Seeking Spring

Lilies And Violets

Chapter 5 | Lilies And Violets

Cracks slid down the side of the house, sighing with the breeze and holding their breaths to the movements that pressed along inside of the dining room. Stiles sat in his usual spot across the table and a seat away from his father. This way he avoided both eye contact, skimmed wrists and bumped ankles. But tonight the salt was just out of reach, he was sure he'd tip it if he'd tried to reach for it. Stiles never considered the possibility of talking to his father, even if it was as simple as asking him to pass him something across the table.

Stiles chair slid over the wooden floor, his bare feet felt every pressed line of the panels beneath him as he stepped to where his father was now across from him. He reached for the salt, bending over the chair in front of him slightly to reach it. Within his reach something reflected in his eye, his head lifting upward to meet the light. There in the corner of the window away from him was a star that bled dimmer than those around it. But it clutched tightly towards the moon's edge, catching some of the light off of its rim, making it more visible to the eye. It reflected other glows off its own to catch wandering eyes. Dim, it was. Dim to the rest, but still there, filling the gap of blackness with something, anything.

Stiles gripped the chair in front of him and slowing pulled it back over the floor. His eyes remained fixed to the star as he took a seat across from his father. His fingers dragged around the side of the salt shaker, running it through his hands. For a moment there was familiarity to where he was sitting and what he was feeling. But the false safety only lasted moments after he spoke, those few moments too late before he could realize that there was nothing familiar to the place in time he wavered in. But his words fractured breaths between the two and spoken out of time itself.

"Isn't funny how we don't actually see a star's full like glow of energy? Not with our eyes or even a telescope . . ."

His father raised his head. There was something of the past lurking behind the film of his eyes, but the casing didn't clear. This is when Stiles realized he was talking to his father of the present, when before, he was talking to the one of the past.

Stiles dipped his head in submission to his embarrassment. He jerked his head as he began to speak an apology. He wasn't certain what he'd be apologizing for, but then again, he wasn't sure of much. Not like how she thought he was, not how Lydia thought he was.

"It is funny."

He shifted in his chair, pressing his hands to the edge of the table. Stiles' dad hadn't said any other phrases to him, besides the necessary ones, in a while. Besides the empty bottle slurs, of course. Those were the only non-repetitive things he'd say to Stiles, was when he was drunk. Stiles' dad was creative with his insults. Stiles often clutched his head and dug his nails beneath his hairline when these conversations arose. He was never able to leave the room when his dad went off on him, despite his yearning to. Partially because he was afraid of flying glass, mainly because he just wanted to hear his father talk. To even just hear him say something other than, clean the dishes and close the door. So he'd put his head down and take the jabs, ignoring the words but listening closely to the tune of his dad's voice: the way it vibrated the table and the tones it made between breaths. Tonight seemed to be different though. Tonight Stiles listened closely to the words. For they were different, different from the blame and anger Stiles' dad usually spoke towards him. Stiles' father's voice had never sounded more like himself, than it did then.

"Funny how they even glow at all." Stiles' father said as he set his glass down from his lips before he could take another sip.

A moment faded in and out of focus between them, long but most likely short in real time. One where a breath seems to drag over the air for seconds longer than it should. Then he stood, his dad stood from his chair and began to walk up the stairs behind Stiles. Creaks sounded to each step his father took, and the glass with a sip of liquor left swayed gently.