Always a Thursday

By LilyAurora

o-o-o-o-o

He came here to get away.

To escape.

Exhausted from all the questions, the looks. Jesus, how he hated the fucking looks. The pity... fucking pity. Like he should have known it would never have worked out. Should have never kidded himself into thinking the other had loved him. Would love him as much as he had loved him... and he did... he loved him... loved him so fucking much. Still did. Always would.

It hurt so much. His heart fucking hurt. There were days where he wanted to dig it out of his chest. Dig it out and leave it on his doorstep. What use was it to him when it belonged to another. His traitorous heart that beat for someone else, that wouldn't heal like they said it would. Wouldn't stop hurting.

He wiped his face. Fuck when had he started crying. That's all he seemed to do. Cry. He would sit there for hours and just, cry. Remembering softly spoken words. Promises and shared secrets. Kisses and delicate touches. Touches that made him feel special. Just made him feel. He wanted it back. Wanted him back, he didn't know what happened. What he had done wrong.

He shook his head downing his shot, motioning to the bartender for another.

That day, that fucking awful, heart wrenching day. He hated Thursdays now. Hated them. Would sleep that day away in a drunken stupor. They had plans to spend the day together, doing things that couples normally do. So they had planned and he had turned up like they had arranged. Knocking the door only for it to be ripped open. He remembered asking what was wrong, thinking something had happened to one of the pack, that they were hurt, or god forbid worse. But he had just said one word. 'Leave.'

He tried to question, beg him to tell him what was going on but he just stood his eyes flashing as he repeated the word, 'Leave.'

He had stumbled back, tears falling freely as the man before him slammed the door in his face. He managed to walk to his Jeep, his legs felt weak, like spaghetti. He didn't remember the drive home, or climbing into bed. His father wasn't there, away at some conference. He was thankful for that. He didn't want him to see him like this. Weak.

He had woken the next day, checking his phone, expecting to see a missed call or text, saying sorry that this had all been a misunderstanding. Whatever this was. But there were none. Not even from Scott. He tried ringing his best friend but was met with nothing more than his voice mail He threw his phone across the room once he had received the same response from the rest of the pack.

He kept going over the past few days, thinking if he had done something wrong. Said something. But nothing came to mind. Everything had seemed. Fine.

He carried on like that for weeks. Being ignored, left alone to wallow. To hurt. To be in so much pain you can't remember if you took your medication that day, so you take more than realize that Thursday... always a fucking Thursday, was already empty and you had taken Fridays. The following days.

That's when you decide enough. Enough.

Early acceptance into college. His father had been so proud.

He swallowed that shot as well, breaking himself from the memories.

He watched the sea of bodies move to the music, listened to the laughter, their smiling faces. Strobe lights flashed around the club lighting up the faces of many of the occupants. That's when he saw him. The lights had landed on him only for a few seconds, but that was all it took for him to recognize that chiseled jaw. His heart clenched painfully. What was he doing here. He was nowhere near Beacon Hills. That's why he came here, knowing he would never run into anyone. Or so he thought. He was just stood there, leaning casually against the wall on the other side of the club, a smirk playing across his lips as a body leaned into him, whispering into his ear, a hand resting on his waist. He tore his eyes away, head spinning as he swallowed the bile that threatened to escape. He took hold of the bar swaying slightly, knocking into the person next to him.

"Woah buddy," the person chuckled steadying him.

He froze at the voice. His whole body locking, as warm hands held his arms.

He lifted his face slowly. Eyes locking with wide shocked brown ones.

"Stiles?" The name came out as a whisper, but he may as well have screamed it for the reaction it received.

Another body slammed next to them.

Isaac.

"Stiles." He whispered, blue eyes wide and tear filled. Touching him lightly, causing Stiles to take a step back, flinching from the outstretched hand. Isaac pulled away quickly, heartbreak on his face.

He was panicking now. Chest heaving as he looked for an escape. It had been too long since he seen them. He had left. Put the distance between them all. He had fucking left so he wouldn't have to deal with this shit.

He spun on his heel moving through the crowd of people, pushing his way through. He had to get out of here had to leave before he seen him, before he spoke. He didn't want to hear his voice. Didn't want to be close enough to smell him. Fuck. His eyes darted back to where he had run from Scott, their eyes locking for a few moments before someone else stepped into his line of sight.

Derek.

Stiles stopped breathing. He could feel the tears, could feel them cascade down his skin as he fumbled with the handled of the door. He tore his eyes away. Greedily gulping in fresh air, stumbling towards his car. Key in hand as he clambered inside, locking the door behind him. He started the engine, slamming the car into gear just as the exit door flew open with a bang.

Derek stood there, eyes scanning the parking lot, before locking on Stiles. He hesitated for a moment, watched as Derek took a step towards him.

Fuck this, he thought, foot on the gas as he sped away. The figures from his past disappearing in his rear view mirror.