thelydiuhm;;
Bittersweet.
It was the only word that came to mind as he stood there, a distant whir of traffic his sole tether to familiar reality as the smooth planes of a pallid forehead pressed itself into the chipped surface of a grimy, 7-Eleven bathroom door; handsome features bowed, the tips of faded sneakers applying pressure to the bottom of the wooden structure to compensate for a faulty lock. He had been courteous enough to keep his back to the strawberry blonde, a respectful consciousness blocking out all indications that would drive home exactly what she was doing a mere cluster of feet behind him; an empty plastic bag, a discarded box, tucked away within the rusting confines of a wastepaper basket off to his immediate right.
Truth be told, if anyone would’ve suggested that a night of devastation forged intimacy with none other than Lydia Martin herself would’ve had him on the side of some nondescript highway, far enough away from their town’s perimeters to e v a d e being tracked by his father or one of the station’s deputies at a quarter to ten on a school night, awaiting the results of a home pregnancy kit that would determine his future from there on out, Stiles was almost certain he would’ve laughed; a witty comment closely following suit.
It had been, and would always be, regardless of the fact that such an occurrence had become more than a hypothetical scenario, borderline ridiculous; for even in the depths of loneliness and the raging tides of fear, the Stilinski male would’ve never have entertained the idea of the young woman seeking c o m f o r t in his arms. But she had and although their night beneath disheveled sheets with tear stained cheeks had been far from perfect, so very intangible to the likes of how he’d imagined any sexual encounter with the Banshee would ever be, at the time it’d been exactly what they’d both needed; even if they’d unanimously vowed to never speak of what’d come to pass no sooner had they weaseled their way out of the other’s embrace.
Denial, a refusal to discuss the shift in their relationship in a desperate bid to cling to the friendship they indisputably valued had worked wonders within the cluster of weeks that’d come to pass in the aftermath of panted exhales and needy moans. But reality had a way of kicking him in the teeth when he least expected it. Life had a funny way of corrupting the very ground that lay beneath unsteady feet.
The second hand of his wrist watch ticked with merciless c l a r i t y, each minuscule passing of time counting down to the defining moment in which they’d know. In which there’d finally be no doubt as to whether one evening of thoughtlessness had cost them dearly. In which the world as they knew it, could very well be turned on its head.
Anxiety threatened to consume, a beast of unprecedented panic clawing at the underside of a convulsing abdomen as he stood, slender palms pressed flat against peeling gloss on either side of an inclined head. They hadn’t told anyone else. Hell, as far as their ‘pack’ was aware they were tucked up in his bedroom studying for some unimportant test and if things were as he arguably feared, Stiles had no idea as to where they’d possibly begin.
A huffed exhale, a bob of a mole dusted Adam’s apple and lengthy lashes were fluttering as restlessness nipped at fraying nerves; a swipe of his tongue across his lower lip, making way for an almost imperceptible whisper. Every syllable he’d spoken since the moment she’d told him something didn’t quite feel right, having presented itself as something akin to artificial; as if what made him Stiles was struggling to flourish beneath the weight of the circumstances at hand.
“... Let me know when I can turn back around? I- Uh... I have no idea how long these things are supposed to take.”
