Derek orders the fucking cheese pizza and Stiles is torn between laughing and crying. He chooses neither because Derek is watching him too closely and Peter is monitoring him from the corner. Instead, Stiles takes a piece and retreats to the couch. For some reason, nobody comes near him. Not even Scott. Stiles hates that it hurts.

Damn, it really fucking hurts.

"Why are we here, Derek?" Lydia asks impatiently, and Stiles stops nibbling on his slice of pizza. She doesn't sound happy to be here, and she doesn't even look at Stiles. The human boy puts his food down and wraps his arms around his stomach. He feels small in the presence of Lydia, he always has. Her personality is too big, and Stiles feels too small and they just don't work like they used to.

Derek takes a deep breath, looks at Peter, and then says, "Stiles will be moving into the apartment below mine."

Stiles has no response to Scott's betrayed look; he's too busy gaping at Derek. He'll be doing what? Do they really want him gone that much? Is that what this is? Are they sick of looking after him? Has he overstayed his welcome? Is he too pathetic?Are they-do they-

Do they not want him anymore?

Holy fuck, Stiles can't breathe. He wraps his hands around his throat and squeezes but it only worsens the burn. Something writhes under his skin, and tears bubble up behind his eyes and his throat is on fire and he can't get any fucking air in-

Hands reach for him, instinctively familiar, and Stiles shies away. They can't touch him, his skin is too hot, he'll burn them no don't touch me why can't I stay why are you sending me away-

He digs his nails in and chokes on nothing and oh god he can't stay here-

"Stiles-"

He should have known.

Everything just sort of shudders to a halt, like he's changed the playback speed. People are moving around him, talking, but he doesn't hear anything except blurriness. He sits, with his hands around his throat, with blood beneath his nails, and he understands.

It was never going to last. He should have known. Nobody wants him. Nobody cares about Stiles. They just had to take him in, because he'd stumbled to their world and now he can't find his way back out. His dad thinks he's a murderer, Derek and Peter thinks he's a burden, Scott-

Scott has more reason to hate him than anyone else, and so Stiles bows his head and he laughs because he knows. He fucking knows.

Someone tries to pull his hands away from his neck and Stiles laughs like a mad man, but there's tears there too somewhere (they scorch his cheeks). People coo, others fuss, and Stiles just sits there and can't figure out whether he's okay. He feels like his mother, and it fucking scares him, because his mother had lost herself long before they lost her too.

And fuck it if Stiles doesn't think he's lost himself.

He isn't the Stiles that people used to love. He isn't. Maybe it shouldn't be such a big deal, but Stiles is terrified of this new, hollow, angry Stiles that replaces him. This Stiles has something sour and aggressive and hot living under his skin and in his heart and that makes him dangerous.

Stiles is dangerous.

"Kid." It's Peter's voice, and Stiles latches onto it like a goddamn fucking lifeline. "What do you need?"

He needs people to stop touching him. The hands are like vices, like shackles and when they press against his skin they burn. Stiles hates that they burn, but he hates that people are touching him more. "Hands," he breathes out between clenched teeth, and somehow that must translate to Peter because the hands that are wrapped around his wrists disappear. Stiles feels like he can breathe now. "Thank you."

"What else, Stiles? What do you need?"

The name rolls of Stiles's tongue without hesitation. "Derek."

He doesn't know why he needs the werewolf, but he does. Derek lets him breathe, Derek makes him feel okay. Derek, Derek, Derek. The name rattles through his head like a chant, and he clings to the name as someone's hands rest on his shoulders. For some reason, Stiles doesn't feel like these ones are going to trap him. He lets these hands stay there.

"Do you want to go back to your room?" Derek asks very, very quietly, and oh he's the one who owns the hands on Stiles's shoulders. Stiles thinks maybe he can survive this so long as Derek doesn't let go. Please don't let go of me. "Stiles."

But Stiles isn't listening to Derek anymore. His head feels fuzzy, and his breath trembles in his chest and he's really fucking tired. Derek's hands are warm and Stiles is cold. Cold and sad. Cold and a fucking mess.

"Kid," Peter rumbles. "Stiles. Derek is going to take you up to your room while I talk to the pack. Okay?"

Stiles nods his head numbly, and those gentle hands slide down his arms and grip his palms and pull him to his feet. Stiles sways dangerously, because he can't really feel his legs or his arms or his body. But his weight doesn't fall to the floor. Derek holds him upright and Stiles might be a little bit in love.

Only a little bit.

He can hear Peter start speaking, but he doesn't know what the words are because he only has weak human ears and not werewolf ones. He decides that he doesn't really care and just tries to match his footsteps with Derek's.

He suddenly really fucking hates that he's so far gone into his own head that he's practically an invalid.

Where did all his clarity go? He needed to find his way back to the surface. he was drowning in his own sorrow, and he was losing himself and he needed to find his way back because nobody loved someone that was pathetic.

Stiles was pathetic.

Derek didn't say anything when Stiles curled into him and started to cry.

'Oh Stiles,' his mother had whispered once, when he wouldn't get out of bed. 'Oh Stiles.'

Oh Stiles.