Stiles: Fight me!
Boy, standing behind him and holding a knife: *mouths* Do not.
Boy: If I die first, promise to wait up for me, okay, Stiles?
Stiles: Oh, Boy. When I die, I’m taking you with me.
Boy: I can’t tell if that’s a threat or a compliment.
Stiles: I’d think of it more as a grim inevitability.
Boy: I feel like I can be myself around you.
Stiles: You’re weird and quiet around me.
Boy: Yes.
Stiles: Boy, I beg of you. Please, please go to the doctor.
Boy: Hey, I'm sorry. Is this OUR stab wound?
Boy: When I first met you, I thought you were weird and annoying.
Stiles: And?
Boy: And you are.
Stiles: Okay, but what if we went to dinner not as friends this time?
Boy: AS ENEMIES?
Stiles:
Boy: Just a minute. I need to go take out the trash.
Stiles: Oh. We're going out?
Boy: Wh…
the mirror image with @embcrspark continued from here:
Boy woke up to the familiar throb in his side—dull at first, then sharp and insistent, like a knife twisting beneath the skin. It pulled him fully from sleep with no warning, breath caught in his throat. He didn’t make a sound. Just lied there in the stillness, eyes adjusting to the dim glow of their only source of light. He finally realized the position he was in, one arm still draped over Stiles’ body, clinging to him as if he feared Stiles might slip away. Boy had to move his arm slowly so he wouldn’t wake him up. He watched Stiles sleep for a moment, his breaths slow, steady, chest rising and falling in a rhythm that Boy counted without meaning to. He stood still a moment longer, just watching him. There was blood crusted beneath Stiles, his blood or his own—he couldn’t tell, but Boy’s eyes lingered there before moving on. He counted ten breaths. Then fifteen. He watched until he was sure Stiles won’t wake.
Slowly, Boy pushed himself upright, careful not to grunt or shift the dirt too loudly. Pain lanced through his side when he leaned forward and pressed a hand to the wound to stop the bleeding from starting again. It was hot beneath his fingers, swollen. He moved behind the wall they’re using for cover, disappearing into shadow. His bag was already half-unzipped—he’d known this was coming. He pulled out a small bottle of clear alcohol, a rag, and a thin hunting knife. The bullet needed to come out now, before the fever started.
He braced his back against the wall and peeled his shirt up slowly, wincing as the fabric stuck to dried blood. He poured alcohol straight over the wound. It burned hot, spread fast, and his whole body tightened against the pain. He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t breathe. He gripped the edge of the wound with one hand and dug the fingers of the other into it—searching. His jaw clenched. Teeth ground. There was no sound except the faint squish of torn muscle and the soft rasp of his breath through his nose. His fingers closed around something hard. He shifted, gripped tighter, and pulled. The bullet slipped free slick with blood. He tossed it aside and immediately poured more alcohol over the open wound, letting it drip down his skin. He didn’t flinch. Just grabbed the rag and pressed it hard into the wound, then tied it off with a strip of cloth torn from his own shirt.
Blood was everywhere—on his hands, his jeans, staining the dirt near his knee. But his movements were calm. Efficient. This was nothing new. He wiped his fingers clean on his pants, tucking knife and rag back into his bag. Behind him, Stiles stirred, blinking awake. Boy didn’t look up—he hasn’t even noticed him. Only when he saw movement from the corner of his eyes he looked up. Boy felt the weight of the question in Stiles’ eyes before he even turned to look at him. He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he adjusted the strap of his pack, movements steady. The wound in his side pulsed with dull heat, a reminder he was still healing. Pain had become background noise years ago. It only mattered when it slowed him down. Right now, it didn’t.
He turned his head slightly, just enough to meet Stiles’ gaze. A flicker of understanding passed between them—Boy didn’t need words. He rarely had them, but Stiles was one of the few who didn’t need them, either. He raised one hand, held up three fingers. ❛ Three ❜ After countless fights, broken bones, and dawns spent crawling on bruised limbs, a three barely registers. His nerves have gone dull from adrenaline and habit; anything under eight he handles without flinching. To most, three might be a warning. To him, it’s nothing more than a reminder that he’s still alive.
Stiles looked at the bandage. ❝ You sure you don’t need— ❞ Boy lifted a finger, then traced along the edge of the cloth—tight, dry, no fresh seepage. He signed, ❛ Stable. ❜ He didn’t want to think about it anymore. Not for now. Not in front of Stiles. Boy stepped out of their makeshift home and stepped into the pale light. He moved toward the fire pit. The embers still glowed orange in the ring of blackened stones, and the coals hissed as Boy knelt beside them. He rolled the sleeve of his jacket up, exposing the tight bandage at his side, and pressed a finger to its edge. The ache beneath reminded him: he’d been this close. Too close.
He leaned forward, cradling his elbows on his thighs, and watched the embers crack and drift into curling ribbons of smoke. Each spark carried a memory of last night’s chaos—steel flashing through moonlight, the crack of that shot, the sudden explosion of pain as the bullet tore into him. He’d hit the ground hard, and for one terrifying moment, Boy couldn’t feel the ground at all. He’d thought he’d never feel—anything—again.
A breeze stirred the grass behind him and brought the faint scent of pine and wet earth. Boy closed his eyes and breathed it in, tasting the day’s brightness for the first time since dusk. Sunlight danced across the ridge above, promising a new path, but all he could think about was how frail “alive” could be. He reached down and stirred the coals with a stick, watching them glow brighter before fading. Was it worth it? Each battle, each scar—why risk it all? He’d always known survival came at a cost, but never this cost. Not his own blood. Not the certainty that tomorrow might be the end. His fingers brushed at the bandage again. A reminder. Alive was enough—barely.
He pulled his jacket back on, shoulders squared. The ache was real, but so was the resolve. Whatever came next, Boy told himself, he’d face it. Bullet or no bullet, he would keep breathing, keep fighting—and this time, he’d remember what “alive” really meant.
Boy sensed Stiles before he saw him—the faint shift of light at the edge of the bunker, the soft scrape of fabric against earth. He didn’t turn; instead, he leaned into the warmth of the dying embers, eyes fixed on the glowing coals. Then a hand came down on his shoulder—careful, steady, sure. Boy felt the press of fingers through his jacket: a silent message carried in the weight and warmth of flesh against fabric. We’ve got this.
He closed his eyes against the glare of memory—the crack of snap‑fire, the burning pulse in his side—and focused on the solid assurance of Stiles’ touch. His heart, always so used to running, slowed. In that moment, Boy felt something he’d never quite allowed himself to feel before: the certainty that someone would stay.
He turned his head, following the line of Stiles’ arm with his eyes. The light caught in Stiles’ hair and steady gaze. Boy’s fingers twitched as he signed one simple word, slow and deliberate across his chest: ❛ Stay. ❜ Stiles met his eyes, then nodded slowly—a shared plan spelled out in a single gesture. Boy nodded once, the movement tight with relief. His ribs ached beneath the bandage, but the dull fire in his side was nothing compared to the bright burn of trust rising in his chest. Boy brushed a hand against the ashes at their feet, a grounding touch. He felt the cool of the air on his cheek and each sensation reminded him: he was no longer alone in the dark.
Stiles sat down across from him, knees drawn up, eyes fixed on the coals. Boy noted the small rise and fall of Stiles’ shoulders—steady breath, calm for now. He reached for a dry twig and stirred the embers, sending a spray of sparks spiraling into the gray sky. The thin plume of smoke drifted past his cheek, carrying the sharp scent of pine needles and damp earth.
Boy turned slightly and caught Stiles’ gaze, offering a small, signed word: ❛ Here. ❜ He traced a circle in the air with his finger—the old sign for “together”—and then points back at the fire. Stiles nodded, a soft smile touching his lips, and shifted closer so their shoulders almost brushed. They sat like that for a long minute, side by side, sharing the silence that neither finds empty. Boy watched the patterns of light on Stiles’ face, memorizing the soft curve of his jaw in this quiet moment.
They were ready to face whatever came, the unspoken promise of together echoing in every heartbeat.
1. The Stone. Boy once gave Stiles one of the carved stones from his collection because Stiles particularly liked it. “Ooo, this one’s nice,” he said. Boy handed it to him without a word. “Wait, I can have it?” Boy didn’t answer. Stiles still keeps it with him. Always. In his pocket, in his backpack, in his palms on rough days.
2. Stiles narrates their scavenging trips like it’s a nature documentary. Boy is quietly cracking open a locked drawer and Stiles is behind him whispering: “Here we have The elusive Boy in its natural habitat, sniffing out a possible cache of beans—oh! Another predator must have beaten The Boy to the stash. It will have to go hungry another day. Tragic.” The bit hasn’t made Boy smirk yet, but Stiles swears it will one day.
3. Stiles gets offended on Boy’s behalf before Boy even notices anything’s wrong. If someone so much as looks at Boy funny, Stiles starts vibrating with righteous indignation — arms crossed, jaw clenched, already rehearsing insults.
3.1. Addition: But if it’s about Boy being deaf or mute? If there’s even a whiff of condescension or some smug little comment? Stiles skips the buildup entirely. He once broke a guy’s nose before the sentence was finished.
4. They share a flask. There’s only one rule: don’t finish it without refilling. Stiles breaks the rule constantly. Boy now just wordlessly shakes the empty flask it at him like a judgmental mom.
5. Stiles secretly tries to copy Boy’s fighting style. He would never admit that he’s impressed by it. (Not even under threat of death.) But he is. So sometimes, when he thinks Boy isn’t looking, he’ll try to mimic one of his signature moves. It never looks quite the same, and if he gets caught, he mumbles something about “trying out new techniques.”
6. Stiles makes Boy birthday cards. They’re always terrible: Stick figures, jokes about murder, glitter made of crushed foil. Sometimes they’ll say “Happy 14th birthday”, other times they will congratulate Boy on his 70th. And because neither of them know Boy’s real birthday, Stiles just makes them whenever he feels like it.
Send a 📸 to see 3-5 pictures that my muse has/has taken of your muse(s)
Boy is annoying Stiles , always snapping the most random pictures of him and shoving them in his face after with comments like ❝ Look how stupid you look here ❞ but he also keeps the pictures of him in his pocket :`)
❛ Your laugh makes me want to do dumb things just to hear it again. ❜
They were sitting close—closer than they usually did. The kind of quiet between them wasn’t heavy like it used to be, not sharp with grief or silence or ghosts. Just soft. Familiar. Safe.
Stiles had said it so casually, in that way only he could—talking through a smile like he didn’t know he was setting off landmines in Boy’s chest.
❝ Your laugh makes me want to do dumb things just to hear it again. ❞
Boy’s breath caught halfway through his nose. He hadn’t even realized he’d laughed. It was rare, still. Foreign. It always startled him, like it didn’t belong to him at all. He didn’t move at first. Just sat there, staring at the floorboards like they might say something instead. Something easier.
His fingers twitched at his side before he lifted them slowly, signing with care. ❛ I didn’t mean to. ❜
There was a beat of quiet. He risked a glance at Stiles—only to find him watching, soft around the edges, like he didn’t expect an answer at all. Boy looked away again, heart thudding in that nervous, stupid rhythm he hadn’t felt since before everything fell apart. His hand hovered a second longer before he signed again—quieter, slower, almost shy. ❛ But … thank you. You make it easy. ❜
His ears burned. His whole face, probably. He turned further away, ducking his head, like the shadow might hide it. But he knew it didn’t. He could feel the smile creeping in, helpless and small. He signed one last thing, barely lifting his hand this time. ❛ I like when you say things like that. ❜
And for once, he didn’t try to hide the way his chest felt warm. He didn’t even want to.
Stiles was hunched over the table, surrounded by chaos—half-built bookshelf on one side, a pile of mismatched screws, scattered tools, and a notebook filled with furious scribbles on the other. He was muttering under his breath about "impossible timelines" and "how can a shelf even have six screws when it only came with four?!"
Boy stood silently nearby, watching. First the notebook. Then the upside-down bookshelf. Then Stiles. Eventually, Stiles caught the stare. ❝ Why are you looking at me like that? ❞ he asked, without looking up, more suspicion than curiosity in his voice. Boy crouched beside the shelf, tapped twice near a support beam, and signed: ❛ You're building it upside down. ❜
Stiles froze. He looked at the directions. Then at the shelf. Then slowly turned to Boy. ❝ You’re smiling. Are you smiling at me right now? ❞ Boy didn’t deny it. He just signed: ❛ You’re cute when you struggle. ❜ Stiles choked on his own breath, he wasn’t sure if he read the sign correctly. Boy stood up, looking smug, and wandered over to the table where Stiles had scribbled out a whole page of diagrams and notes. He tapped a finger on the edge of the mess, raised an eyebrow, and signed: ❛ Trying to decide if you're a genius or just really bad at math. ❜
❝ Excuse me?! ❞ Stiles sputtered. Boy tilted his head, unimpressed, then pointed at the jumbled numbers and equations like they were a crime scene. Boy leaned back, crossed his arms, and smirked again. ❛ It’s a good thing you’re cute, or I’d be worried. ❜
Stiles blinked. Once. Twice. Then he went dead quiet, mouth opening like he wanted to say something, but nothing came out. Boy didn’t say anything else. He just leaned back against the wall, watching Stiles squirm in silence, flushed to the tips of his ears and suddenly very focused on pretending that bookshelf needed urgent re-evaluation. The quiet between them shifted—not awkward, just heavy in that way where one person says something unexpectedly honest, and the other doesn’t quite know what to do with it yet. Boy’s smirk lingered, but softer this time. He stayed right where he was.
The man raised the gun, and Boy didn’t flinch. But Stiles did. The knife was already in his hand before he knew what he was doing. One step, one motion. Then the blade buried itself into the man’s chest with a sickening crunch.
He dropped instantly. And just like that, it was over.
The body hit the ground with a dull, wet sound. Blood spread across the dirt. Boy stared down at it. Blinked once. Then lifted his eyes to Stiles. No fear. No shock. Just something deep and cold settling behind his ribs.
He stepped over the body without a glance and closed the space between them. His hands came up — fast, angry — but not to hit. To speak. [ Don’t. Ever. Do that again. ]
Stiles froze, still gripping the knife, breath ragged. ❝ He was going to shoot you. What was I supposed to do? ❞
Boy’s eyes flashed. His hands moved sharper now, more frantic. [ Let me take the bullet. Let me bleed. Not you. ] He jabbed a finger at Stiles’ chest, hard enough to make him step back. [ Not. You. ]
Stiles swallowed, guilt rising fast. ❝ I couldn’t just watch you die. ❞ Boy’s jaw clenched. He shook his head, the grief catching up now, the anger folding under it. He stepped forward again, grabbed Stiles by the front of his shirt. Not to hurt. To anchor.
Then he signed slower, shakier: [ I don’t care about him. I care about you. You’re not supposed to break for me. ] His face twisted, raw with everything he couldn’t say out loud. He reached up and wiped blood from Stiles’ cheek like it sickened him to see it there. Then he let his hand fall. And something inside him crumbled — shoulders sagging, breath unsteady.
He took a step back. [ Don’t make me watch you fall to protect me. ] Because Boy could survive bullets, knives, monsters. He’d learned how. But watching Stiles cross a line for him — watching Stiles risk his life for him — that was something he didn’t know how to come back from.
