Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1015337.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Stiles_Stilinski/Stuart_Stilinski
  Character:
      Stiles_Stilinski, Stuart_Stilinski, Scott_McCall, Sheriff_Stilinski, Alan
      Deaton, Derek_Hale, Lydia_Martin
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Twins, Doppelganger, Sibling_Incest, Twincest, Evil
      Twins, Emotional_Manipulation, Magic, Mutual_Masturbation, Frottage, Oral
      Sex, Mental_Breakdown, Stilinski_Twins
  Series:
      Part 1 of Me_and_My_Shadow
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-10-24 Words: 10345
****** You Have to Start Over (at the End) ******
by collie
Summary
     “Just tell me, Derek,” Stiles says quietly. “Is it... is my dad
     okay?”
     “Your dad's fine,” Derek says before pressing his lips together
     against an exhale. “It's about Stuart.”
     “What about him?” Stiles asks.
     “Stuart doesn't really exist,” Derek says, with such a calm certainty
     that it can't be argued with. “There is no Stuart, and there never
     has been. You don't have a brother, Stiles.”
Notes
     This was written in response to all_of_this_absolute_amazingness. ;>
     Basically consider this vaguely spoilery for the entire show up to
     the end of 3A. Random things get referenced all the time.
See the end of the work for more notes
Sheriff Stilinski doesn't have two sons.
So when Stuart comes bounding down the stairs one Friday morning, hair a little
on the darker side and black-framed glasses perched on the end of his nose, the
Sheriff can't help doing a double-take. He blinks a few times, shakes his head
as he watches the boy – his otherson? –plant himself in front of the fridge.
But just as quickly as it comes on, the gut-twisting feeling that something
just isn't right here fades away as quickly as a bad dream.
“Morning, kiddo,” he says, giving Stuart a lopsided smile as he reaches around
the older twin and shuts the refrigerator door in his face. Stuart's protests
die on his lips as his dad takes him by the shoulders and turns him around,
showing him the scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast set out on the kitchen
counter.
“Oh, cool,” Stuart says with a pleased smile, moving to grab three plates from
the cupboard.
“Stiles!” the Sheriff calls upstairs, his tone genial because they go through
the same thing every morning. “All that's going to be left are toaster crumbs
if you don't get your ass down here now.”
“I'm coming, I'm coming!” yells a sleep-edged and oddly panicky voice, before
more familiar footsteps stampede down the stairs. Less than ten seconds later
Stiles appears in the kitchen, all flannel and slightly lighter hair and lips
parted obscenely wide as he breathes through his mouth.
“Seriously, shut your mouth, Nim,” Stuart snarks as he scoops up some eggs with
a piece of toast. “You're attracting flies.”
“Life lesson number two-hundred and forty-three, Tau; you can catch more flies
with honey,” Stiles sneers right back, gesturing to his own mouth before
extending a long hand graciously across the island at Stuart's. “Than with
bullshit.”
Stuart rolls his eyes and lifts a hand to patronizingly push his glasses back
up the bridge of his nose with one long extended middle finger. “Oh, fuck y-”
“Boys,” the Sheriff warns, giving them both the patented I know you're old
enough to curse at each other, but I still don't want to hear it dad look
before pointing to their plates and then to the clock. “Use your mouths to eat.
Then leave. I don't want you to be late.”
As soon as the Sheriff turns his back to grab his coffee off the counter,
Stiles sticks his tongue out at his brother, giving Stuart a nice view of the
masticated egg and toast smeared over the wet, pink muscle in disgusting flecks
and splotches. Stuart fakes a dry-heave before leaning over the counter to
smack Stiles upside the head.
“Hey, what did I say?” the Sheriff sighs as he shrugs on his coat and stares at
his sons again, watching them both wilt back onto their respective stools.
“Eat, rinse the dishes, put them in the sink, and then go to school.”
The Sheriff leaves his house to a chorus of okay, dad and sorry, dad and still
can't shake the feeling that something's weird, because Stuart and Stiles
haven't used those nicknames for each other in years. He still remembers the
evening they came up with them; pushing little Scrabble tiles around on the
board, spelling their own names out and making new words from the letters in
each others' names. It had been a decade ago.
A wave of nostalgia weaves chill through the Sheriff's bones as he closes the
door behind him, and he suddenly can't get into his car fast enough. Must just
be one of those days.
 
Sheriff Stilinski's sons would never skip first period to fool around in the
Jeep that their mother left to them before she died, because he only has
oneson. But just as the sky isn't actually blue, rainbows can't be touched, and
cats are absolutely all space aliens waiting to take over the world, sometimes
what we know and what we think we know can blur the line, and perceived reality
can be real enough to assault the senses and leave you reeling.
“We need to talk to dad about getting a new car,” Stuart grits out through
clenched teeth as a sharp, slender knee bumps up against the gearshift. Stiles
snickers at the form of his brother trying so desperately to retain some sort
of grace as he clambers into the backseat after Stiles, who's already on his
back, knees bent up and legs spread, inviting.
“No way, asshole,” Stiles grunts as he pushes himself back against the door,
ignoring the hard press of unpadded metal against his bony shoulder-blades.
“This was mom's Jeep. We can't just sell it. This is Roscoe.”
“It's just a car,” Stuart complains before dipping his mouth down to press
against his brother's, both bodies yielding against the other as Stiles' teeth
meet the tip of Stuart's tongue in a punishing little nip. Eyerolls and busy
hands replace words, because they'd rather taste each others mouths than waste
more time and breath on unimportant things.
Stiles always gets hard just a little bit faster than Stuart, but Stuart always
comes first. Stiles teases his brother; says he's too tense, too uptight, but
Stuart just retaliates with his tongue up Stiles' ass until his little
brother's sharp chides are replaced with breathless, gasping, begging sounds.
They've never fucked, but they've touched and tasted every single inch of each
others' body countless times since they were fifteen. It all seems like a blur,
really, and whenever Stiles tries to think back on a dirty memory, or pull
something out when he's jerking off in the shower, it's always kind of fuzzy.
Hard to grasp.
Weird, sure, but not weird enough to count.
“Get your dick out,” Stuart breathes against Stiles' panting mouth, the air
shared between them hot and heady. Stuart's long fingers are graceful compared
to Stiles' spidery digits, but both are as patient as they can be as buttons
are clumsily pushed through buttonholes and zippers are unzipped in the frantic
silence of the Jeep.
“Dude, did you put the towel back in here?” Stiles gasps, hips jerking almost
embarrassingly as Stuart's hand shoves inside of his boxers and grabs clumsily
at hot, hard flesh, giving Stiles' cock a possessive squeeze.
“Of course I did, dumbass,” Stuart says, suddenly a little annoyed at how his
glasses are half-steamed up, and one lens is smudged by the sweat on his
brother's cheek. He grunts and drops his head to Stiles' shoulder, rubbing his
glasses against soft flannel as his hand works awkwardly along Stiles' dick,
succeeding only in pushing his glasses up onto his forehead.
Hot, shivering breaths tickle Stuart's ear and Stiles' free hand reaches up to
grasp the back of his twin's neck, gripping hard as he rocks himself against
Stuart's hand, pushing into the grip of his fingers and sliding himself against
a dry palm.
“You're so fucking greedy,” Stuart hisses against his brother's neck as he
mouths over the salty skin there, absently tonguing at the little marks he
leaves with his teeth. “I'm not humping your fucking thigh to get off, so come
on, Nim.”
“Sorry, sorry,” Stiles gasps, eyelashes fluttering against his cheek as he
forces his eyes open, forces himself to concentrate on the hot, slender body
hovering over his. “God, I want you to suck me so bad,” he whispers, and they
both groan softly as he shoves at Stuart's jeans, pushing the offending
material down just over his ass so his dick falls out, hanging hard and heavy
between his thighs like some obscene ornament.
Stiles' tongue drags over his lips as he gets a hand on his brother, and he
knows they both feel the exact same hot shudder crawl their skin. Whenever they
do this, whenever they touch each other at the same time, it's like they can
feel what the others' feeling. It's like this loop of energy and it's all they
can do not to just rut like fucking animals against each other.
“After school,” Stuart groans, his voice catching in his throat as he grinds
down against Stiles' hand, finally bringing their bodies into contact. “After
school I want you to fuck my throat until I choke.”
“Hnn, god–,” Stiles croaks, his eyes squeezing shut as Stuart's thumb flicks
over the sensitive ridge just beneath the head of his cock, the pad pressing
and rubbing until the younger twin can't stop squirming. “F-fuck you, Tau.”
“You wish,” Stuart hisses through his front teeth as he finally gives in and
drops his hips fully, a throaty and desperate sound pushing out against the
raw, wet skin of Stiles' throat. “You're taking it up the ass first.”
“No, you,” Stiles argues as he rolls his hips up, his free hand sliding down to
hook around Stuart's ass and locking his arm. He holds his brother tightly as
he slots their cocks together, his knuckles pointedly bashing against Stuart's
to get his hand off of his dick. “Let go of me so I can make you come.”
“Ahh, you shithead,” Stuart whines as Stiles leans in to clamp his teeth down
on his brother's shoulder, pulling a shivery little writhe out of the minutes-
older twin. Stuart tugs his hands out from between their sweaty bodies and
braces them on either side; one grabbing at the driver's side headrest and one
on the backseat.
Stiles' hand works over Stuart's cock with expert ease, tugging and squeezing
at all the right places, as he crushes their mouths back together, teeth
clacking and tongues waring in a hot, wet battle for dominance. They're both
going to be sore and bruised when they tumble out of the Jeep; knees digging
into thighs and thighs pressing painfully against all of the little metal bits
protruding in the back seat, and the strain of tensing muscles as much as
possible because they're trying to come as fast as they can... they're panting
and moaning like a porno in here.
“Come on, Tau, come on,” Stiles urges, his words a mess of mumbles and spit
strings as they suck the breath from each other, because who needs oxygen when
you have another half? “I want to feel you come all over my hand. Want to smell
you on my fingers all day.”
Stuart keens and fucks his cock through his brother's hand, hot panting breaths
branding Stiles' cheek as he shudders and jerks his hips, spurting hot release
all over Stiles' fingers and his stomach. Not a second is wasted, only long
enough for Stiles to pull his hand off of his brother's cock, before Stuart
grinds his hips down against his twin's and start rocking against him.
Stiles' groan is choked and throaty as he drops his head back and bucks up
against his brother, their stomachs and sharp hips slick with sweat and come,
and Stiles' hard, aching cock is trapped in the middle that tight vice of taut,
hot flesh. Stuart covers Stiles' throat with hot, open-mouthed kisses as they
grind together, this being the closest they've ever come to actually fucking,
and it's not long before Stiles' breathing roughens and shallows. He squeezes
his knees around Stuart's hips as he trembles tightly, teeth clacking together
and gritting hard against a loud grunting-groan as his own come joins his
brother's in slicking their joined bodies.
As much as they want to lay in each others' arms all day, they know they're
already pushing their luck by skipping out on first period, and no one likes
being covered in dried come. It's uncomfortable and gets really itchy.
“It smells like dirty cheese and chlorine in here,” Stiles murmurs around an
impending smirk, which turns into a glorious grin as Stuart balls up his fist
and punches his brother a few times on the arm, both succeeding in quite
perfectly breaking the mood.
“You're fucking fooouuul,” he bemoans, as he reaches for the towel they keep in
the Jeep for exactly these sort of occasions.
 
One of the best things about fucking around with your identical twin is that
your werewolf best friend can't smell the difference.
“You guys want to do anything this weekend?” Scott asks them both, though his
eyes linger a little longer on Stiles. Of course Scott loves Stuart like a
brother, just like Stiles, but his complete loyalties will always lie with the
younger twin. There's just something about Stuart that's always put him off a
tiny bit; he's a little hard to get close to, like he's coated in the thinnest
sheet of glass.
They both look thoughtful for a moment, even going so far as to exchange
glances. Stiles peers up at Stuart from where he's half-sprawled over the lunch
table, head resting against his propped-up fist, where Stuart is straddling a
plastic chair from behind next to his brother, his arms resting over the back
of it, half-facing Stiles while still turned toward Scott.
“Go-Karts and mini-golf?” they both say in unison, shooting Scott inquiring
looks before jerking their eyes back at each other with almost manic glee.
“Jinx, dick!” again exclaimed in unison, to which they roll their eyes and
Stuart groans, Stiles snickering as he reaches out to shove ineffectually at
his brother's thigh.
“You two are, like, a thousand-percent hopeless at jinxing each other,” Scott
laughs.
“Right?” Stiles agrees.
“Because he's always copying me,” Stuart says with feigned haughtiness. “Being
older is the worst. I have to hold his hand when he's scared, tuck him into
bed, spoon applesauce off his chin, and he's always following me around
everywhere.”
“Only because I haven't been able to figure out what that rank stench coming
off of you is yet,” Stiles quips with a sweet smile.
“Oh, I'm wearing your underwear,” Stuart shoots back with the same smile.
“Gross,” Scott snorts, pulling a slightly ick'ed-out face, because in all
honesty, sometimes he really can't tell when they're joking or when they're
being serious. Better safe than sorry.
“So, what do you guys think about me asking Lydia to be my date for Go-Karts
and mini-golf?” Stuart says, just loud enough for Lydia – who's sitting at the
other end of the table with Allison and Isaac – to hear. The petite redhead
glances over and lifts a well-sculpted eyebrow in Stuart's direction, and when
she's met with his easy smile, she only purses her lips and gives him the once-
over before turning back to Allison and leaning in, their tones quiet.
“Ithink that would make you the most horrible, awful brother that ever lived,”
Stiles says quite amicably. “Like, worse than Caine. I'm talking grade-
A butthole material” Because while he's realized over the past few months that
his feelings for Lydia have changed into a different kind of love, and while
the only other guy he'd ever be able to handle dating the love of his life
wouldbe his twin, he still can't help the hot twist of jealousy in his stomach.
Though, if he's honest with himself, he can't really be sure which one he's
jealous of.
“Whatever,” Stuart says loftily as he grabs the chair-back and leans back,
stretching his arms and shoulders with a low groan-y sound of satisfaction.
“You're not into her like that anymore. We both know who you're–“
“Stuart,” Stiles says with a sudden anxious adamant as he lurches up and slaps
a hand over his brother's mouth. “Your stupid, disgusting food hole is making
words again. Cease your noise!”
Scott finds his interest piqued at Stiles' reaction, but more especially at the
way his pulse jumped the moment Stuart said anything. “What? What's going on?”
he leans forward over the table, pushing his lunch tray aside to lean in
conspiratorially. “What the hell don't I know? Tell me things!”
Stuart stares blandly at Stiles but makes no attempt to remove his twin's hand,
and instead glances at Scott and says a few words that are too muffled for even
Scott's werewolf hearing to suss out. Stiles seems convinced that he still
can't take that chance and scoots his chair across the floor right up in front
of Stuart's, the plastic chairs colliding as he slaps his other hand over his
first to double-up the security on Stuart's mouth.
Over the top of Stiles' hands, Stuart's eyes narrow and shine with mean
mischief, and though neither Scott or Stiles can see his smile, they can see
the hitch of his cheeks and the crinkle at the corners of his eyes enough to
tell he's grinning. Stiles suddenly feels the slippery slide of his brother's
tongue over the inside of his fingers and palm, which propels him backwards on
the chair. The metal legs screech across the cheap cafeteria floor as Stiles
dramatically shakes his hand before holding it out like it's on fire.
“Dude, ew,” he says plaintively before reaching over to wipe his hand on
Scott's sleeve, as easily as if it were a napkin, hoping to distract the
werewolf from smelling the sharp spike of arousal that he knew had just passed
between him and his brother.
“Oh, man, why?” Scott whines, plucking at the sleeve of his shirt and giving it
a cursory sniff before sagging slightly. “Now I'm gonna smell Stuart's mouth
all day.”
“An honor and a privilege, peasant,” Stuart says with a dismissive wave of his
hand, though his eyes linger on Stiles, bright with humor, affection, and a
fierce possessiveness that tugs at Stiles' dick and makes him forgive his twin
any indiscretion.
“Okay, so mini-golf and Go-Karts this weekend?” Scott says, already on his
phone looking up a place for them to go. “You guys are going to come, right?”
he glances down the table, drawing the attention of Lydia, Allison, and Isaac.
Allison and Isaac’s smiles are still just the tiniest bit cautious, and Scott
has a feeling they're never going to be absolutely easy, but they confirm with
friendly enthusiasm, which is all he can ask of them right now.
Lydia, on the other hand, actually gets up and smooths her skirt before
stepping daintily over to seat herself next to Stuart, giving him the once-
over. His lips part slightly and the tip of his tongue darts over his lower lip
as she leans in just a bit, giving him a whiff of her perfume and a very nice
glimpse of her ample cleavage.
“Consider this weekend a test run,” she says, giving him a sweet but pointed
smile. “We'll see how you handle yourself in a group, and only then will I
determine whether you'll be worth giving a chance one on one.”
Stuart's eyebrows lift and all he can do is nod, but behind him both Stiles and
Scott look appropriately shocked.
“Did she just say yes?” Stiles hisses across the table at Scott.
“I think she just said yes,” Scott whispers in awe.
“I thought that's what you'd think she said.” Stiles reaches out and grabs the
seat of his stunned brother's chair and, after giving Lydia a friendly and
genuine smile over Stuart's shoulder, tugs his twin back until Stuart is
practically in his lap, and they both wave lamely at Lydia as she laughs softly
and moves back to take her seat next to Allison.
Stiles hooks his chin over the back of Stuart's shoulder before practically
crushing his mouth and nose into his brother's cheek, knowing it would muffle
his words from Scott's ears. “You owe me so much head for this,” he mouths
practically silently, knowing full well that every single word is understood.
Stuart says nothing, only smirks.
 
A long, slender hand presses against Stiles' stomach and shoves him hard back
against one of the metal support poles as Stuart's other hand hastily tugs at
his brother's jeans. Unbuttoned, unzipped, and finally jerked down over slender
hips and bunched at the tops of Stiles' thighs, Stuart doesn't hesitate to pull
his twin's cock out through the hole in his boxers.
“Fuck,” Stiles breathes as a hot jolt of arousal shoots through him, his tongue
sliding over his lips as he glances to either side for the dozenth time.
Getting head from anyone behind the bleachers on the lacrosse field was a risky
endeavor, but getting head from your twin; that was potentially damning and
could lead to a lifetime of alienation and forced therapy for both of them.
That just made it so muchfucking hotter.
“Are you jealous of me?” Stuart murmurs against the tip of Stiles' cock before
mouthing over the head, teasing, wanting to feel his brother harden completely
against his palm.
“Yes, you asshole,” Stiles hisses softly, hands reaching back to grab around
the pole behind him as he hitches his hips out, greedily pushing himself
against Stuart's face. “If you sleep with her, you have to tell me every last
detail. I want to know what she smells like, feels like... I want to know what
she tastes like,” he groans, as Stuart's mouth closes around his aching length.
When Stiles gets hard too fast, he gets really sensitive, and there's nothing
Stuart likes more than taking advantage of that. He sucks his brother down with
a hungry sound, eager to drink in the perfect reactions he knows Stiles will
deliver, because his little brother never disappoints.
Stiles practically slaps himself in the face in his haste to clamp a hand over
his own mouth. He muffles the loud moan Stuart's tight cheeks and slippery
tongue force out of him, but cants his hips into his brother's gripping hands.
His free hand reaches to grab a handful of Stuart's spiky dark hair, tugging it
and holding it like a lifeline as he practically chews the skin off of the
knuckle of his thumb in an attempt to keep himself as quiet as possible.
Stiles comes fast and hard; it only takes a few minutes. Feeling the crisp air
of autumn brushing over his bare stomach and hearing the sounds of the street
that runs along the front of the school are a constant reminder that they're
outside, in public, and the very real threat of being found out is a huge turn-
on.
With a low, scratchy whine he bucks his hips hard, shooting hot into his twin's
mouth. Stuart's nails dig into the skin that stretches tight over Stiles'
hipbones as he pulls back a bit, mouth tight around the swollen head as he
swallows as best as he can, one hand pulling away from his brother and reaching
up to finger at the few dribbles that threaten to escape down over his lower
lip.
 
It's Saturday afternoon, and Scott is at work when he gets the text that will
end up changing his life as he knows it.
‹Me and Stu are gonna be a little bit late for mini-golf. Dad's making us wash
the Jeep before we go. I'll text when we're on our way.›
It's not until Scott frowns and mutters 'who's Stu?' under his breath that
Deaton's finally certain he knows what's going on. He watches Scott, his eyes
keen as his assistant's expression slowly shifts from confusion, and then to
recollection as he snorts and shakes his head, rolling his eyes as the memories
of Stuart settle back into his brain. 
Deaton had only met Stiles' brother once before, but the vibe he'd gotten from
him had been so off-putting that Deaton had had to ask all of the kids to
leave.
To the emissary, Stuart was like an afterthought, or a fictional character. A
dream-face you couldn't forget even after you woke up, despite knowing for a
fact that you'd never met that person before. It left him feeling so
uncomfortable that he'd thrown a little research into what he could, only to
come up with several possibilities; a ghost, a mass hallucination, shape-
shifters, some sort of psychic projection from Stiles (if he were, indeed,
psychic), but it's not until Scott unknowingly confirms that Deaton's sure.
“Do me a favor, Scott?” the vet asks casually, drying his hands on a paper
towel as he and Scott finish closing up the clinic for the day. “Call Derek.
Ask him to get here as quickly as he can. There's something the two of you need
to know before Stiles gets here.”
“What is it?” Scott asks, his forehead immediately wrinkling as concern washes
his features and tenses his shoulders.
“Just get Derek here,” Deaton smiles softly before balling up the paper towel
and tossing it in the trash can.
 
It's close to an hour later when Stiles comes breezing into the back room of
the animal hospital with Stuart trailing behind, the elder's hands shoved deep
into the pockets of his jacket and beanie tugged down low on his head, like
he's trying to hide in it.
“Ah, boys,” Deaton says as easily as lying, hands clapping lightly together in
front of him as he regards them both, like he's about give a presentation.
“Yeah, hey, doc,” Stiles says with a smile. “Scott still around?”
“Stiles, do you understand the phrase 'seeing is believing'?” Deaton asks,
ignoring his direct question, just like the vet has a tendency to do.
“Uh, yeah?” Stiles says, moving to unconsciously play the fingers of one hand
against the other; a nervous gesture. “You could take it literally to mean that
if you can see something, then it's absolutely real, or you could take it
figuratively to mean that what we perceive is always in the eye of the
beholder, sort of thing. What you see is real because it's real, or what you
see is what you want it to be, and then you make it real for yourself.”
“Precisely,” Deaton smiles. “Very good. Now, let me show you something,” he
steps up to Stiles and turns his head, leaning in a bit as he reaches up to
fold one of his earlobes forward, showing Stiles the skin behind his ear, right
in front of his hairline.
“Do you see these?” he asks, revealing the tiny rune tattooed behind his ear.
“This is the rune for 'sight'. It was tattooed behind both of my ears when I
came of age, when my training was finally complete.”
“Punk rock, doc,” Stiles says with an approving smile, and behind him Stuart
shifts uneasily, his eyes narrowing a bit as they dart between Deaton and
Stiles.
“They protect me from any magic or glamors that might cloud my vision, so to
speak,” Deaton continues, ignoring the boy's comment. “As an emissary it is
imperative that my objectivity never be compromised.”
“What does that have to do with us?” Stiles asks, gesturing between himself and
his brother, who's leaning against the far wall nearest the exit. He knows that
Stuart isn't Deaton's biggest fan, so his brother rarely ever comes to the
animal hospital if he can avoid it, and when he does he's usually pretty quiet.
“Stiles,” Deaton begins, letting his eyes flick over toward Stuart where they
linger briefly for a moment, before latching back onto the boy before him. “I
want you to know that I'm not angry with you, and I want you to be honest with
me because I think I can help.”
“Angry?” Stiles asks, his eyes slitting slightly as he leans back, confusion
coloring his expression. “Why would you... what's going on?”
“Hey, Nim?” Stuart clears his throat, suddenly looking incredibly uncomfortable
as he edges toward the door. “I have to make a call, okay? I'll, uh, be
outside.”
“Uh huh, okay,” Stiles says, shooting a weird smile over at his brother when he
notices the poisonous look Stuart is giving Deaton. By the time he looks back,
both Scott and Derek are standing near the vet, the former looking a little
upset, and the latter actually looking concerned. Genuinely concerned.
They both have gray ash smeared over their right eyelids.
“Ohmy god,” Stiles exclaims with a start as he gestures at the werewolves and
sinks back against the wall with a sigh. “That's it. You guys are getting bells
for Christmas, I mean it. Little pink kitty collars with bells on them. Or tap
shoes.”
“Did you tell him yet?” Scott asks Deaton, and Stiles frowns as his stomach
does that cold, twisty thing stomachs do when you suddenly realize that people
have been talking about you behind your back, and not in a good way.
“Tell me what?” Stiles can feel that little bubble of hysteria choke off in his
throat. He knows he goes from zero to a hundred and twenty at the drop of a hat
these days, but he can't help it. Things have just been so emotionally fucked
for him ever since the nemeton thing. Since their sacrifices.
Something is happening here. Right here and now.
The silence is palpable, and Stiles is about three seconds away from grabbing
things and throwing them when Derek steps up with a sigh, closing the distance
between himself and Stiles. His eyes are clear and his brow a little furrowed,
and Stiles can feel himself wanting to sink in on himself, because the only
time Derek lets his walls down is when it's something really, really bad.
“Just tell me, Derek,” Stiles says quietly, his body tensed and cautious. “Is
it... is my dad okay? Did something happen?”
“Your dad's fine,” Derek says before pressing his lips together against an
exhale, and Stiles suddenly wonders how loud his heartbeat is because he can
feel it pounding against his ribs. “It's about Stuart.”
“What about him?” Stiles asks, hands throwing out to either side as he gestures
for someone, anyone, to just say something.
“Stuart doesn't really exist,” Derek says with such a calm certainty that it
can't be argued with. He just says those words, his voice uncharacteristically
gentle beneath his dark, furrowed brow. “There is no Stuart, and there never
has been. You don't have a brother, Stiles.” And though he speaks carefully and
not coldly, Stiles still feels like he's been punched in the gut, because every
cell in his body protesting and screaming at him to laugh or to yell because
obviously Derek is wrong.They're all just plain wrong, because Stuart is right
outside...
In his shock and confusion, Stiles doesn't even fight it when Deaton steps up
and takes him by the side of the face, the vet's other hand lifting and thumb
pressing against his right eye. He forces Stiles' eyelid down and brushes
something almost cool and silky-dry over his eye. Ash.
Stiles' entire world lurches, and it's all he can do just to stumble over his
own feet to the deep sink right off of the vet's work room, losing everything
he'd eaten that day (breakfast with his dad and Stuart, lunch at school with
Scott and Stuart) in a sick, heavy splatter against the porcelain. Because when
Derek said the words and Deaton broke the spell and let him really see,
something inside Stiles bent a little too far and broke as reality snapped back
into place. The air is suddenly charged and everyone's arm-hair stands up, and
the smell of ozone lingers in their nostrils and the back of their throat.
Stiles spits in the sink after retching a second time, and without sparing any
of them a glance, he pushes himself toward the door and runs outside. Out into
the parking lot.
Out where Stuart is not.
 
It takes twenty minutes to get Stiles calm enough to speak, to maybe listen to
reason, to even just come back inside. Scott has to practically carry him after
confirming that no, the Jeep only smells like Stiles, and even though Stiles
argues that they smell the same, Derek assures him that they don't. Different
aftershave, different cologne, different shampoo.
It's jarring to watch someone barrel through the five stages of grief and loss
in just under an hour, because Stiles is packing the first three into one big
clump. Denial, anger, and bargaining; all at once.
“Remember, when we were trying to catch Jackson at the rave and I ran out of
mountain ash?” he snaps, spreading his hands and staring wildly at Deaton,
Derek, and Scott. “Stuart was the one who drove back here to get me more. I
remember sending him because I couldn't leave or it would break the magic.”
“That never happened, Stiles,” Deaton says softly, carefully. “You finished the
spell on your own. Your will was what worked the magic, just like it was your
will that brought Stuart here in the first place.”
“Wait, no, that doesn't make any sense!” Stiles yells, looking on the verge of
frustrated tears. “I literally couldn't have done that alone. What about Derek?
He'd be dead if it wasn't for Stuart. We kept his paralyzed werewolf ass from
drowning for hours while waiting for Scott. There's no way in hell I could have
done that by myself.”
“But you did,” Derek says, frowning to himself, his brow furrowing as his arms
fold across his chest, as if suddenly uncomfortable with the truth that's
cutting its way through all of the fog in their brains. “I remember, now. I
remember being impressed with you,” he lets out a hollow chuckle.
Stiles whirls on Derek, the light in his eyes frantic and verging on desperate.
“The station? Matt?” Derek cants his head slightly, as if waiting for Stiles to
continue. “Stu helped get dad out of the handcuffs because I was paralyzed with
you–," But Derek just shakes his head again, giving Stiles as much of a
sympathetic look as the werewolf can muster.
Scott and Stiles sink down into chairs at the exact same time, and where Stiles
looks like he's going to be sick again, Scott just looks pale and shocked.
“He didn't knock me off of my skateboard the first day I ever learned how to
ride one,” Scott mutters, his tone hollow and mournful as he folds his arms
against his chest like a safety blanket. “It was a tree branch. And he wasn't
the one who finally broke the pinata at my 8th birthday party, it was the
rope... the rope just broke right after you hit yourself in the face with the
bat and ran off crying.”
“Dude, shut up,” Stiles retorts weakly as his cheeks color a bit, adding
embarrassment on top of soul-crushing heartbreak.
Scott's face falls, and with the absolute genuineness that only he can muster,
he reaches over and grabs his best friend's hand and squeezes it tight, before
scooting his chair right into Stiles' and grabbing the taller boy into a tight
hug.
“I love you, Stiles,” Scott whispers fiercely into his friend's hair. “I love
you, and you know you're never going to be alone. I'm so sorry, man.” Scott's
other hand reaches up to clasp Stiles around the back of the neck, and that's
all it takes to dissolve the already mentally fragile boy into a mess of sobs.
But if anyone asked him later, he wouldn't be able to say with any certainty if
it was Scott's words that made him cry, or the simple fact that the touch to
the back of his neck reminded him so fiercely of his twin.
Of a brother who had never really existed.
 
It was just accidental magic, Deaton explains. Their sacrifice to the nemeton
was very real and very powerful, and now they could do things that they'd never
been able to do before. Now things were here that had never been here before.
Now an awkward, spazzy, human boy could do magic just by concentrating hard
enough; just by burning the right herbs and entreating to the heart of the
world.
“I noticed about a week after your sacrifices that I was missing a few things
from my cabinet,” Deaton says carefully, and Stiles now understands what the
vet meant when he said he wasn't angry. Because Stiles had stolen things from
him to work a spell he didn't have any memory of working.
“You took some salvia and Mexican calea,” Deaton continues, watching Stiles for
any look of recognition. “And you took some gum arabic, makko powder, and
charcoal. Do you know what those things do together?”
Stiles shakes his head, looking a little miserable, but it's Derek who actually
speaks up.
“Incense,” the werewolf says with a sudden recollection in his voice, before
looking to Deaton who nods. “My mom used to make her own.”
“Yes, but not just any sort of incense,” Deaton continues, adopting the tone he
reserves for teaching. “The smoke would have been thick and cloying, and if you
sealed yourself up tight in your bedroom, it would have induced a pretty
intense hallucinogenic state. In magic, smoke typically represents the air
element, but it can also represent the mists or the veil. There's a reason
salvia and calea are more colloquially knows as seers sage and dream herb,” he
smiles gently.
“I don't know how I knew any of that,” Stiles sighs, reaching up to rub at his
eyes and his temples, because both ache.
“You knew the spell because you'd read it before,” Deaton shrugs lightly. “It's
shocking how much information we retain every single day that our immediate
conscious minds don't even register. How many of my books have your read
through? Just flipped through? How many of the Hale's books? All of the
information was there; you just needed to put it together... and that's what
they do, Stiles. They take information from the dark places in your mind and
they bring it to light.”
“They?” Stiles asks as frustration creeps back onto his features. “Who's they?”
“We call them fylgja,” Deaton says. “Though, more commonly they're known as
dopplegangers.
“Seriously?” Stiles asks skeptically. “Wait, like an evil twin?”
“Well,” Scott adds, giving Stiles a look. “You were generally nicer than Stu.”
“Doppelgangers are just a manifestation of the sleeping mind that can sometimes
be seen when one is awake,” Deaton continues, ignoring the bland look Stiles
gives to Scott at his friend's comment. “You watched yourself in your mirror,
and the doppelganger just superimposed itself. It's your shadow self, and using
the smoke as a representation, you parted the veil and brought him here. Using
magic, you made him real.”
“But I don't know any magic,” Stiles sighs, both looking and sounding so
exhausted already.
“You don't need to, because he told you how to work the spell to make everyone
else see him,” Deaton says patiently, his gaze intense as he holds Stiles'
eyes, as if trying to really drive the point home. “Shadow doubles are never
innocent. If they're not portents of death, then they bring forbidden knowledge
or messages that your conscious mind simply cannot handle, and if they want you
to do something, they can grow cruel and cold and angry if you deny them.
They're alien. Stuart may have been your double in every physical way, but he
was a mirrordouble. Everything looked the same and he might have acted
similarly, but everything was skewed. He knew everything you knew, and you'd
always come to the same conclusions, but every single time you'd approach them
from completely opposite directions.”
“How...” Stiles scrubs over his face with his hands before leaning gratefully
against Scott, whose shoulder had suddenly pressed warm and solid against his.
“Why did this happen?” Scott asks, knowing all too well what Stiles had wanted
to ask but just hadn't yet.
“A doppelganger can manifest during times of great stress or emotional
upheaval, especially when a person is at a crossroads in their life,” Deaton
explains, watching idly as Derek silently walks the perimeter of the room.
“Check, check, and check,” Stiles mutters.
“It probably started shortly after your car accident. I know you took a blow to
the head,”
“Here, yeah,” Stiles nods and lifts a hand to brush at the left side of his
head where he'd smacked it resoundingly against the window, and then to the
small scar that now juts out of the right side of his hairline. “And here. I
needed stitches.”
“You sustained damage to the temporoparietal junction of the brain,” Deaton
leans forward a bit, just enough to indicate the side of Stiles' head, not the
front. “It has been known to, in rare cases, stimulate something similar to the
doppelganger effect.”
“Head trauma, intense stress, and emotional turmoil?” Derek says with his usual
brand of gallows sarcasm, as he finally comes to rest against the rinsed-out
sink a few feet away from Stiles. “If that's all it takes, I'm shocked we
haven't allhallucinated dozens of new family members by now.”
Stiles snorts. “Maybe Peter's just a collective waking nightmare,” he says
shortly. Derek lifts his eyebrows and looks thoughtful, maybe even a little
hopeful, but doesn't say any more.
“So, now what?” asks Scott. “What should he do? What should we do?”
“I know this isn't something anyone wants to hear, but my recommendation is
that you go and see a psychiatrist,” Deaton says with equal gentleness and
detachment, a tone he was getting to be a little infamous for. “Tell them about
your head trauma and that you've been having visual hallucinations. It's
entirely common, and it's very possible that you're just having a few misfires
up there. You might benefit from medication to correct it.”
“Great, now I'm crazy on top of everything else,” Stiles scoffs and rolls his
eyes. “I'm sure the ladies are gonna be kicking down my door.”
“Hey, at least you have a big dick, right?” Scott offers with his earnest,
helpful face, though there's plenty of levity-inspired mischief behind his eyes
as he smiles at Stiles, and they both remember back to that day in economics.
The embarrassing mishap with a XXL condom.
“Yep, that's me,” Stiles says with an uneasy chuckle. “A regular Jonah Falcon.”
“Who's Jonah Falcon?” Scott asks.
“He's got the biggest dick in the world,” Stiles says conversationally, looking
at Scott like he's crazy for not knowing this, and neither of them notice Derek
squinting a bit as he glances surreptitiously at Stiles' crotch.
“Why do you even know that?” Scott laughs.
“Why don't you?” Stiles protests, and for a few blessed seconds he forgets that
his life isn't the same one he thought he knew. “Wikipedia is a magical land
full of joy and wonder.”
“You're also obsessed with dick,” Derek adds with a pompous smirk, like he'd
won at the chance to get one over on Stiles. Because Derek is pretty sure he
just figured something out.
“Hey, I–!” Stiles begins to protest, mouth hanging open briefly as he narrows
his eyes in a glare at Derek. “–don't deny that, because you'd call me out on
lying because you're an ass, but so what? I have a healthy libido for a guy my
age.”
“Sure, but I have to wonder who have you been exercising it on,” Derek
continues, unable to wipe the near-smug look off of his face, because Derek
nevergets to be the one to figure things out. It's always Stiles. “I haven't
smelled anyone new on you lately.”
Stiles is about to ask Derek why he's been sniffing around at his junk, but
instead freezes and feels sick again as he reads exactly what Derek is thinking
behind the wolf's clear green eyes, and the cold pit in his stomach suddenly
bottoms out.
“I need to call my dad,” he mumbles, shaking hands balling into fists as he
rushes out of the room, avoiding the former alpha's judgey eyes. It's not until
Stiles is out in the reception area that he can hear them again, and though
it's muffled, he can make out Scott's inability to be discreet perfectly.
“Stuart?!” he hears, cringing as he moves into the sweet spot, knowing exactly
where to stand to listen to the two wolves and the vet talking through the air
vents. “You think he was... they were–,"
“I'm pretty positive they were,” Derek confirms gruffly. “They probably thought
they were being clever, knowing they shared DNA, but they always smelled like
each others' cologne, and Stiles didn't hide his hickies as well as he thought
he did.”
“Go easy on him, guys,” Deaton's voice cuts through. “Not only is it not
unprecedented for twins to... explore with each other, Stuart was also a
manifestation of Stiles' loneliness and longing to be solely special to
someone. You have to admit, out of all of you, he's the one who's most often
alone.”
"I didn't even know he was gay!" he hears Scott hiss, and Stiles winces at that
because, yeah, he sort of forgot to mention that, didn't he?
"He's not," Derek says. "He's bisexual. You're around him a hell of a lot more
than I am, and even I noticed that he can't contain his erection around either
gender." Stiles groans inwardly because the only reason Derek would have been
able to figure that out would be because of his teeny-tiny-kinda-maybe little
crush on the werewolf. The lame, childish crush Stiles is stupid for thinking
he could hide. The crush that Stuart almost blabbed to everyone yesterday at
lunch.
So, great. Now Stiles gets to be mortified about being outed without his
permission on top ofeverything else. Now everyone knows that not only did he
make up a twin brother in his own head, he used magic to bring him to life,
used magic to force everyone else to see him, and then proceeded to have sex
with him. So, basically, Stiles is in love with the mental-manifestation-made-
flesh of his own right hand. He's not sure if that's better or worse than being
in love with your own twin brother. Or Derek Hale. Either way, he's pretty
certain he's severely fucking mental.
What a perfect end to a perfect day.
He doesn't call his dad. He just leaves and goes home, ignoring his phone for
the rest of the day.
 
It's the next day and now the Sheriff knows. The Sheriff knows everything and
Stiles hasn't spoken to Scott since he tattled the night before after leaving
Stiles seventeen texts and calling four times.
A bottle of anti-psychotics, a week's worth of doctor's notes excusing Stiles
from school, a glass of water, and a laptop are the only four things currently
on Stiles' desk, because as soon as he got home from the psychiatrist he went
through his bedroom like a tornado, throwing everything that reminded him of
Stuart out into the hallway.
He cried and shook the entire time, because it was shocking to walk into his
house and not see Stuart in family photos. To not see Stuart's shoes next to
the door. To not see Stuart's things in his bedroom, mixed with his own. To
look into Stuart's bedroom and only see a few storage boxes and a small desk
with his dad's ancient computer sagging on top of it.
Every time they hung out, they did it in Stiles' bedroom.
This was where they'd cried together after their mom died. Where they dragged
all of the extra blankets and pillows in the house and built a pillow fort.
Where they'd eaten and slept and drew pictures and and told stories and hid
away from the world for a week after their mom took her last breath.
They shared that room until they were twelve years old, and Stiles was the one
who finally broke down and asked for his own space. He'd finally figured out
the best and most efficient way to masturbate and wanted to explore it fully
and completely.
Stiles' floor was where they'd sit and play Xbox on Stiles' crappy old T.V.,
the T.V. he'd gotten for Christmas when he was thirteen after Stuart had asked
for a computer.
Stiles' room was where a fourteen-year-old Stuart admitted that he was also in
love with Lydia, so Stiles punched him and split his lip. Stiles' desk was
where he and Stuart helped each other through school, both enamored by the
thought that with Stuart helping Stiles cheat through math, and Stiles helping
Stuart cheat through history, they'd both always have the same GPA.
Stiles bed was the first place they'd ever touched each other, after stealing
one of the Sheriff's emergency bottles of Jack Daniels because they were
curious about what it felt like to be drunk. They were fifteen, and afterward,
laying on Stiles' Batman sheets in the wet spots they'd coaxed out of each
other, they both yelled at each other for having not thought of doing that
before.
Stiles' bed was where they'd ironically become blood brothers after watching a
movie about two teenage boys who were best friends. They laughed about it as
they pushed their bloody thumbs together, because despite the fact that they
both already shared the same blood, they wanted to be close in every way they
could think of. The bloodstain on Stiles' pillowcase had been there ever since,
but it was gone now.
Everything was gone now, because none of it had ever really existed in the
first place, and Stiles stared at his thumb for a full two minutes, at the
smooth, unscarred skin, before breaking down.
When the Sheriff came in and tried to console him, Stiles wouldn't have any of
it. He started throwing things out his window, shouting and kicking and looking
to hurt someone, to break something, because he just couldn't deal with this
enormous aching hole in his gut, in his chest. To be suddenly so alone was
practically unbearable, and to even entertain the thought that he'd just made
it all up made him feel sick.
How pathetic, working magic to make himself a fake twin brother, and how
disgusting and narcissistic to fall in love with him. And how humiliating to
have his father's eyes on him, but unable to make eye contact, now knowing the
truth behind it all.
Because his dad still remembers Stuart just as profoundly as Stiles does.
“The memory of Stuart's existence will fade quickly,” Stiles recalls Deaton
saying.“The others at your school, classmates and teachers; they'll have
already forgotten that he ever existed. Your friends, like Derek and Scott
here, by tomorrow at this time, they'll have no recollection of him. You and
your father will be the last ones to remember him, and that is a dangerous
time, because in the last few hours when the only one who remembers him is you,
he might try and use that to come back.”
Stiles tries not to nurse the ache in his heart. He tries not to linger on
those words. He tries so hard not to obsess over the things he does and doesn't
have, and what he feels now compared to what he felt just yesterday.
He steals a bottle of his dad's scotch and tries to forget that Stuart might
come back.
 
The bottle of pills remains untouched, and Stiles spends two days in bed
staring at his other pillow, alternating between bouts of hysterical crying and
blank staring. The intensity with which he keeps imagining Stuart's face
staring right back at him has him finally accepting the fact that yeah, of
course he would bend reality to create someone who loved him unconditionally.
Because lonely people do the most desperate things.
 
It's been five days when Stiles drops to sit cross-legged on the floor next to
the huge pile of his laundry, aimlessly sorting through all of the clothes
there. It's starting to reek in here, and he figures laundry is methodical and
harmless. He's lying to himself, of course; he's really just looking for
evidence. For skinny jeans or bright yellow socks. For a beanie or a dumb
collared shirt or a black and white checkered belt. But all Stiles finds are
his own jeans, a pair of khakis, too many soft flannels and novelty tee-shirts,
and his own boring white tube socks.
Deaton was wrong and Stiles hates him for it. Two days ago was when his father
finally forgot about Stuart, but Stiles still hasn't. It was almost bearable
when his dad was still as miserable as he was, but to wake up this morning to
the Sheriff smiling and pouring himself some cereal, instead of making eggs
because Stuart had seen some news special about how hot breakfasts were better
than cereal... it almost sent Stiles into a panic attack. Instead he'd just
hidden in the shower until his dad left, letting the scalding hot spray wash
away the endless fucking tears.
He was all alone again, and as much as it sucked, Stiles was finally almost
desperate to forget. He needed something to happen, because no one should have
to live in this limbo.
His heart skips a beat when he sees a thick knit sleeve peeking out from the
bottom of the pile, and he dives for it, thinking it might be one of Stuart's
stupid cardigans. No. Just an ugly sweater one of his aunts sent him for
Christmas three years ago. He squeezes his eyes shut against the hot prick of
tears as he clearly remembers the way Stuart teased him about it, because
unlike Stiles, Stuart actually liked those lame hipster sweaters.
“You know, it would be sort of nice to actually just go crazy any time now,”
Stiles says to himself as he draws in a deep, shaky breath. “Actually
certifiable, so they'd just tie me up to a bed somewhere and sedate me for the
rest of my pathetic life–,” he cuts himself off, because in the displaced
avalanche of clothes that had tumbled onto the floor when he was tugging at the
sweater, peeked a pair of Stuart's glasses out from underneath a pair of
Stiles' boxers.
“Oh my god,” he exhales, his stomach dropping and heart suddenly pounding, and
he can't hear anything because his blood is like a fucking ocean in his ears.
When he touches them, they're real, and when he presses a finger to one of the
lenses it leaves behind an actual mark. His hands are shaking as he unfolds the
slender plastic arms, and though it feels morbid – like sleeping in a dead
guy's bed – he shoves the glasses onto his face.
Silence fills the room as Stiles sits there, as still as a statue and not even
breathing, like he expects a flash of light and a poof of smoke. Like he's
expecting a magic trick. But nothing happens. Of course nothing happens.
Until something does.
“Those look stupid on you, Nim,” comes a familiar drawl that nearly has Stiles
shrieking and throwing himself out his bedroom window. But with the practiced
terrified fake calm of a person who's been near-death way too many times for
any twenty people, he slowly turns from where he shoved himself across the room
to glance at the full-length mirror that's bolted to the back of his closet
door.
He sees nothing but his own reflection staring back at him. Long, denim-clad
legs akimbo, shoulders hunched in hideously bad posture, eyes a little red and
puffy behind Stuart's glasses, and his hair a mess on top of his head. But
where Stiles is absolutely, without a doubt, 100% certain that he's frowning
and looking a little pitiful and confused, the face in the mirror is sporting a
cheeky smile, eyes gleaming behind the frames.
“But we're twins, so if I look stupid, then so do you,” Stiles mutters feebly,
reiterating for the millionth time the same thing he'd say every time Stuart
told him he looked stupid.
“The only thing stupid about you is the fact that you're rolling over like a
little bitch girl,” Stuart derides as the mirror-man pushes up to his feet well
after Stiles did. “You're just giving in? Giving up? On us?”
“Stu–“
“You started this, Nim...” Stuart huffs, throwing a gesture toward the mirror
before crossing his arms in a sulk. “You get to decide when it ends.”
“What?” Stiles asks, confusion washing his features as he stares at his own
reflection. “What do you mean? It'sdone, Tau. It was magic. It wasn't real.
This–,” he gestures between himself and the mirror, watching Stuart roll his
eyes.“It's not real.”
“Okay, Webster,” Stuart scoffs as he perches on the edge of the mirror-desk,
and Stiles aches with the want to walk over and curl into his brother's
embrace. “Sure, you could let a dictionary definition rule your life or, I
don't know, how about you take charge of your own fucking reality and you make
the calls, huh?”
“Dude, come on–”
“No, youcome on!” Stuart shouts, suddenly just as angry as Stiles can ever
remember seeing him. “This sucks! I'm stuck, Nim. I feel like I'm
suffocating...” He drops back down to his knees and crawls forward, grabbing
either side of the closet door and curling up next to the mirror, resting his
forehead against it. Stiles feels his throat constrict because it's like Stuart
is just on the other side of a window; like he's close enough to touch. “Please
don't make me stay in here, Nim.”
“Tau...” Stiles whispers as he shrinks in on himself a bit, fingers finding the
edge of the flannel he's wearing and tugging absently at it. “Nothing smells
like you. None of these clothes are yours. Your bedroom is a storage room,
man...”
“Listen to me,” Stuart says through his teeth, his eyes suddenly darting and
fuzzing out so quickly it almost puts Stiles off. “It doesn't matter. None of
that shit matters. Who cares if I was real to any of them? Who cares?!” He
turns his head and rests a temple against the mirror before leaning his full
weight against it, like the two of them are just separated by a thin piece of
glass. “I'm real to you, and you're real to me... and I need you.”
Before Stiles can stop himself he's kneeling next to the mirror and leaning
against it, and it actually feels warm when he presses his shoulder against
Stuart's, his knuckles digging into the hard glass that's separating him from
his brother's thigh. “I need you, too,” he whispers, resigned and desperate.
“You know how to get me out, right?” Stuart asks quietly, giving his brother an
encouraging nod as he lifts a hand to trace his finger along the glass pane,
and Stiles can almostfeel the ghost of a touch drifting down his cheek and
along his jaw.
“Yeah,” he says, bobbing his head as he glances over at his bed; at the box
underneath. “Yeah, I still have some stuff from the last time.”
“Good, but make sure it's enough,” Stuart warns. “You're going to need to get
everyone again, because if dad sees you talking to yourself like you did when
we were kids, he's not going to laugh it off this time.”
“Yeah... okay,” Stiles replies softly.
"And, Nim?" Stuart says, his tone going deadly serious as he presses his palm
flat against the mirror, his eyes reflecting the light in a way that makes
Stiles a little queasy. "You know we're going to have to take care of Deaton,
right?"
Stiles is quiet for a moment before swallowing thickly and dropping his
forehead against the mirror, his head heavy as he nods.
"Good," Stuart smiles. "Now, come on. Let's do this. I miss the hell out of
you."
Stiles lifts his eyes and drops his shoulders a bit, like the subject change
was all he needed to push the nasty thoughts in the back of his mind back down
and away. "I miss you too, Tau. I can't wait to see you again," he laughs
softly. "I can't wait to kiss you."
"Me too, baby bro," Stuart says with a smirk. "Me too."
 
Stiles lets some blood, burns some incense, and says some words. He sacrifices
of himself and invokes names he doesn't really understand. He plays with forces
he could never truly comprehend because he's scared and lonely and desperate.
Stuart's eyes gleam and flash like a bird of prey, and the mirror warbles like
water when he finally toes his way out and back into Stiles' hungry kiss. It's
all teeth and tongues, and Stiles' hands are shaking as he grabs handfuls of
Stuart's shirt and hips and ass before settling on hugging him as tightly as he
can.
“You're never going to be alone again, Nim,” Stuart promises, holding Stiles'
face in his hands as he smiles blade-sharp, fingertips pressing and stroking
along his brother's cheek and jaw. “No one's gonna get rid of me now.”
 
Standing in the hallway, leaning back against the wall just outside Stiles'
bedroom, is the Sheriff. Listening through the door that's cracked open just a
bit, he realizes that the last time he cried this much was when Claudia died,
and in a way this feels exactly the same. A profound loss and a shattering
change that he's powerless to stop.
Because Sheriff Stilinski doesn't have two sons; he just has one, and he's been
lying to Stiles about having forgotten Stuart. But he knows this parasite will
feed on its host until everything is consumed, and soon there will be just one
again, but it won't be the right one. He wants to annihilate the threat, he
wants to protect his son, but he can't fight the tendrils of magic, digging
into his brain like sharp, bony fingers and taking hold once more.
And just like that the Sheriff blinks, momentarily confused as to why his eyes
are wet, but he shrugs it off – it must be nothing because he doesn't feel sad
– and starts making his way toward the living room so he can watch the game.
“Hey, what do you guys want for dinner?” he calls over his shoulder before
reaching the top of the stairs.
“Pizza!” both Stiles and Stuart call back in unison, and the Sheriff smiles
because isn't that just like them?
End Notes
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