@noctuatim​

“Do you really think I’m going to wear that?” Kaamir looked at the shirt with blunt disgust displayed across his face. ”Just because it has the word plant?” Plant and Daddy. He rolled his eyes as a scoff left his lips. “You’re an idiot.” The words were sharp, but his eyes shone with obvious affection.

@noctuatim​

“You can’t ignore me forever, Stiles.” Regret filled Sam’s chest, knowing for a fact that the other boy probably actually could. He’d been doing it for a solid month now. They were both stubborn though and today the blond was feeling especially annoying. “I don’t like this situation any more than you do, but we’re partners and our project is due at the end of the semester and I need this grade so can we actually work on something?” He’d cornered Stiles after lacrosse practice thanks to the help of Scott, effectively trapping them in the locker room until they sorted out their issues. Not even Coach was in his office, who’d been out the door first to get away from Greenberg. “I’m not taking no for an answer anymore.”

“I wish you had,” he spat. “I wish I’d fucking died in that club if it meant I wouldn’t come home to this.” Betrayal rocked his body in waves. Whatever was broken in him wouldn’t be fixed by yet another facility. It wouldn’t be mended by the careful hands of medical staff. There weren’t any pills or sugarcoated scripts that would reach him. Whatever was so wrong about him had enmeshed itself to him so intricately to his being that Fhaari didn’t know how to separate it from himself. He didn’t know if he could. His chest rose and fell with stunted breaths, eyes as defiant as they were transparent to what brewed underneath.

Where did the trauma end, and where did Fhaari begin? 

Fhaari didn’t know if it was Stiles’ sentiments, or the brush of their shoulders, but he’d felt something shift just then. He’d thought about the prospect of them separating before in passing–always alienated from the reality of it–but voicing it aloud made it suddenly feel so real. Fhaari promptly dropped Stiles’ gaze and instead focused on the skyline. He wasn’t quite ready to think about how he was meant to function without Stiles in his corner, and not yet composed enough to keep up the banter between them. Instead, he deflected with a question of his own. “Can I sleep over tonight?” 

There were no words for the ache that dwelled in his chest; so tender and raw. It was violence, he decided, that festering fungus that had feasted on the remaining husk of himself. Feasting; always feasting. His chest heaved with anguish, punctuated by a spluttering wet cough. He felt like a wind up doll, cursed to repeat the same things over and over and over again. He was being as clear as he could possibly be, and still it didn’t register. “I don’t fit here,” he tried, voice racked by the sob whose grip had no mercy on his throat. He didn’t fit in their house, their life, his own life. How could Stiles not see that? How could he claim to love him and yet be so blind? He’d rend his eyes clean from their sockets if it meant he could finally see things as they were. 

“I–” Fhaari’s skin was blotched and bare; haphazardly painted with red and pink watercolors. His lashes stuck together when he blinked, heavy with salt and dirt. There were even marks on his face from where he’d wiped his tears, all muddy and messy. He felt vile. Bared vulnerability had turned him into a mewling mockery. “I have given you everything and you give me nothing. You take, and you eat, and repeat. I begged you to love me, and somehow–somehow I’m the bad guy? I’m the one that doesn’t love you? I begged you! I fucking begged you to fucking love me!” Fhaari’s throat constricted beneath the weight of his grief, fingers digging into the meat of his thigh. “Do you want my life, too? What more could you possibly want?”