This is a three-pronged attack concocted by @stilinski-loves-lydia and myself:
1. Listen to “The Fire” by Former Vandal.
2. LOOK AT THIS ART. LOOKATIT. AND CRY.
3. And there’s this poorly written, overwrought, over-italicized little drabble thing. (I apologize in advance. Shrug. I BLAME ALL THE COLD MEDICINE.)
She doesn’t let go of him, after, needing the warmth of his skin, or the worn-in softness of his shirt against her fingers at all times. Scott, still wiping tears from his eyes, had hugged his best friend one last fierce time, stepping back, wanting to give the Sheriff and Stiles some time, some space.
Lydia, however, cannot bear the idea of him leaving her sight. Instead, she climbs wearily into the backseat of the sheriff’s SUV, to no one’s apparent surprise, keeping her eyes locked on the blinking, disoriented boy in the passenger’s seat, terrified he’ll disappear again if she so much as glances away.
They step, hand in hand, through the threshold to Stiles’ room, now supernaturally returned to its usual state. Her chest tightens uncomfortably, recalling just days ago, when this very room was a dusty, cordoned-off shell of a space, not brimming with the debris of teenaged boy. Her breath hitches as she takes in the All Time Low poster on the wall, the muddy lacrosse cleats kicked into the corner, the hoodie thrown haphazardly over the computer chair - all the minutiae of Stiles, of Stiles being a part of this world. Of her world.