Til The Dawn [Midnights #1] ✓

chapter 4

Scott had never been one to remember his dreams, but last night they had been particularly vivid. But as the sunlight streamed through the halfway open window to his right, he couldn't put them in any discernible order either. They were still just random scenes that he couldn't pick out of his mind without having them dissolve into nothingness.

He rolled to his back and threw an arm over his eyes in an effort to keep himself asleep as long as possible, but he knew it was useless. Today was day one of the rest of his life, no matter how cliché Stiles would say that sounded, and he needed to get ready.

With last night's events, it was going to take him longer than usual, so staying in bed really wasn't an option.

He groaned loudly, threw his arm off his face, and sat up slowly. He wasn't looking forward to what came next, but he couldn't help but notice that he wasn't in as much pain as he assumed he would be by now. It was possible, though not entirely probable, that the adrenaline spike from last night had still not worn off.

But he didn't think he was that lucky.

He trudged toward the bathroom, stopping only to rub his eyes and look around for his phone. His eyebrows pulled in the middle when he found it on his floor. He shuffled over and saw it was dead too.

"Shit," he whispered to himself.

He had no idea what kind of message he had left for Stiles, but having his phone die shortly after, and Scott being in no shape to answer it, would have his best friend frantic by the time they saw each other again. As blasé as Stiles pretended to be, he knew he cared and worried way more than he should.

Anxiety had always been Stiles Stilinski's closest ally. Or worst enemy, depending on who you asked.

Scott plugged in his phone and put it on his desk as he walked into the bathroom. Now that his head wasn't as foggy, he knew he needed to actually clean himself off and bandage the disgusting––and possibly festering––bite before he got dressed. His mom was a nurse, for one thing, so he knew how to take care of himself. And he didn't need people looking at her sideways because her son couldn't dress a simple wound.

Or, even worse, assume she'd been the one to inflict it on him.

He wouldn't embarrass her like that. If he could help it, anyway. He was a teenage boy, so he regularly did it by accident. But he didn't need to help the rumor mill along either.

They had already been alone for longer than any of the old ladies in town felt was appropriate. Apparently being a single parent, even now, wasn't okay. But Scott preferred it this way. He didn't remember a lot about his dad anymore, but what he could wasn't great. He knew they were better off.

His mom certainly was.

He knew she still got lonely, though. Sometimes she'd get a far off look in her eye during the more important milestones in his life, but overall she hid it well. And he loved her fiercely for it.

When Scott made it to the mirror, much like he'd done the night before, he gripped the sink, trying to force himself to look at the bite. Thankfully, his stomach had seemed to settle, so that wasn't something he had to contend with anymore. It was going to be pretty gnarly without adding vomit to the mix.

The sink groaned loudly, like it was being pulled out of the wall, as he pushed away from it and turned slowly to face the music. But when he found the spot where he thought it had been, nothing was there. Not a scar. Not a trace of blood. Just nothing. Like it had never happened.

Scott's eyebrows furrowed again as he looked in the mirror, trying to determine if he had dreamed the whole thing.

It was possible, he guessed, but he had been so certain it had been real. It certainly felt very real the night before, but maybe he had been more exhausted than he thought. Maybe he and Stiles hadn't gone out at all. Maybe they had fallen asleep in his room like they had done almost every night that summer after Stiles had spent the evening fiddling with the police scanner.

He switched on the shower and hurried through his routine, not wanting to be bogged down by this idea and end up late. Coach Finstock was his first teacher of the day, and that certainly wouldn't help his chances in tryouts later.

When he wrapped the towel around his middle, and stalked back into his bedroom, he wrinkled his nose in disgust. Something was definitely off. His room smelled horrible. Normally, he was used to it. Until, of course, his mom came in and pointed it out. But right now, he couldn't ignore it. And it was getting worse.

He wrenched up his phone from the desk where it was charging, wanting to ask Stiles if he had imagined the whole thing after all, and ended up accidentally ripping the whole cord out of the wall. He stared at the frayed end for a second, confused by the level of strength that would require and what he had just exerted.

Yeah, something was definitely wrong.

Scott shook his head, trying to get back on task, and saw Stiles had left a message last night after all.

My dad caught me. But it's okay. He's taking away my phone for now. See ya tomorrow. No thanking me, okay?

He grumbled to himself again, irritated that his one lifeline wouldn't be available until they both got to school. And if Stiles was as grounded as all that, he probably wouldn't be allowed his Jeep either.

He needed to hurry.

Scott fell to his knees to find something, anything, to wear that would get him out of the door faster, trying desperately to ignore all the scents in his room that were assaulting him. He picked up one shirt after another, forcing himself not to gag as he did the smell check.

Nothing was passing. Half of it was clean. He just hadn't folded it. He would definitely need to clean up this place as soon as he got home later and do some laundry. But for now he just prayed he could make it through the day without someone commenting on the stench.

As he pulled a black v-neck over his head, he noticed something balled up on his floor. He sniffed the air around it automatically and took stock of the subtle cooper notes hanging around it. When he unfurled it, though, was when his hands really started to shake.

It hadn't been a dream. This shirt proved it. This torn, very dirty, and definitely bloody shirt told him that it had all happened and something wasn't just wrong.

It was unexplainable.