Black Webs

And The Moon

Cold bones, yeah, that's my love,
she hides away, like a ghost,
does she know that we bleed the same?

xxxxx

t w e n t y - s i x:

L y d i a

Lydia Martin was pissed off.

She didn't get pissed off often, but when she did, everything was black waters and the world around her seemed like it was on fire.

She didn't exactly know what she was pissed off about, or who she was pissy at. Everyone. Everything.

Stiles Idiot Stilinski.

It'd been a week since they'd brought him back, and she'd been avoiding him like the plague, to be fair, he'd been avoiding her right back. Their relationship felt like an endless cycle of miseries and torments, stones and gum stuck to the soles of a brand new pair of shoes.

It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair, she kept thinking how unfair it all was, how Stiles deserved better than the PTSD that had been driving him nuts, despite the fact that she was physically keeping her temporary distance; she kept tabs on him and asked for regular updates from Scott and Allison.

Scott told her that he was pretending like everything was fine, but that he was corroding on the inside.

Typical egoistic male.

Why couldn't he just admit that he was suffering? If he needed help, all he had to do was ask.

He didn't have to pretend like balancing cityscapes and kingdoms on his shoulders everyday wasn't breaking his spine and killing his spirit.

Lydia was so worried. Especially after hearing about the boy's nightmares. He wouldn't tell Scott of them in vivid detail, but he mentioned hellhounds, blood, fire.

He mentioned Void, tormenting him from the depths of Tartarus where he probably thrived. With those venomous eyes of his, and that taunting gaze that still burned against her skin like volcanic ash.

Lydia glanced at the digital alarm on her nightstand, it was five to three in the morning. The bashful moon peered at her from behind the translucent lace curtains in her room. Blocks of moonlight cast dancing mirages across her walls.

Lydia used to make stories out of them when she was a little girl, it was like fabricating shapes from clouds.

Bouquets of light becoming fairies who fought for their lives, dragons and princesses in towers. Animals of all sorts. Secret languages that existed only in her head. Symbols from otherworlds. Musical notes.

She found herself doing it again, watching trails of light gallop across her room. It was distracting and healing; it made her feel slightly better about the world. Lydia continued to stare, sleep a distant continent just barely out of her grasp.

Suddenly, her phone buzzed. At first, she thought the sound was in her head, but she felt it vibrate against the cool wood of her bedside table.

She grabbed it and the screen flashed his name, an incoming text.

Stiles Stilinski: I'm sorry we haven't spoken in a week. Sorry for the other stuff too. I'm ashamed.

Lydia frowned. For a moment, she almost felt like tossing her phone against the wall, rage unfurling like an ugly flower inside the pit of her stomach; and then evaporating like vapor.

She wondered if the day would ever come, when she could actually stay mad at that boy.

Lydia took a deep breath, and replied.