be the overflow (steter)
When the water eclipses his head and the muck seals his sight, he drifts. There is only darkness and the cool pressure of the waves.
Blood swirls in the water and dips down through his tongue. He crawls out of the river leaching water and muck. "I’m Stile's," he tells himself. Air whistles out between his teeth. Barely a whisper and he can still feel sediment shifting.
Cicada’s keen into the night and he collapses beside a stinking animal carcass.
The second night he realizes he isn't alone. The stench of dead animal stuffs his nose Beside him the body twitches. . Lake blue eyes regard him through cracked lids... For a moment he drowns in their depths. A wolf muzzle snuffles the air and recedes.
Lungs screaming his lips stretch over jagged teeth, “I’ll live,”
“What are you?” The wolf-man asks, his voice lures Stiles closer. He stares at the wolf the way he would passing fish.
“Not sure,” Stiles clears his throat, grit and river sand shifts in his lungs. “I’m not sure,” He croaks again,”Stiles, call me Stiles.”
“Peter,” There's a stretched quality to his voice like pulled jerky. Blood thick and tantalizing oozes from some unseen wound, he can smell it, ”Can you move?”
Stiles does a shimmy he hopes passes as a shrug.
“Excellent.”
Water sings in his blood sloshing through Stiles's lung. . . Rivets in his ribs crack beneath crumbling skin. Tracking the steady thrum of Peters's heart helps drown out the sound of his own choking. This agony at least is familiar.
The wolf’s hand moves from his stomach, the tips of his fingers form claws which glisten in the moonlight. blood thick and heady rolls down his arm, Stiles wants to lap it up off his skin. Biting down on his tongue alleviates the ache in his gums. Iron and copper mixes with muddy water sift across his throat.
“Hungry?”
“Yess…”
“Fools question,” Peter mused.
“Maybe?” He replies feeling a queer sort of detachment. Driven twinkly by curiosity and instinct Stiles squirms closer
The wolf has fangs of his own nestled neatly in his mouth like hidden reef rock.
“Stiles,” Peter says smearing red on his burning cheeks. Flicking his tongue out he gasps at the taste. . Rich flavor seeps down into his vein.
Warmth that belongs to the living steals through him scraping the moss off Stiles's bones.
“You’re alive.” Blue, Peter’s eyes are vast as the night sky and deeper than any well.
Awareness snaps across his conciseness, he knows those eyes. Stiles claims the breath from Peters's lungs. He swallows chasing drops of blood across bared teeth.
“I’d suggest dumping my body somewhere else next time if you don’t want me to come back.”
“That would defeat the purpose of the ritual entirely. “ Peter hummed hands gliding over Stiles's body claws tracing the gooseflesh on his neck.
