Only He saw

Class 4HJ

Ambling slowly through the crowded hallways of the school, Stiles contemplated his last weeks in the hell hole of Beacon Hills. Graduation was nearing, so was the promise of a new life, a new start, without...them.

Passing each classroom was bittersweet, and left Stiles in deep thought. He trudged mindlessly onwards, clutching his bag like a vice. Passing a map illustrating the sprawling layout of BHHS, he paused, staring at a coloured square, showing more than he ever thought it could. He walked on, speeding up minutely.

It seemed like an eternity before he reached Class 4HJ.

Peering in to see if the room was occupied, the teen slipped inside, dropping his bag on the floor, sitting in one of the vacant seats. Dim light filters through the window, highlighting trails of dust flying around the room. Lightly resting his chin on the back of the chair, Stiles stares, taking in the sight of the room where so many of his memories were created.

Eyes turning to the back of the room, Stiles stood up, making his way to the final set of desks. Leaning down, he looked under the table, tracing a finger along the surface to search for one of the more physical aspects of his memories.

Finally, his hand brushes over two sets of initials, and a date.

S.S S.M 12/05/06

Stiles Stilinski, Scott McCall. Stiles' breath hitches and his eyes widen, tears stinging against the unforgiving air. Memories of hushed delight and excited rebellion fill his mind, shadows of a long-ago, destroyed time resurfacing.

There had been a supply teacher, they'd left the room and Stiles managed to convince Scott that it'd be a good idea to "Leave their mark." Years later, Scott had left his own mark, not so physical, on Stiles, and he wanted nothing more than to make it disappear.

Bringing shaky hands to rest over the initials, Stiles draws power from the nearby forest, willing the wood to grow back, to shroud the mark left there, drawing the ink away from the indentations. Taking his hand away, he looks at the spot and sees nothing but smooth wood. The usually simple action of using magic drained his energy, leaving him wilted on the floor, kneeled next to the desk. Slowly leaning back, Stile's head thunks against the wall and his eyes close. Shakily exhaling, he tries to relax, hands fiddling with the hem of his shirt.

The door opens, making the teen jerk upright, scrambling to a standing position, that stiffens when he sees the intruder.

Scott.

Stiles stiffens, eyeing his abandoned bag next to the door, and the wolf blocking the only exit. Scott shifts uneasily, eyes flitting between the exit and the scared teen in front of him, his heartbeat skyrocketing. He walks forward, taking a wary stance. As they stand in silence, Scott takes in the appearance of the boy he used to spend every waking minute with. His frame had filled out, and there was a light in his eyes that hadn't been there for a long time.

As he stares, the sickening wrongness of the situation strikes him. Stiles was with Peter. Not him. The older wolf had warped his opinion, and he needed to change that! Suddenly, he realised the boy's skin was unmarred, and he didn't seem to be injured in any way.

"How did you heal?" He asked brusquely, watching the teens eyes widen, and his breathing hitch.

Stiles shrugged halfheartedly, unwilling to talk to his former best friend. He'd betrayed him so much, and had yet to utter even an apology. He edged backwards, back hitting the wall. Shit.

Scott stepped forward, eyes confused, head tilted to the side. "What are you now?" He flared his nostrils, searching for a change in scent, but found nothing but the stench of fear.