudly.
A few murmurs of agreement echo over the clearing.
It’s easier that way.
Stiles places a hand on Brett’s chest, unable to look away from the furrow between his brows, his slightly narrowed eyes. It takes every ounce of sense in him not to fully step back into the embrace. He parts his lips, trying to force out the words I’m fine, but they die on his tongue when Brett’s eyes dart to his mouth, lingering for just a second too long before looking back up.
The grip on Stiles’ hip tightens.
“This was a stupid fucking idea.” The words barely reach him; they are background music to the song his body is singing.
More murmurs of agreement.
Stiles can’t bring himself to say anything, to look away from Brett. It’s like he’s been sucked into his orbit, like so many times before, but now, they’re set to collide.
“Seriously,” Isaac pipes in, his words scratch at Stiles’ mind, trying to drag him back to earth, to stop him from floating away, “who the bloody hell decided fighting them at night is a good idea?”
Stiles is hyperaware of Brett’s slow breathing, is sucked in by the warmth of his skin.
Brett still doesn’t step back. His fingers flex against Stiles’ side as if he’s fighting a losing battle, trying to let go, and the heat of his palm is a gentle reminder of the cold air trapped between them.
Heart thumping against his ribs, Stiles inches forward, his body so heavy, he slides his foot across the wet grass.
Brett’s fingers tighten for just a second, gaze dancing across Stiles’ face, searching, prying for something they both decided never to acknowledge.
“Well,” Liam’s voice rings clear across the clearing once more, “that didn’t end the way I expected, but at least nobody important died.”
And Stiles, snapping out of the trance he’s found himself in, whirls around. His gaze finds Liam before his brain has the chance to catch up to what his body is doing. Without a second thought he hurls himself at Liam, so fast, he escapes Brett’s grip. “You idiot.”
For a second, at least.
“Stiles!” Brett warns as he grabs him around the waist with both arms, even lifting him off the ground to stop him while Liam is scrambling away on his hands and feet. The effortlessness with which he does it almost startles Stiles out of his anger.
Liam jumps to his feet, tone defensive as he throws his hands up and points at Stiles, “you said not dawn!”
“That didn’t mean night!” Stiles pushes against Brett’s hold on him, to no avail, anger now thrumming in his veins, drowning out the nervous energy. “I said ‘before they go out to hunt. What do you think they’ve already done an hour and a half before fucking sunrise?’” By all accounts, Stiles would’ve just staked all of them in their sleep, but the Ito pack — even under Brett’s leadership — has a very strong conscience. They will kill threats, but it has to be a fair fight.
More or less.
“Ooh…” Liam rubs the back of his head, grimacing slightly.
Lori and Isaac look like they’re ready to throttle Liam.
Brett wraps an arm around his shoulders, the other around his waist and holds Stiles flat against his chest, arms pinned down by his sides. “Go home.” His tone makes abundantly clear that he’s not interested in any sort of back talk. “No detours.”
Their closeness, the beat of Brett’s heart at his back — Stiles swallows around the lump in his throat, struggling to keep his thoughts directed on the topic at hand. Something that gets increasingly harder when his mind locks on Brett’s belt buckle digging into his lower back, the warmth radiating off his body, drowning him. It’s impossible to direct his attention to anything else as they wait for the pack members to scamper off. It’s impossible to ignore Lori’s exasperation as she sends her brother a look in a language only siblings understood.
Under different circumstances, Stiles would make a comment about how Isaac drags Liam after him by the back of his shirt like an unruly kitten. His mind, however, is occupied with nothing but their proximity.
Brett lets out a breath. “Try not to kill my betas.” His arms around him loosen, yet he doesn’t quite let go of him. “Not even Liam.” Again, his fingers flex and twitch around his waist, fighting, struggling to let go, yet failing to do so.
They’re always so careful not to get too close, not to destroy the line they’ve drawn in the sand. Things get messy when an alpha gets involved with their emissary. And Brett is such a young alpha, so new to all of it. Everything is already complicated enough with him taking over the old Hale pack territory and taking in betas from another pack. This would just make it worse.
They would just make it worse.
Stiles presses his lips together.
“Please,” Brett adds, not as an afterthought, not even as an insistence. It’s impossible to decipher what he means.
And, finally, his arms fall away.
Neither of them moves.
Stiles swallows down the feelings trying to spill out. “Liam shouldn’t be allowed to plan anything ever again.”
“You could come back,” Brett suggests — as if they hadn’t just decided that distance would make things easier between them.
Stiles chuckles dryly. “You want me to uproot my life? Again?”
Brett wraps his arms around his shoulders, hugging him with an intensity that nearly suffocates Stiles, and presses his mouth close to his ear. “I’m asking you to come home.”
Home.
To pack nights and chaos. Lori’s poor attempts at baking. Liam and Isaac arguing over everything. Brett’s soft laugh. Everything Stiles wants.
Until one day, it will be everything he’ll lose. Because one day, Brett is moving on.
And that is the one thing Stiles cannot survive, cannot do. Not if he stays.
Stiles exhales, closes his eyes. He’s never considered to be driven away from home. It was never about leaving Beacon County. Brett never outright asked him to move away. But their relationship became complicated, and the FBI had a job for him. Leaving seemed like the logical choice. He was supposed to move on, even when his heart cracked. Things were supposed to become easier between them so that, perhaps, they’d be able to work together like an alpha and their emissary were supposed to.
It never happened.
It probably never will.
Stiles turns in the embrace, and Brett lets him, doesn’t move away when they’re nose to nose. They breathe each other’s air, so close.
Too close.
And there it is, home. Something he could build or destroy with one single decision.
Stiles smiles.
Perhaps total destruction is his only way to rebuild the meaning of home, the reason his heart beats, his whole life.
With his heart in his throat, Stiles leans up the small distance and presses his mouth to Brett’s. Soft. Gentle.
Brett stiffens, his arms falling away.
Both their messages are clear.
Stiles pulls back. His heart shatters into a thousand pieces, but at the very least, he finally has the proof that staying, hoping, is out of the question. He brushes hair out of Brett’s forehead, cups his cheek, allowing them a gentle ending.
Even if it hurts.
He turns around and starts walking.
One step.
Stiles can feel Brett’s eyes on him, can feel that invisible thing pulling taut.
And another.
Waiting until it finally rips. Sets him free.
“Goodbye.”
Brett inhales sharply. But he doesn’t move. Not a single step, allows him to walk away.
For good, this time.
Stiles’ body grows heavier with every step, dread and lead and heartbreak dragging him down.
He steps on a branch. It snaps beneath him.
A sound like a gunshot in the heavy silence.
Brett curses, grabs him, and before Stiles knows what’s happening, he’s yanked around. Brett crashes their mouths together, groaning into the kiss as if he’s a starving person deprived of food for too long. His grip is tight, just on the right side of painful.
The months and years they’ve been denying themselves this simple pleasure is spilling out between them. An oil spill catching fire, consuming them both in an instant.
Stiles hits the ground. Brett on top of him. Kissing. Biting. Grabbing at each other as if this could save their lives.
Brett buries his teeth in the crook of his neck. Buries himself deep inside, and Stiles holds onto him like a drowning person. His fingers slide over sweat-slick and bloodstained skin, catching on a shoulder blade for a heartbeat, before continuing further, nails dragging thin, desperate lines. There’s no finesse. No romance. They’re not gentle. It’s urgent. Needy. Painful and please, more. Please, harder. Please, please—
Somewhere between them, Stiles loses himself.
Brett collapses, body a weighted blanket. A shiver runs through him.
Stiles runs his fingers through his hair, presses a kiss to his temple. There’s comfort in the hot breath against his aching shoulder, the lips brushing over the bite in silent apology.
They remain like this for a while, breathing ragged, uneven. Heartbeats slowing down, finding a shared rhythm. Brett’s lips tracing something only he can see. Stiles drawing his own little patterns on the back of his neck.
The scent of blood and rain has faded, replaced by something warm, something grounding, something unmistakably Brett.
“Stay.” A plea, spoken so softly, the wind could’ve swept it away as Brett hides his face in the curve of Stiles’ neck, breathing him in.
That’s home.
Closing his eyes, Stiles hugs him tighter, holds him closer, and refuses to let go.