Guys, I thought that Stiles said “You don’t have to.’ cause he knew that Lydia loves him. Cause since that kiss in 3x11, EVERYTHING’S CHANGED. But you know what? Seeing that interview (i know it’s from 2013 but c’mon, you get the point :D) made me realize that there’s one more thing. He said that because HE STILL WANTED HER TO MAKE THE FINAL CHOICE. He NEVER pushed her to do or say anything. But when she decides to kiss him - that’s when he’s sure that his 10 year plan worked FREAKING PERFECTLY. Tell me NOW that STYDIA isn’t just beautiful and pure.
Und sie sagten immer, wenn meine Gefühle echt wären, dann... ,wenn ich dich wirklich lieben sollte, dann... ,wenn das alles keine Rolle mehr spielt, dann... ,wenn es nicht nur eine Phase ist, dann...
Sie sagten immer nur “wenn” und “dann”. Doch das zu betrachten was jetzt gerade, genau in dem Moment, als ich mit ihnen geredet habe, da war, die Gefühle die ich fühlte, die, die ich für dich hatte, dass kam natürlich nie für sie in Frage. Denn ich war doch nur ein kleines unschuldiges Mädchen, was seit 3 Jahren einen einzigen Menschen wollte. Dich!
I remember hearing about a cop falling in the water
While they took a boat down Main Street
Looking for survivors
Leaking battery acid hidden under the water burnt his body
I never followed up to see if he lived
Before the next tragedy rose out of the water
Under the rain.
DATE: JUNE 20, 2013 TIME: 9:29 P.M. LOCATION: MATT’S OLD APARTMENT CLOSED TO:@goldenharbinger
Alexander had never known the weight of disappointment—which is not to say no one had ever been disappointed in him, for disappointment was a language native to his father’s tongue, and Vincent Rallis had taken every opportunity to remind his youngest son that he had failed in his simple task of upholding Rallis tradition and following in the conventional, conservative footsteps of his brothers, the Princeton prodigies who had grown up to be doctors and lawyers (Alexander, contrarily, had grown up to be god—a morally corrupt, hedonistic god). Yes, Vincent Rallis had always, always been disappointed in his son, but Alexander never had to bear the weight of his father’s despondency, for he never much gave a single, solitary fuck what his father thought of him.
He did, however, care about what Matthias Warren thought of him.
It was, perhaps, all he cared about, for he had gotten glimpses—little tastes—of Apollo’s praise, and Xander, like Icarus, had almost instantaneously become addicted to the bright, dazzling warmth of Matt’s approval, of being caught in the orbit of Verona’s sun. He cared too much what Matthias Warren thought of him, and as he rapped his fist against Matt’s front door, he felt, for the very first time, the heavy weight of disappointment, of having disappointed.
He’d picked a fight he probably ought not to have picked with some mouthy Capulets he had no business fighting, and the consequences of his poor judgment were evident: splotches of blue and purple blossoming across his face, cuts on his cheeks and lips, raw knuckles, and a small pool of blood between his chest and the left side of his ribcage (one of the Capusnakes had brought a knife to a fistfight—typical). He’d fought and he’d failed, failed Matthias, and he didn’t wear the loss well.
“Matthias, Matthias, wherefore art thou, Matthias?” he called from his side of the door, sounding awfully cheeky for a man who could barely stand. He was trying to make light of the situation, trying to be breezy to save face, but his voice sounded hoarse, agonized, and he winced from the effort of having to summon audible volume, clutching at the left side of his torso. “Come on, Warren,” he rasped, his breath growing shallow. “You gonna let yourbrotherbleed to death out here?”