
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/484734.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M, M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Isaac_Lahey/Scott_McCall, Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski, Erica_Reyes/Boyd,
      Lydia_Martin/Jackson_Whittemore, past_Scott_McCall/Allision_Argent, Scott
      McCall/Isaac_Lahey
  Character:
      Isaac_Lahey, Scott_McCall, Derek_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski, Peter_Hale, Dr.
      Deaton, Erica_Reyes, Boyd_(Teen_Wolf), Lydia_Martin, Jackson_Whittemore,
      Melissa_McCall
  Additional Tags:
      First_Time, First_Kiss, Friends_to_Lovers, Introspection, Mild_Angst,
      Pack_Feels, puppies!, Trust, Allussions_to_past_abuse, Anchors, Some
      spoilers_for_2x11, Vague_speculation_for_2x12, Dr_Deaton_knows_all, Isaac
      POV, Mating_trope, Werewolves, Self-Discovery, Humor, Frottage, Oral_Sex,
      Intercrural_Sex, Schmoop, Werewolf_healing_power, Other_character_death_
      (mentioned_only)
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-08-12 Words: 10767
****** Came home, like a stone (fell heavy into your arms) ******
by queerly_it_is
Summary
     In the aftermath of Gerard's final attempt to bring down the pack;
     Isaac and Scott's friendship becomes something more, as they forge a
     new connection and learn to trust each other and themselves.
Notes
     Wow, okay so when I decided to write Scott/Isaac after 2x11 I had no
     idea it would become this large a fic.
     I haven't speculated too much on the events post 2x11 or S2 in
     general, and although Peter is still part of the pack here I wouldn't
     be too trusting of his motives.
     Huge thanks to everyone on twitter for generally cheering me on as I
     tried to find a light at the end of this particular tunnel!
See the end of the work for more notes
Isaac takes the job because, honestly? He doesn’t have anything else to do.
He’s technically still a run-away. Though, how exactly that works when he
randomly shows his face at lacrosse games (and beats half his own team into the
grass) he isn’t really sure.
There’s a lot he isn’t sure of, and not just lately.
So when the doc asks him (in that polished way he has that says he already
knows all your possible answers and has counters for every one) to fill some
hours for him at the clinic while he communes with nature, or teaches Derek not
to be a brooding Vulcan or whatever, he says yes without really thinking.
Partly because he’s surprised Deaton trusts him all of a sudden, and partly
because his brain performs that skip-stutter move it likes to do before landing
on an image of Scott McCall’s face like it’s a particularly safe place to stop.
Yeah, he’s not exactly great at off-the-cuff decision making.
But he likes animals; he always has, even before he sort-of became one himself.
They’d had a dog once, a long long time ago; before Cam died and everything
changed. He doesn’t remember much about the dog; just the sense memory of soft
fur and brown eyes and a bark that was always more a welcome than a threat. He
thinks he used to let the dog sleep in his bed, even though he wasn’t supposed
to; because things were different then and he could do things he wasn’t
supposed to without being so afraid his teeth would knock together and his
hands would shake.
It’s pretty easy at first (relative to having his bones snapped or being thrown
around a room or getting locked up in a basement); he comes in; cleans cages,
fills bowls with food and water, and generally does his best not to let the
place burn down until school ends and Scott shows up.
That’s when it gets a little less easy.
He knows Scott isn’t an Alpha, like Derek is or Peter was (is? They still
haven’t exactly explained that whole dynamic very well), but there’s still
something deep down past the human parts of him that says Pack. Or trust. And
maybe some other things he’s not looking at for reasons he doesn’t want to
think about.
It might have something to do with how Scott had saved his life when Gerard
Argent came at him with a sword (and really, a sword? Who doesthat?), or the
way he stands off to one side while Isaac learns to put a cast on a dog or give
a cat it’s booster shots, smiling the whole time like it’s his face’s default
setting, telling him he’s doing a great job in such a genuine, friendly tone
that something in Isaac makes him want to turn and leave the room.
Scott is just. Okay, so he knows intellectually that there must be people in
the world that are just nice, maybe not all the time, but frequently enough
that it becomes a defining character trait; something they get remembered for
when they aren’t around, like you can‘t say their name without mentioning how
nice they are in the same breath. It’s actually impossible to make Scott be a
dick unless you actively try and kill someone he loves, Isaac thinks.
That still seems like a ridiculously high threshold to him, but he has to admit
he isn’t really the best person to judge it. He lives with Derek Hale. And
Erica.
He just wishes he could spend more than ten minutes in a room with Scott and
his ridiculous spotlight of a smile without wanting to shake himself - like a
dog, appropriately enough - so the itch between his shoulders goes away and he
can talk without feeling like his tongue is a lead weight shoved behind his
teeth.
Wishes are nice. You can make as many as you want and keep them somewhere safe
and nobody can take them away. They may not come true, but they’re still yours.
Like memories, but smaller. More specific, idealised little things that
together make up a life you might’ve had.
Isaac has a lot of wishes.
                                       ^
Derek has been…off lately. Even for Derek. Maybe especially for Derek.
Ever since they stormed Gerard’s little fortress of solitude to rescue Erica,
Boyd and Stiles (and part of Isaac still thinks Derek had ordered their names
that way on purpose), Derek has been alternating between his standard
douchebaggery and something he’d almost call contentment,if he wasn’t still
afraid that Alpha’s actually canread minds and he’d be forced to train for
hours with Boyd again. The dude’s like a house coated with steel.
He gets that it’s a big relief to have Gerard dead and Jackson somewhat closer
to his old self (even if he does still has raging fights with everyone and then
doesn‘t talk for days at a time with every Kanima memory that he dredges up)
and that for whatever reason Derek and Peter aren’t slitting each other’s
throats or dueling with pistols at dawn. He knows that the Argents packing up
and taking most of their buddies with them solves a lot of problems for the
pack, and he’s definitely not going to miss the arrows or the knives coming at
him all the time. But there’s this kind of settled calmover everything that he
doesn’t really understand or know what to make of.
He’s not great at ‘calm’.
It doesn’t help that his other ‘packmates’ are too busy screwing each other and
having whispered discussions like they’re. Well okay like they’re teenagers, he
needs to stop forgetting that. Maybe write it down or have t-shirts made. He’s
happy for them, he is; Erica seems less and less like the fake version of
herself she’d become after the bite every day, and Boyd actually smilesnow.
The calm is still disquieting though.
He’d mentioned it to Deaton once, and got some typically cryptic mysticism
about lulls between battles and taking respite when it’s offered, and that same
gentle smirk like they’re all so amusing with their impressions of headless
chickens. Really, a vet should have more sensitivity about things like that.
                                       ^
It turns into a full time thing without him really noticing. Deaton seems to
have taken some kind of advisory role in keeping the pack and the few remaining
hunters from colliding in a big bloody mess, and Scott is running himself into
the ground trying to up his grades and stop his mom from crying about his
secret double life every other day.
Those are the days that Isaac most wants to do something stupid. Like tell
Scott that if your mom cries then she still cares, or tell him that he’s not
going to get a black eye if he fails a chem test. Or maybe just hug him until
he doesn’t look so overwhelmed.
He can’t decide which of those’d be stupider, so he doesn‘t do any of them.
Inaction is always safer.
Scott has Stiles for that stuff anyway.
                                       ^
Isaac doesn’t think other people see Stiles the way he does. People see the
flaily hands and the motor mouth and the way he fumbles almost every time he
walks and write him off as a hindrance. A goofball, with nothing to offer but
the occasional insightful intuitive leap and a good Google search. But Isaac
remembers the guy who’d sat next to him and promised point-blank to kill him if
he hurt Lydia, and Isaac remembers believing him. He remembers the Stiles who
yells at Alphas and tells them when they’re being reckless, the one who stares
Peter down and calls him a ‘creeposaurus’ and the Stiles who’d shoved him and
Erica to one side; shielded them with his own body like he was the one with
supernatural healing powers.
Isaac seems to notice a lot of things other people don’t.
Maybe it’s just easier to see the big picture when you’re so used to orbiting
almost silently around the outside, and there are a lot of things people miss
if they’re too busy paying attention to the wrong thing.
He sees the pain and the anger on Derek’s face every time he looks at Peter;
the frustration and gaping emptiness when Peter looks at the pack. He sees the
fear in Erica’s eyes whenever one of them gets hurt, or the way Boyd’s jaw will
tick when Erica tries to distract someone from that fear with her face or the
cut of her top. The way Jackson will put a slightly shaky hand on Lydia’s arm,
or tuck her hair behind her ear even though it falls forward again almost
instantly. He sees how Stiles looks right to Derek every time he walks into a
room; the tiniest loaded pause between them like the air goes still, the build
before the spark ignites an explosion. How they’ll all sometimes just look at
once another; blind grasp at reassurance and the need to know they aren’t all
as alone as when they started.
But most often he sees the way Scott will sometimes stand off in the
background; eyes roving over everyone like he’s looking for something, before
he jerks into motion again like nothing had even happened; eyes only dimming a
little before he’s shouldering into Stiles and laughing with his head thrown
back. He notices when Scott will start a sentence with “Allison used to…”and
then trail off with a frown like he doesn’t understand where it came from. Or
when he comes into the clinic after his mom or Stiles drop him off and just
stands in the waiting room; breathing with his eyes closed and so very
deliberately that Isaac doesn’t even need his werewolf senses to hear it,
rolling his shoulders like the weight will just slip right off even though it
doesn’t ever work that way. Even when he smiles and Isaac just knows that he
doesn’t feel it.
He wonders what he misses, by focusing on Scott.
It’s probably not important. Doesn’t feel important, at least. It doesn’t feel
like the wrong thing, either.
                                       ^
Full moons suck. There’s really no two ways about that.
His bones ache until he actually thinks about breaking them just to see if
it’ll help; his skin hums with the need to run and hunt and kill, and what
feels like every single cell pulls him like a fish on a hook toward something
he can’t even name, much less define or go after.
He wonders if it’s a homing instinct; something that’s telling him to find
familiar ground where he feels safe, his territory or whatever.
How does he tell the wolf that he doesn’t have any? That secure and safe aren’t
the same thing? That strength and power don’t give you control?
Derek might know. Or Peter. Or Stiles.
He doesn’t ask them.
It doesn’t help that he’s been anchoring himself with memories of his father,
his family. All those things they used to do together; the movie nights or the
Saturdays when they’d make pizza from scratch and ended up eating most of the
toppings first. The way his dad would squeeze his shoulder or ruffle his hair
every morning before he left for work, the crinkled smile that got lost
somewhere in the dirt they’d used to bury his mom. It works, as far as tamping
down the bloodlust goes, but he spends days afterwards feeling listless and
bitter; aware that he’s just keeping old wounds open to spite the new ones.
He doesn’t use the other memories, the ones of fists and bellowing words, of
dark boxes and fingernails broken on walls that’re always too close closing in
not enough air can’t breathe.Thoughts of pain and fear always make the wolf
want to buck against his skin like it’s a separate thing altogether; like it
wants to tear right out of him and leave him behind; bloodied and broken and
empty.
He doesn’t ask about that either. The meaning is a little obvious.
At least he doesn’t have to be chained up anymore. Derek and Peter run with
them through the woods; sometimes corralling them away from the roads and the
town, sometimes just swiping at them to encourage them to keep moving until the
moon’s pull isn’t quite as urgent, as demanding.
Scott never comes to those nights, even though he knows Peter has asked him,
and Deaton has been lecturing him about how the pack needs him, and Derek has
indirectly admitted that maybe it wouldn’t be so terrible if he showed up
occasionally.
Isaac is oddly grateful for the moon on nights like that; for the silvery call
in his blood that tells him to keep moving stay together fight play pack run
not alone. It’s a good distraction from the fact that something’s missing.
Something not familiar or vital for the pack, but an essential quantity all the
same; something he senses flickering between Boyd and Erica from time to time;
something that hangs in the air whenever Stiles and Derek are side-eying each
other from across the room.
He doesn’t ask, and nobody’s telling, but something in him still says missing
not enough find it find it.
He runs; until the sun forces the moon out of the sky and his legs turn to
rubber, howls of the pack ringing in the air.
He just keeps running.
                                       ^
The day Scott comes into work looking like he’d spent all night being
repeatedly run over by a tank; Isaac kind of loses his cool a little.
He’s in the back with Mrs. Pendry’s deerhound Samson; trying to check the
stitches in his side without getting knocked in the head by the big plastic
cone, when the bell above the door chimes and everything goes fuzzy beneath the
feeling of wrong coming from the waiting room like smoke, or an instrument out
of tune.
He doesn’t even remember bolting out there, and it’s only once he realises that
the shaking is him literally beingshaken by the shoulders that he steps out of
Scott’s space and. And takes his hand off the side of Scott’s neck; so fast in
fact you’d think his skin was hotter than a brand.
It feels like it is.
“What the f-fuck happened to you?!” And yeah he knows he’s freaking out, he
only stutters over the word once and he can’t even hear his father’s voice in
his head yelling about cussing.
Scott’s got that befuddled look, like he’s replaying the question in his head.
Like it was some complex theological thing and not really incredibly simple.
“I’m fine dude, really. I just. Had a couple of rough days?” He shrugs, and
even though he tries to smile it’s kind of ruined by the deep, purple-black
circles under his eyes and the greasy, tangled mess of his hair; the way his
clothes are clearly unwashed and he smells strongly enough of hurt and sad that
Isaac wants to whine so high the dogs in the back will hear it.
“Yeah I can see that, did something happen? Did the hunters come after you? Why
didn‘t you call us?” His voice is too fast, full of way too much obvious fear,
and he can feel the pressure beneath his fingernails where the claws want to
push through; his skin tingling with the urge to shift.
He wonders if Scott can smell it. He hopes he can.
“No! No, nothing like that, I swear. The full moon sort of, got a little crazy.
And then I broke a table and freaked my mom out and I didn’t have time to
shower after practice and I didn’t want to make you do all the work so I kind
of ran here and then you were all jumpy and stuff. Are youokay?” The ramble and
confusion becoming concern so quickly that Isaac can’t keep track, and the way
Scott’s face morphs into worried-puppy pops the bubble of tension around him
like he’d stuck a pin through it, and he can’t help but laugh; this breathless,
adrenaline-fuelled thing like it‘s being squeezed from him.
“Yeah I’m fine.” He manages, still around half a smile as he shakes his head.
Scott doesn’t look any less confused.
“You sure? ‘Cause you look a little spooked, man.” Scott says, hand waving at
him like he’s got ‘freaking the hell out’written on his clothes somewhere.
“I’m sure, you just. Well you kind of look like crap.” He says, and pointedly
doesn’t wince over how that sounded. Scott just laughs and tugs at the hem of
his shirt; wrinkles reappearing as soon as he lets it go.
“Yeah I know right? I spent the whole moon tearing up my bedroom and trying not
to scare my mom, and then she wanted to be a part of the whole ‘help me to
control myself’ thing, and I tried to stay out of the way and I just made it
worse.” He gets quieter as he goes on; bitter note of sadness floating up, and
something clenchesbehind Isaac’s ribs, either sympathy or recognition. Maybe
both.
He doesn’t know what it means if Scott is losing control during the moon now.
And he’s not going to ask; just in case it’s another road that leads to
Allison.
He forces a hopefully non-serious expression onto his face “Hey at least you
only broke a table. My second full moon I almost broke a whole train.” Scott
laughs again, sudden and full with his whole face; and it’s such a stupid thing
to feel that much pride over; too tiny and short-lived to feel as though
everything has settled more firmly onto it’s foundations, unshakable.
“Yeah I heard. Dude you’re badass.” He says, still smiling wide, flapping the
back of one hand into Isaac’s shoulder. He thinks his face is heating, but
Scott’s eyes aren’t as downturned anymore; and through the sourness of his
sweat (which is much more appealing than it should be) and the lingering
anxiety there’s real happiness coming through.
The sense of accomplishment hangs around for the rest of the day. He doesn’t
feel like running.
                                       ^
Erica likes to joke about him being a puppy instead of a wolf, even though he’s
older than her, because okay he has to admit he does sort of go stupid around
baby animals.
It’s not just him though. Scott’s way worse.
The day they have the Maggs family’s dalmatian (called Buttons because they’d
decided to let the kids name her) in for a caesarean is probably his favourite
of all the ones he’s spent working at the clinic. And that’s including the one
where he’d beaten Scott at thumb wrestling and Scott had to wear the cone of
shame for the rest of the day.
Deaton is so utterly controlled through the whole procedure that he doesn’t
even perspire; even when both the werewolves with supernatural endurance in the
room are frantic and trying not to drop the impossibly small puppies as they
get passed over and placed between soft folds of towels sitting on the heating
pads.
Isaac watches him work with a kind of reverence that he doesn’t remember ever
showing anything else; the way his hands never falter between instruments, the
serene look on his face broken only by the occasional flicker of a smile as
each pup emits a gurgling breath when Scott clears the fluid from their
airways.
It’s the kind of unwavering calm he’d wanted when Derek first offered him the
bite; the knowledge that you control your own fate. It hadn’t worked that way
for him, or the others; they’d seen the chance for power and leapt at it like
it’d make things better, easier; sheep becoming wolves. He sometimes wonders
what would’ve happened if he’d found Deaton before Derek. If Derek had left him
there that night, in the literal grave he’d dug; the sandbox he’d built.
Peter’s always talking about potential. About waiting for things to swing your
way. For the wheel to turn and lift you up, and then making your own choices to
take advantage of the circumstances.
Isaac wonders if it’s his turn to be lifted.
There aren’t a hundred-and-one puppies, no matter how many times Scott makes
the joke, but the eight they do get are all completely healthy. They share a
kind of group sigh of relief, and when Deaton goes to clean up him and Scott
just stand over them; watching the tips of their tiny black noses move around
outside the edges of the soft blue cotton.
“Are you gonna cry? D’you want a tissue? Maybe a hug?” He says, because the
silence was starting to make him twitch. Too many possibilities; paths to
follow, ways for him to screw things up.
“Dude shut up.” Scott replies with a shove, but he’s seriously failing at
stealth as he tries to scrub at his eyes with the end of his sleeve, and his
voice is a good few octaves lower than it should be.
Isaac pretends he isn’t grinning; that wide, uncontrolled one he’s never liked.
The one that shows too many teeth and makes him look about five. The one he got
from his mom. The one he somehow now associates with Scott.
“This is what I wanna do.” He hears himself say, sudden and unprompted; like it
slipped under a fence and made a break for it. There’s certainty in it though,
like it’s more real now it’s out there.
Scott looks up and raises questioning eyebrows at him, smiling around the pink
bottom lip he’s got trapped between gleaming white teeth.
That doesn’t seem fair. That he can just look like that and not realise.
“Work with animals, I mean.” He looks down at the squirming mass of damp fur
and wet noses on the table, feels the smile reform even though he’s apparently
baring his soul at random intervals now. Like that’s something he does.
I trust you.
“You mean like a vet?” Scott asks, eyes focused on Isaac like there’s nothing
else to look at. He isn’t sure what to make of that kind of focus.
“I was thinking more like a shelter? For abandoned dogs or something?” He says,
hand fiddling pointlessly with the edges of the towel, something to do.
“Oh wow you totally should!” Scott says, enough flailing enthusiasm that he
almost knocks back into the cabinet. “Dude, you’d be amazing!” He huffs a laugh
at how Scott just full-on runs with the idea, warmth that spreads through at
him at the unreserved honesty.
“I don’t know, I just. I want to help, you know? Maybe find homes for strays,
or stop people abandoning them in the first place.” It just spills out of him,
this wanthe has to do something good with the opportunity he’s been given. To
take all that pain and ash and build on it until you can’t see the bare earth
underneath anymore. To use his potential.
Peter might’ve had a point.
“Yeah? Sounds awesome, you should definitely do it.” Scott nods like that
settles it, and Isaac wants to just hang the idea off that feeling; keep it
there where it won’t tarnish or get lost.
“What about you?” He asks. “You gonna be a vet? Deaton 2.0?” He smiles at the
image of Scott in a white coat, all compassion and good heart, competent
without being distant, helping anyone and everyone with a smile on his face.
Scott scoffs and ducks his head “Nahh, I don’t think I’m really cut out for all
that school stuff, y’know?”
Isaac frowns, looks at Scott as Scott looks away, and feels some weird swell of
protectiveness; a need to wipe away that awkward admission even though he has
no idea how to do that.
“I think you could do it.” He says, no word of a lie, and Scott looks up at him
briefly like the punch line’s just hiding on his face.
“Really?” Question strangely vulnerable, and that desire to convince - to
somehow transfer across all the faith he has - that Scott can be more; can be
whoever he wants to be if he just trusts himself, rises so strong and fierce
it‘s almost frightening.
He manages a nod, and makes himself hold Scott‘s gaze even as his cheeks warm
“I think you could do anything.” And it comes out with such a pure kind of
conviction that Isaac wants to laugh it off; distract Scott from whatever
stupidly naked certainty he’s wearing like the opposite of a mask.
But Scott’s mouth quirks up, first one corner and then the other; slow and
steady until he’s grinning so wide it practically splits his face, and Isaac
doesn’t regret one thing about whatever he’s just given away.
Scott deserves someone who expects things from him, not because they feel they
should but because Scott canlive up to it; can settle into the man he’s gonna
be one day whether he knows it now or not.
Isaac knows it, sees it, trusts in it. And he’s starting to realise there’s not
much he wouldn’t do to get Scott to see it too.
                                       ^
The healing trick is sort of more complicated than Deaton had made it seem,
that first time.
Yeah, he can ease pain, can take it and absorb it like some kind of freaky
sponge; but he can’t actually fixthe cause, not with a simple touch.
That doesn’t stop him from trying though.
Scott is gritting his teeth hard enough that Isaac can hear them scraping
against each other like falling rocks, and his heart is beating way too
quickly. The beam is still lying across his leg; this huge hunk of charred-
black wood and warped nails and it’s too heavy, too much for him to lift until
the pack hears him howling and comes to help.
This is all his fault. He’d been trying to shift the debris around so they
could bring the new lumber and things in ready for the next room, but he hadn’t
noticed the way the fire had bent the support above him; not until it was
already crashing down and Scott was slamming into him, and then all he’d known
was the screamScott had let out when it landed on his knee, pinning him to the
floor.
This is his fault, God.
“It’s okay, it’s okay.” Scott’s muttering from between lips pressed so tight
they’re totally white, and seriously? He’s consoling Isaac?
“I should be telling you that.” He says, voice like it’d been him yelling his
throat out, and wow they’re really doing this all backwards aren’t they?
He kneels next to Scott’s head, fits his hands underneath along the planes of
his skull, tries to keep him up and alert rather than vacantly staring at the
barren ceiling.
“They’ll come, don’t worry. They’re probably already on their way back. God
Scott I‘m so sorry.” He says as he tries to stop himself saying anything else;
jaw clenching and eyes stinging at the corners.
“N-Not your fault.” Scott forces out as he grunts against the pain, face so
pale against the charred floorboards, and Isaac doesn’t know how much healing
he can do with that beam sitting right on the joint.
He has to try and do something, he can’t just. He can’t.
So he shifts around until Scott’s head rests on the flat of his legs above the
knee; one hand moving to the side of his head, fingers carding through soft
hair, and the other resting over the thud of his heart that Isaac could find
from miles away, probably even through a crowd or underwater.
“What’re yo -- no Isaac don’t, I don‘t need it. You don’t have t-”
“Just shut up okay? Shut up and let me do this.” He cuts in harshly, pushes
Scott down flat so he stops trying to move against the enormous hulk of the
beam, and focuses on the acrid scent of pain; the sting of it that hides just
beneath the skin like thorns.
He tries to imagine ropes or lines of webbing that connect them, and the black
suddenly flows up into the veins of his hand, spidering along his forearm,
stealing his breath and scraping over his nerves. It’s slightly different every
time he does it, but he’s never tried this on a person before, and there’s a
buzzgoing through his bones like vibrations; oddly warm and almost visible. He
thinks they’d be yellow. Or maybe orange.
There’re tears practically streaming down his face, and something else that
might be blood dripping from his lip where he’s bitten clean through it. But he
can feel the way Scott’s muscles go lax as the absence of pain seeps through
him; can see his eyes fluttering involuntarily at the relief of it; feels the
shudder of his chest beneath Isaac’s palm as his breathing eases, gets less
shallow and rapid.
I can do this for you.He hears himself thinking, and it echoes weirdly;
reverberates inside his skull. I can be this if you need me to be. If you let
me.It feels important somehow; the way his mom telling him she loved him used
to feel important, or how he’d hugged Cam before he’d left for the airport that
last time. Weighted. Full of layered truth.
His arm is numb now, the shoulder and some of his back burning with more than
just the simple stretch of muscle, and everything’s fading against the orange
light that he knows is there even though he can’t really see it, like sunbeams
leaking through curtains.
There’s a crash somewhere far away, and what might be voices, but he’s lost in
the light and that has to be okay doesn’t it? Light is good, the antithesis of
dark, bad things don’t come from the light. Then, as everything goes quiet and
he’s floating, he feels safe;in a way he hasn’t for a really long time.
Peaceful. Home.
                                       ^
The light he wakes up isn’t the light he passed out still feeling.
Actually, he doesn’t remember passing out at all. But he’s on a lumpy mattress
in one of the newly refinished rooms; vague lingering smell of paint fumes
where before there’d been the stink of smoke and fear.
Deaton’s sitting in a chair just by the door, flicking through a book with a
weird looping symbol on the cover; one of the ones Derek keeps in the case that
nobody is stupid enough to go near. One of the Hale library books that survived
the fire.
He tries to sit up, but leaning on his arm is like dipping it in molten lead.
There are long, red marks all up his forearm like welts, and they’re throbbing
along with his heartbeat.
Scott.
“W-Where’s Scott? Is he alright?” He asks, twisting up on his good arm and
coughing to get his voice to level out.
“He’s fine.” Deaton says, tone soft like he’s talking to a startled animal,
even while he crosses over to the bed and kneels to put a hand on Isaac‘s
forehead. “I wouldn’t try to get up just yet. You did a real number on
yourself.”
“What happened?” He asks, trying to bypass the obvious concern, focuses on the
scent of animals and the clinic and something older that hangs around Deaton
like an invisible veil.
Deaton sits back on his heels, smiles like he’s almost amused. Or maybe proud.
“You tried to take away Scott’s pain, and you took too much. You passed out
when Boyd pulled you away.”
He winces at the suddenly present memory of hands gripping his shoulders like
iron bands; the pain in his arm that jolts his nerves like he needs reminding.
“And Scott?” Tries and fails to keep his anxiety out of the question. He’s
never been good at hiding things like that.
He gets another smile “Derek and Peter managed to lift the beam off his leg,
and he’s almost fully healed. A lot sooner than he would’ve been if you hadn’t
helped. That was a pretty brave and selfless thing you did, Isaac.” He doesn’t
sound surprised, which is sort of weird, but then when does he?
“It was my fault it happened.” He flushes under Deaton’s eyebrow raise; guilt
and maybe embarrassment twisting at him. “The beam was coming down on me, and
I. I froze. He pushed me out of the way.”
Deaton looks even less surprised, and definitely more amused. Fatherly, Isaac
thinks. “Yes, well. He does that.” He wanders over to the chair and picks the
book up, before moving to leave. “I’ll let him know you‘re awake. He’s been
busy slowing down his recovery by pacing a brand new hole in the floor.”
“Wait.” He calls out, before realising he was going to. “There was something
else. When I. While I was helping Scott I think I saw something.” Deaton’s eyes
narrow the tiniest amount, and he steps halfway back into the room, book
dangling from one hand.
“Oh?” Definition of neutral.
He tries to remember; to encompass something that hadn’t felt definable to
begin with. “It was, warm? Like a light, but it was everywhere. Like it went
right through me, or maybe it was all around me? And it was, I don‘t know,
familiar. Like a song you heard when you were a kid.” He knows he isn’t making
any sense, but he doesn’t have the words for whatever it was he saw; for the
things he felt.
Something crosses Deaton’s face, like confusion or maybe just curiosity. His
expressions all seem to come from the same well of zen, so it’s hard to tell.
“Interesting.” He says, almost like he’s talking to himself. Then he seems to
just snap out of it; smiles wide and carefree like nothing could possibly be
wrong. “I’ll send Scott up.”
                                       ^
Judging from the way Scott explodesthrough the door about two seconds after
Deaton leaves, he’d been listening from downstairs all along. Doors and walls
are kind of pointless when you have werewolf hearing.
“Ohmygod dude what the hell?” All one breath, most of it half-yelled before
he’s even fully in the room.
Scott looks kind of freaked. Hair all fluffed out where he’s probably been
running his hands through it; dark stains and small rips on his jeans from the
beam, a few red-black marks that might be blood.
Isaac tries not to breathe through his nose. He isn’t sure what the smell of
Scott bleedingwill do to him right now.
“I’m fine.” He says, because there’s no way he’s going to say anything less
when Scott looks ready to shift and break something.
“You’re fine?” Said like Isaac just told him he could fly. “You had a seizure,
okay? They pulled you off of me and you started shaking and screaming. I
thought you were gonna die.” His eyes are wide and bright in what little
daylight is still coming through the window, and while Isaac doesn’t flinch at
the volume he still winces at how high-pitched and franticScott sounds.
I don’t want you to get hurt.
“I’m sorry if you--if I scared you.” He says finally, after what is probably
too much time spent watching Scott’s chest move up-down, in-out. “But I’m not
sorry I did it. You needed--you needed help.” He finishes on what would have
been a shrug if he wasn’t still trying not to put weight on his injured arm. He
can feel the tingle of it already healing, but he thinks it’ll probably be a
while.
“What’s wrong with your arm?” Scott suddenly asks, and he would pick now to
become more observant wouldn’t he?
“Nothing.” He says, too quick, and Scott’s eyes narrow as his mouth pinches.
“Then let me see it.” Scott says, crossing his arms and squinting, trying for a
glare. It doesn’t really work; Scott’s face just wasn’t meant for glaring. But
Isaac sighs and holds up his welted limb anyway. If Scott’s anything he’s
stubborn, and Isaac doesn’t want to argue with him right now. Or ever, if he’s
honest.
Scott hisses a breath though his teeth and his eyes go so round and wounded on
Isaac’s behalf that he’s expecting tears any second.
“That’s not nothing.” His voice is some low mix of sad and angry, and he folds
himself down next to the mattress; only grimacing a little as he bends his
knee.
Isaac just lies in a mostly-crumpled line of wariness and smarting aches,
watches Scott’s eyes as they skip from his face to his arm and back; over and
over like there’s more to him that he can’t quite spot. Like there are depths
hidden away somewhere.
People don’t look at Isaac that way. He’s got not barriers for this; no
practice at it.
Scott’s hand inches out toward him, slow and halting as if waiting to get
snapped at or slapped away, but Isaac can’t make himself move. Everything is
just suspended somewhere on the brink of all those choices he doesn’t know what
to do with, isn’t equipped to handle.
The brush of fingertips over the thickest raised line of skin makes him twitch,
more a suppressed shiver than anything else. Scott’s mouth is pinched at the
corners, little furrow between his eyes that Isaac wants to smooth away with
the pad of a thumb. He doesn’t think he even breathes as Scott’s fingers trace
the red marks up to the crook of his elbow, apparently totally oblivious to how
he’s leaning right over Isaac’s body with his knees on the edge of the
mattress. His fingers are smooth, and oddly warm where the skin is already
burned and blistered; the touch so light it raises goose bumps along the
paleness on either side, pebbling the flesh that’s already healing and fading
back to pinkish-white.
Something hitches in Isaac’s chest; topples loose and falls away; stone sinking
into dark water. He doesn’t know what it is. Doesn’t know if he needs it. If
he’ll miss it if he can’t get it back.
“You keep getting hurt.” Scott says, so soft Isaac isn’t sure it was meant for
him to hear; all the meaning he can‘t parse; intensity he doesn’t recognise.
“Good thing we heal fast then, huh?” He says, and it comes out with none of the
nonchalance he was aiming for. He’s really no good at this, more of him
blistered and callused than just the temporary stuff on his arm. Too many
pieces out of place.
Scott sits up, leans over him resting on his knees and seeming stupidly tall
from this angle, where Isaac is used to being gangly and standing a good four
or five inches above him, even when he keeps his head ducked and slouches.
“That’s not the point.” Scott says, abrupt; all bundled energy and forced
stillness, a smell like ozone that Isaac thinks might be adrenaline. “You--it’s
like you think it’s okay. That you can go and do stuff that hurts you and it
doesn’t matter. Is that what Derek tells you? That it doesn’t matter if you
hurt because we don’t stay that way? It’s not true, Isaac. Yeah fine, we heal
super fast, and that’s cool an’ all, but it doesn’t--it doesn’t make the pain
okay. Doesn’t make it less real. It doesn’t mean you just let it happen. It’s
still pain. You shouldn’t--” He’s panting a little now, something wild but
still non-wolf in his expression, and Isaac…doesn’t know what to say. To any of
it.
Scott looks away, staring at the blank wall across from them, visible roll of
his throat working. “People keep doing things like it doesn‘t--just stop
getting hurt okay? Especially for me. Please?” The plea cracks, splinters and
shatters and digs in to all the soft places Isaac doesn’t dare expose. To
anyone. And how is he supposed to start now? He wants to; can feelwhere it’s
all stuck beneath the surface, almost the way the wolf is, but this isn’t about
the wolf. This is about something so purely human that Isaac doesn’t feel the
wolf at all.
“I’ll be fine, Scott.” He ends up saying, and then wants to kick himself for
using the most overplayed lie on earth.
“Fine doesn’t mean alright.” Scott answers too quick, too loud; one hand
flicking pointlessly into empty air like the energy just has to go somewhere.
“You would have done it for me.” Isaac says, and only realises as he says it
just how true that is. “If I’d been trapped like that, you would’ve tried to
help, because it’s what you do. How was what I did any different?”
“Because!” He yells, like it’s an explanation. “It just is. I’m--you keep
acting like I’m some kinda hero or something, and I’m not okay? I’m not. And
you don’t want to be either. Heroes die,Isaac, d’you get that? This isn’t a
movie. Or a fairytale. It just sucks, all the time, and everyone’s running
around acting like nothing’s changed when everything has!Allison--” He breaks
off, swallows hard, his forehead skewing in pain. “Allison’s whole family is
pretty much gone, and my mom can barely look at me. Stiles’ dad looks at
himlike he doesn’t even recognise him. It’s my fault, and I can’t pretend that
it’s fine. It’s notfine, Isaac, so just stop!” He’s breathing harsh and loud,
like it’s agony to keep drawing in the air, and as Isaac just lays there,
reeling; a tear finally breaks from beneath Scott’s right eye; rolls down his
cheek and beads on his jaw, drops somewhere onto Isaac’s clothes.
That feels important somehow.
He doesn’t know what to say, or do - when does he? He can’t fix all that loss
and anger and pain. He can’t fix his own, much less anyone else’s. Doesn’t even
know if he has the right to try.
Instead he just puts an arm around whatever span of Scott’s chest he can reach,
tries to ignore the way his stupid insides flipat the feeling of Scott bending
until they’re in a weird rhombus of a hug; all leaning lines and awkward
angles.
Scott’s got his head pressed into Isaac’s shoulder; most of his weight on his
thighs and his knee is probably still aching in that phantom way shattered
bones do when they heal too quickly; like your body wants you to remember.
Scott smells of fear and frustration and the salt of either tears or sweat;
it’s all deep and earthy tones mixed with something softer, warmer; almost like
vanilla. Isaac’s chest shudders as he breathes out. Scott’s hand rests on his
side, fingers spanning over his ribs, and he wonders if he can feel how fast
Isaac’s heart is beating. He’ll hear it anyway, can’t help but hear it because
they hear everything. But touch is real. Touch is memorable. Touch has to be
given.
“You don’t need to be a hero.” His voice muffled against Scott’s jacket,
another wave of scent running through him like flash fire as he breathes. “You
don’t have to be that guy. Just. Be you. You is enough.” Scott makes a rough
noise that’s all choked vowels and no real words, and Isaac finally thinks he
understands something.
                                       ^
They stay like for what is probably a long time, by friend-hug standards;
enough warmth seeping between them that it feels like a tangible thing; like
they shouldn’t be able to separate at all.
When Scott finally clears his throat and sits up, Isaac almost drags him back
in; the thought of putting his walls back up unappealing now.
That impulse gets ten times stronger when he sees just how openScott’s
expression is; the plain relief that’s obvious even with the wet lines of
moisture beneath his nose and eyes; how his hands drag across Isaac’s middle as
he sits up like he doesn’t want to break the contact either.
It’s too quiet, he realises, too still; the only heartbeats he can hear are
Scott’s and his own; just the occasional creak of the house and the breath that
shifts the air between them filling the silence.
He wants to blush at the realisation that the others must’ve left again on
purpose, left them alone thinking…thinking something that Isaac really isn’t
brave enough to examine.
Sometimes he’s glad that Scott can be kind of oblivious.
Like right now; when there’s less than a foot of space between them and Scott
is half sprawled over him on a mattress in a deserted house, one hand resting
unbearably close to Isaac’s hip and the other pressed flat somewhere by his
arm. If that’s not a cosmic joke then nothing is.
“Thanks.” Scott says, and it’s low and hushed in a way that does nothing to
make Isaac feel less awkward about badly he wants to strain up into the heat of
him. He’s losing it, whatever tenuous grip he’s got on his control slipping
between his fingers like grains of sand. He can’t do this, can’t be this close
and still pretend this is all he wants, but he doesn’t know how to get away;
can’t find the words or shove himself into motion.
They’re frozen like statues; entwined and just watching each other, and it’s
awkward how very not awkwardit is; how he’s coming to dread the moment when
it’s over more than he is the weird precipice they’re stuck on right now.
He thinks Scott leans in first, or maybe they both do; but suddenly the
distance between them is dwindling down to nothing, and the staccato huff of
Scott’s breath is dancing across his mouth, and then their lips are
just…pressing together.
It’s soft and unsure, but still undeniably real enough that something primal -
something neither him nor the wolf; something new - stirs and makes him brave
enough to lean into it, to raise his hand to Scott’s face and just rest it
there; being grounded by the contact as much as he is spun apart by it.
They separate with a quiet, wet noise that almost has a whimper fighting out of
Isaac’s throat, and he swallows to bite it back. Scott’s eyes flutter open,
slow, dazed, and he smiles again.
“Wow.” He says, all breath and warmth, and Isaac grins hard enough it almost
hurts.
The second kiss is no less gentle; it just seems to go a lot deeper. Something
thrilling and terrifying and captivatingly warm unfurls in Isaac’s chest as
Scott’s tongue brushes over his lower lip. He gasps into Scott’s mouth when a
soft scrape of - blunt, human - teeth sends sparks all along his nerves, makes
his toes curl up and the kiss go a little sloppy.
Scott groans something almost animal from the back of his throat as the hand
he’d been using to support himself grips Isaac’s on the mattress, pressing on
the welts and singing fire along his veins that might be pleasure or pain;
impulses all mixed together.
It’s never felt like this; like nothing will ever be enough. Like he wants to
crawl inside Scott’s skin and vice versa; wolf and human sides blended together
until there’s no distinction anymore, no boundary. Until they fit.
                                       ^
Scott gets him to shove over, and since it’s not really that big a mattress
they end up squashed together in a tangle of limbs and too much body heat;
kisses passing between them more often than words, or just breathing with their
foreheads resting together.
In the little bubble of happiness and stillness they’ve made; Scott’s voice
becomes a low and unwavering stream of hidden fears and questions that Isaac
tries to answer just like Scott always answers him; both of them with so much
doubt but still sure that they can survive whatever comes next as long as they
all stick together.
Isaac talks about his dad; his mom, his brother; his fears about where he
belongs in the pack, basically everything he can think of that he’s never found
the nerve to spill before. But Scott just nods encouragement or murmurs
reassurance when his voice stumbles and his throat wants to close against the
bitterness of it all, presses his lips to Isaac’s; to his forehead or even the
tip of his nose just to make him chuff a laugh and stop dropping his gaze.
There’s so much heady lightness building in him that Isaac is kind of surprised
he isn’t floating; tethered by Scott’s arm thrown over his waist and their
jumbled legs that dangle off the makeshift bed.
It’s more than soothing, more than friendship, more than anything he can
compare it to. It’s peace.
By the time Isaac thinks to look, his arm is completely healed.
                                       ^
He doesn’t know what he’s expecting to happen after that day. For something
obvious to change maybe; for Stiles to yell at him about stealing his best
friend away, or for Derek to warn him off Scott because he doesn’t completely
trust him yet.
But nothing happens.
Sure he and Scott are…something now. Something between friends and morethan
that, and from the way Erica smirks like she’d been telling him something all
along, and Boyd quirks his eyebrows when he sees them together he knows it’s no
secret. But he still spends his time working with Deaton and training with the
pack and generally making sure random supernatural stuff doesn’t move into
Beacon Hills and start killing people. It’s unsettling how unmoved everything
is; how little it reflects whatever change he can feel in himself.
                                       ^
He has dinner at Scott’s house once or twice a week, and tries not to act like
a total moron in front of Mrs. McCall; who smells like laundry soap and home
and more strongly of vanilla; with a faint undercurrent of the hospital. It’s
nice; quiet, warm and welcoming; and it stings like salt in a still-bleeding
wound, makes the empty pit behind his ribs howl and his hands want to clench.
But Scott taps his foot against Isaac’s under the table, fills the silences
with rambling stories about school or Stiles or whatever they’d dealt with in
the clinic that day; all accompanied by waving arms that come close to knocking
glasses off the table and embellishments that Isaac can’t make himself point
out.
They laugh and eat and Scott’s mom looks at him from the corner of her eye when
Isaac catches his focus tunneling in on Scott across the table; weirdly
transfixed by how much betterit all feels like this. If she wonders why he’s
there so often, or what he is to Scott that explanations of friendship don’t
cover, she doesn’t say anything.
After a while he kind of forgets that he doesn’t belong there. After a while he
begins to think that maybe he does. Scott tells him he’s always welcome, and
maybe that’s the same thing.
She hugs him one night, right before he leaves, and it takes him so much by
surprise that his eyes almost flash to yellow. But she just runs a hand up and
down the line of his back, and his breath tumbles out in a choppy sigh against
the curls of her hair, and he lets his eyes shut as she almost whispers “Thank
you. I don’t know whatyou did, but he doesn’t seem quite so lost anymore.”
If he has to look away and wipe at his eyes when she lets him go, she’s too
kind to mention it.
                                       ^
The next moon is…different.
There’s something more desperate to it; something restless that he can’t burn
off even with extra miles spent running around the woods or getting thrown
about by Erica while Boyd ‘supervises’.
He thought he’d gotten past this; the point where he lets the adrenaline and
pure brute strengthtake over. He doesn’t enjoy knowing there’s a part of
himself that could cause pain; could damage and destroy and then swipe at the
people who try to help. That isn’t who he is; who he wants to be.
But something isn’t right.
The pack runs and fights and howls at the beguiling disc of the moon as they
flit between the trees, but Isaac falls back; his own cries becoming mournful,
lost. He lifts his head and fills his lungs with the smell of pine and deer and
pack; lets it all out in a long, pleading note. Calling. Seeking. Alone. The
others answer, but the sound doesn’t subdue the need in him; none of it flows
over his skin and into his bones the way he wishes it would, just glances off;
cold and unfulfilling.
Suddenly the air splits with another howl, one that pulls at his blood and has
his feet tearing up the leaves and soil as he sprints even before he has the
breath to answer. He dodges around thick trunks of mossy bark and leaps over
jutting blades of rock; doesn’t slow down until the scents of the woods becomes
mingled with the familiar tangled warmth of what he knowsdeep-down is Scott,
but that the wolf is uttering as home-safe-heart-pack-mateover and over with
the drumming of his heart.
They collide with enough force to slam them both into the ground; growls and
huffing breath that fogs the air, everything cast in faint silver and grey
except for the dual lights of beta-yellow shining from their eyes. They shove
and roll to the tune of grunted laughs and playful snarling; until Isaac is
looking up at Scott against the almost black canopy of leaves and branches;
stars and moonlight looking down on them both.
His breathing deepens as the moment stretches out into some nonverbal contest
that he dimly thinks has already been decided. Scott has one hand wrapped tight
around Isaac’s right arm; keeping it pinned down and immobile, his other
tracing meaningless patterns over his jaw with the tip of a claw. For all the
animal instinct and bloodlust running through them both; Isaac doesn’t feel
threatened. He wants this. Wants to tip his head even further back; expose his
throat to Scott’s eyes and the moon above. He wants to snap and dodge and feint
only for the eventual joy of surrendering; contented that it’s the way it’s
supposed to be.
I trust you.
Scott’s eyes are fixed to his; glowing deep and melting into black; nostrils
flaring, drawing in the scent of him; and Isaac whines deep in his throat as he
lifts his free hand, traces over Scott’s lower lip until he gets a brief nip of
teeth.
“Can you run?” Scott asks, and his voice is fire and hoarse need, bordering on
breathless.
“Why? You gonna chase me?” He returns instantly, and Scott grins wide and
feral; shows all the glistening teeth behind his lips, somehow predatory and
playful at the same time.
“Do I need to?” Scott’s answer comes lower, like a burr along Isaac’s bones,
satisfied and full of promise.
Isaac shivers from something that isn’t the night air.
Scott dips his head, fingers warm and spread wide over Isaac’s throat, resting
on the flutter of his pulse as Scott drags his nose up to the space behind
Isaac’s ear.
“Mine.” All hot breath and low timbre, and it’s the last piece slotting into
place; everything becoming a little more clear, less blurry-grey and more
sharply defined; yellow and white and perfect. He understands, and he doesn’t
even need to answer; lets Scott smell the truth on his skin and see it on his
face, hear it in his heart.
They scramble to their feet, and Scott bites a kiss against his mouth that
draws blood for the brief instant it takes the skin to heal, tang of it
carrying in the air like a message in itself. Scott laps the little trail of it
from his lip, tongue hot and sending bursts of want through Isaac so strong he
can’t believe he’s still standing.
Then just like that Scott spins and bolts into the trees, eyes yellow beacons
even though Isaac could find him easily by scent alone, and they’re running and
knocking together, hands batting at one another as they head for town.
Isaac sees a flickering burn of red off to one side, low Alpha grumble reaching
him with the feel of…not reprimand, no order to submit, just…reminding.
This is where you belong.
He nods in the direction of the sound, and the crimson flashes vanish.
He’ll come back, and maybe this time he won’t be coming back alone.
Scott’s call from up ahead quickens his blood as well as his pace, and they
howl answers to the moon as Isaac feels real freedom overtake him; anchored not
by lost memories but by the promise of new ones.
                                       ^
They crash into Scott’s kitchen with enough noise that Isaac is instantly glad
theirs are the only heartbeats in the house.
Scott shifts from wolf to human in the span of an excitement-buzzed grin; and
Isaac manages to tuck all the sharp and untamed pieces beneath smoother skin
just as he gets backed into the edge of the table. Then Scott’s mouth is
parting his; slick pressure of tongues against each other, muffled groans lost
to the lack of distance, and time seems to go from a crawl to a frantic run as
soon as their hands are on each other.
The kisses range from filthy hot to bizarrely tentative, and when Scott leans
back and looks him over; his cheeks red and eyes more black pupil than anything
else, leaves in his hair and mud on his clothes; Isaac just wants to start over
again, to do it all the same a million times across a thousand lives.
He just wants.
Isaac’s arms wind around Scott’s neck, stepping away from the table and into
the space that feels like it was meant for him and licks into Scott’s mouth
with every ounce of need and thrumming urgency that Scott can probably sense on
every other level already.
“I’m sure.” He says, quiet but strong against the softness of Scott‘s cheek,
because he knows the question was coming; could see it in the little scrunch of
Scott’s eyebrows and the way his hands are running circles over Isaac’s sides
like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it. Isaac maybe likes the idea that he
doesn’t; that Scott is just as wrapped up in this as he is.
Scott smiles soft and warm, and Isaac echoes it without thinking, without
hesitating, and they press tight to one another the entire way to Scott’s room,
toppling onto the bed and laughing at how they both almost fall.
“Like that first time.” Scott says when they’re both not in danger of rolling
off onto the floor, lying almost on top of each other. Isaac has to swallow
around the lump in his throat at the look Scott’s giving him; the glow of the
moon so appropriate as it beams through the window over the bed like approval,
nurturing and powerful.
Scott sits him back on his heels, tugs his shirt up over his head and throws it
aside before doing the same with his own, and Isaac gets lost in all the
rolling muscle and tensing sinew of him; the lines and planes of skin that
shine with sweat and pearly light. Being skin-to-skin is like electricity
flowing into him, the connection so strong and pure he almost can’t bear it,
smothers his cries into Scott’s open mouth as their hips press together.
They grapple and kiss and push against one another until Scott is over him
again, something of the wolf going silent and pleased with the way Scott’s grip
tightens as he licks his lips, eyes catching on the pulse at Isaac’s neck
before going to his mouth, his eyes, the shadowed space between their bodies.
Aligned in a long, roving mass of heat and sex, Scott shoves down hard enough
for Isaac to feel the firebrand line of his dick; a flood of want pouring
through his veins even stronger than the call of the moon; stronger than
anything, everything.
It’s a struggle getting their remaining clothes off without separating; jeans
and underwear kicked away until it’s just them with nothing in-between; skin
and bone and blood all lit from high above by the thing that binds them
together in kinship and so much more.
“Want you.” He gasps, mostly unintentional, too much to bottle it all in; but
Scott’s hips stutter through another thrust downward, making a pleased noise as
the muscles of his back tense and release under Isaac’s hands as he pulls him
in again. He can’t even manage to let Scott lift away now; needing the
pressure, the contacts, to be surrounded and subsumed by the scent of him.
Their movements go sloppy, uncoordinated; grinding together over and over as
Scott trails wet bruises along his throat, noises of wordless desire lost
against Isaac’s temple, nerves alight as they both shift faster and more
relentlessly toward the edge.
Isaac comes first; cresting over with his eyes clenched shut and mouthing at
Scott’s bare shoulder as he empties into the sweat slick hollow of Scott’s hip,
broken whine that scrapes his throat; head pressing back into the bed as he
pants and feels Scott tense against him. Scott groans loud and base, something
that might’ve been Isaac’s name while his hips jerk and his teeth set grooves
into Isaac’s neck; claim and so many things that go even deeper.
                                       ^
They don’t even try and move or clean up; just roll their bodies together until
they harden enough to go again; slower but no less heated, smiling dopey and
endorphin-hazed into each other’s mouth as they whisper nonsense and mark each
other with release and hickeys and possessive words.
Scott maps Isaac’s chest with his hands and his mouth; learns all the places
that make Isaac twitch; that knock the breath from him in a surprised laugh, as
well as all the ones that have him bucking up in want; cock jerking wet and
stiff against his belly. Scott takes him in a strong hand and strokes him slow
and sweet, or laps along the length of him with his tongue until Isaac’s coming
again like it’s being driven through his body with the force of a freight
train, wet heat of Scott’s mouth almost painful.
Isaac lies in the spread of Scott’s legs as Scott thrusts against him,
tormentingly closeto where he’s tight and untouched even by himself. It’s the
last kind of connection, the one they both seem to think should wait for now;
until they aren’t being spurred into impatience by the pull of the moon or
their own fumbling desperation. Still, when Scott curses hot and low against
his skin and spills into the cleft of him, he almost begs anyway; only the
reminder of how much time they have for that and the graceless press of their
mouths keeping him from it.
                                       ^
By the time the dawn breaks and the moon fades into the blueness of the sky,
they’re both sticky and exhausted from more than just the change. They lie
still pressed all along each other, kissing with mouths swollen and sore but
not enough to stop; eyes barely open and everything giving way to the most
perfect kind of hazy tiredness he’s ever felt.
Nothing aches or hurts that doesn’t still feel good, and as he lets the urge to
drift into sleep take him he can still hear Scott’s heart; almost exactly in
time with his own; and a tiny smile tugs at him over how their scents have
mingled into something new, something more than the sum of their individual
parts.
He presses in closer and just breathes, and when he sleeps he doesn’t even
dream.
                                       ^
Isaac knows he doesn’t owe anyone anything. He knows he has choices now.
He came back for himself, because he thought he could help, even knowing it
might end badly. He stayed because he felt it was worth it; because he knew
there was something good for him here. Because he trusted.
In the warm daylight, Scott grins down at him; sight and scent full of joy; of
potential for the both of them, his heart beating strong and steady to Isaac’s
ears.
The wheel turns, and Isaac feels himself choose.
End Notes
     So I'll be bold
     As well as strong
     And use my head alongside my heart
     So take my flesh
     And fix my eyes
     That tethered mind free from the lies
      
      
     'I Will Wait' - Mumford & Sons
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
