Black Webs

Hurts Like Heaven

When, my, time comes around,
lay me gently in the cold dark earth,
No grave can hold my body down,
I'll crawl home to her.

xxxxx

"The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
and arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead."

xxxxx

t w e n t y - f i v e

S t i l e s

Two pairs of blurry eyes. Green and brown and blinking curiously in his face.

Everything was hazy, like trying to peer through fogged up glass. Where was he? Who were these people? Were they angels? They didn't seem like angels. There was a strange and relentless ringing in one of his ears... ears! He still had both of them.

He ran a hand over his chest, he could also feel his legs, and if he was moving his hands, he probably had arms attached as well. He felt himself sigh in relief.

He had all his limbs intact. He didn't seem to retain any injuries, considering there wasn't a sword sticking out of his chest.

Someone said something muffled, he barely caught the words. His eyesight cleared. Definitely not angels.

It took him a couple of minutes to regain his bearings, his body felt lighter than it should, and he felt like there was dirt lodged in his lungs, making it difficult to breathe.

Lydia Martin was crouched by his side; her slender fingers were knotted in his t-shirt – either out of nervousness or because she couldn't wait to punch him.

Her eyes glimmered with liberation, as if someone had just told her that the war was over. Her bubblegum lips parted to speak, but then she closed them like she thought better of it. Scott stood over her, with a hand resting on her shoulder, his big, brown eyes were ecstatic.

"Do you think the shock's rendered him mute?" a disembodied male voice that was neither Lydia nor Scott muttered.

"Cut the guy some slack. He's just returned from the depths of his own brain. I know I'd be in rehab if I took a tour of my brain," said another voice, this one, slightly higher pitched; female.

"Yeah, I bet your brain's a terrifying place." The other voice responded. He could feel more eyes on him. They were expecting him to do something, say something.

"So am I like undead now?" he said. "Does that make me like a vampire or zombie? Because that would be cool."

There was a collective release of breaths he couldn't believe they were all holding - for him.

Despite going out every night, living behind a mask, a bright red lie who'd seemed to so effortless become the clutches of a limping city; Stiles had always felt like an insignificant, somebody nobody bothered to look twice at in a crowd of colorful faces; a ghost boy whose smiles were see-through, whose hollow eyes held secrets and dust.

And suddenly, he felt important. Or at least, wanted, needed, missed.

Existent.

Lydia smiled, let go of his t-shirt, and got to her feet. "He's himself again," she announced. Stiles managed a small smile of his own, because his insane plan had somehow worked, he wasn't dead, and his little joke had already lightened the clouds of darkness that had been hanging above their heads while he'd been out cold.

"Come on, man." Scott said, lending him a firm hand. "Get up!"

"This isn't heaven," he said, jokingly, as he pulled himself to his wobbly feet with the help of Scott, despite of the emptiness in the pit of his stomach. "There'd be harps in heaven, and underwear models feeding me grapes."