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weep
scisaac ; what i rely on
People think children of abuse have nothing to rely on.
Which, admittedly, is probably true. The days when violence fall upon them switches gracefully depending on the mistakes they make, the mood certain fathers are in, the agitating way they grit their teeth—it all depends. You can count on getting abused, but it's not every day. It's not every moment. It's fear. You live and you wait—paranoia, until fists reign down like rocks from the sky, breaking bones and bruising skin that already bruises so easily. He's not trying to leave his mark, he's trying to hurt. He could care less about your swollen eye or your bloody fingers tips—he could care less about the screams leaving your mouth as he pushes you down into a freezer, chains rustling as he locks you in and you scream and cry for your daddy. But he's not listening. He's not your daddy. Your fingertips claw the cold metal until blood pearls at your raw skin—and he still doesn't care and you're still a helpless child in a freezer, tucked away.
You wonder why he always opens the lid again. Why he cares enough to free you even though, one way or another, you’ll end up there again. You'll fail a class, you'll break a window. You'll upset him. Facts are certainties, and certainties are that you'll be here again one day.
Isaac hasn't been abused for a long time, but he relies on the nightmares.
“Long time” is probably used liberally, because it's only been months. Days upon days, the number sweltering in comparison to the amount tears he's shed over his father—brother, mother, everyone. The nightmares always come. Every night and without fail. Almost comforting, if not so terrible in nature—and Isaac sometimes smiles to himself because damn is he damaged goods. The smell of sweat is always what pierces him first, unable to move from the bed like he's confined in a freezer again, wrapped up in sweat and blood and tears and suffocating, because there’s never enough air in the world—never does he take the clearness of gentle breezes of air for granted. He knows what it's like. Choking on your own spit from screaming, muscles cramped from a too small freezer—even when he was a child, it was too small. It never changed; Isaac was the one that changed. He wishes he weren't so small. Wishes he weren't so big. Wishes and wishes and wishes don’t silence the nightmares—don't turning his thrashing limbs into soft curls.
Nightmares. He had nightmares at Derek’s place, but there wasn't any reason. Derek knew and Isaac knew he knew, but they didn't talk—there wasn't any reason. No reason for anything, and quick, long legs would take him out for a walk for the rest of the night after his father's voice silenced, and the pain subsided into a numbing, dull itch in the back of his head. He pretends it's nothing. Pretends the bruises he’s forced on himself in his sleep are him being clumsy from lanky, ugly limbs—always ugly, because he can't think of himself as anything else. He wishes someone else could admit it. Wishes someone would grab him and say "you’re ugly", because that's what he is, that’s all he is. He's not Isaac anymore. He's ugly.
The McCall household is different. Different feelings, he supposes, and strength finds him every night. Somehow, but he’s not quite sure. Like a moth to the flame, subconsciously his cracked and aching limbs bring him to Scott’s door. He doesn't enter. He sits beside the door, the back of his head tipping to touch the wall, listening to the steady heart beat of the tan werewolf beyond the breach of blandly painted walls. Until their heartbeats match, but even then he's still at the wall, still listening to breaths and struggling in breathing, faint snores and tussling of sheets as he wriggles around to get comfortable. Isaac smiles sometimes. Sometimes he doesn't. Sometimes he wishes Scott would wake up and comfort him, but what right does he have at that? There's no reason to console him. Not when tomorrow he'll be right back here, ear piqued to listen to him sleeping, and he curls against the cold, unforgiving plaster as he wishes it were werewolf arms.
Scott’s heartbeat grows to be his constant. What he relies on.
Which almost feels pathetic to admit to himself, and again he makes wry, judgmental smirk—internally mocking about how nothing's changed, how he’s still just a child wrapped up in a box, only ribbons are replaced with chains and colorful confines are exchanged for bleak white and gray. That's his life—white and gray. Bleak and boring and all too woe is me!. He doesn't want pity even if it might be what he needs. He doesn't open Scott's door because he doesn't want comfort, even if he does. He doesn't want Scott even if he does. Is it what he feels he deserves? Or, per chance, does he think he's better than that? Who knows?
Certainly not Isaac.
He just knows how he feels—a weird conglomeration of I want you and get away from me. A constant comparison of how hurt he is to how composed he wishes he were. Feet that walked bare through the open woods at sometime, that dug in the dirt and soaked out the earthworms buried far beneath soil and grassy plains, carry him back to his room where he can't find sleep. He still listens to the heart. He doesn't know why. He doesn't think about it. Just listens—happy, sort of—at the melody it provides, the symphony of beat breath beat breath beat. It's beautiful. Scott—he is beautiful. When he's around Scott it feels like beauty seeps in through his pores, almost like they become part of each other because Scott is bright like the sun, his smile infectious like the plague, and there's occasions when Isaac can't think about anything other than kissing him, consuming him, because his warmth is like nothing Isaac has ever felt before. A direct contrast from ice cold confines residual in freezers—Scott's kindness breaks the chains and opens boxes up to brighter days with genuine smiles. Not the fake ones he wears for everyone else.
Scott makes him happy. Makes him feel beautiful.
He's still at the door but he's also not—he enters in the room but he also stays away until he can't differentiate between reality and hopefully fantasies. He's lost control, maybe, and so far enveloped in his own feelings that there's no hope for him. He's gone, lost in the being that is Scott McCall, and for a little bit he doesn't seem to care about control. He doesn't obsess over it for a moment, instead letting his hands reach out to greet the other's shoulder, shaking him lightly until heavy, feather like eyelashes rouse into wake.
"Isaac?"
There's the sudden feeling that he's unwanted—not anything Scott had said of course, but he's here looming over him on top his bed, eyes slightly widen with fear and pain and longing. He doesn't have any reason to be here. There's no reason. No rhyme or rhythm to anything. Isaac is the cacophony that invaded Scott's beauty—he's not feeding off it. He's stealing it.
"What's wrong?"
Scott shifts so he sits up, but all Isaac notices is how much closer they are to each other from the movement. He's not some bubbling idiot, and he takes a seat beside the other, a hand falling on the opposing side of of his legs. Scott squints a bit, eyes still blurry from the haze sleepiness creates, but obviously not falling asleep anytime soon.
"Isaac, are you—"
"It's nothing," Isaac cuts him off, shaking his head lightly. Offering an apologetic smile—he's sorry he's here, sorry he's such a burden sometimes. He doesn't mean to be. He doesn't want to be. Maybe it's in his nature, maybe that's why his father beat him so badly. Maybe he's unwanted down to the core, at the very basic being of who Isaac is as a person, and maybe his ugliness is something unlovable. He certainly doesn't love himself.
"What's that face for?" Scott retorts, eyebrow creasing into a wrinkled mess of concern. And now he's worried him. Isaac can't even find it to hate himself—something about Scott worrying over him is almost heartwarming, like he's the first person whose ever actually cared. He isn't, but he's definitely the only one here and now.
"It's nothing."
Scott sucks in a breath at that, not entirely sure what he can do to help him since he doesn't know what's wrong. The scent of Isaac's sweat is vivid through the decently sized room—tart like crushed berries. The shorter of the two werewolves lets his hand fall on top the other—different as night in day in color and temperature. The sun kissed werewolf who's heated, and the pale one who runs icy. His opposing hand rises up, rough pads of his fingers brushing delicately over Isaac's protruding jawbone, memorizing the curve as his chestnut eyes scan over him.
Isaac is deathly still. Watching him watching him.
"Do you want to sleep in my room?"
"Yeah."
His response is so painfully not thought out, Isaac has to cringe at the desperation in his voice. Scott doesn't seem to notice, and instead shifts closer to one side of the bed so Isaac can lay down. Which he does, curling at the other's side like a lost puppy, happy to finally have found a home. Arms wrap and surround each other—the sun and the moon greeting each other in the sky for the first time in since the formation of the world. Isaac knows he's weak and that he needs this, but being weak doesn't seen nearly so hard when he's got Scott—a True Alpha—at his side.
Somewhere during the night, Scott lets his lips find their way to Isaac's—and the rest, as they say, is something close to history.
Which, admittedly, is probably true. The days when violence fall upon them switches gracefully depending on the mistakes they make, the mood certain fathers are in, the agitating way they grit their teeth—it all depends. You can count on getting abused, but it's not every day. It's not every moment. It's fear. You live and you wait—paranoia, until fists reign down like rocks from the sky, breaking bones and bruising skin that already bruises so easily. He's not trying to leave his mark, he's trying to hurt. He could care less about your swollen eye or your bloody fingers tips—he could care less about the screams leaving your mouth as he pushes you down into a freezer, chains rustling as he locks you in and you scream and cry for your daddy. But he's not listening. He's not your daddy. Your fingertips claw the cold metal until blood pearls at your raw skin—and he still doesn't care and you're still a helpless child in a freezer, tucked away.
You wonder why he always opens the lid again. Why he cares enough to free you even though, one way or another, you’ll end up there again. You'll fail a class, you'll break a window. You'll upset him. Facts are certainties, and certainties are that you'll be here again one day.
Isaac hasn't been abused for a long time, but he relies on the nightmares.
“Long time” is probably used liberally, because it's only been months. Days upon days, the number sweltering in comparison to the amount tears he's shed over his father—brother, mother, everyone. The nightmares always come. Every night and without fail. Almost comforting, if not so terrible in nature—and Isaac sometimes smiles to himself because damn is he damaged goods. The smell of sweat is always what pierces him first, unable to move from the bed like he's confined in a freezer again, wrapped up in sweat and blood and tears and suffocating, because there’s never enough air in the world—never does he take the clearness of gentle breezes of air for granted. He knows what it's like. Choking on your own spit from screaming, muscles cramped from a too small freezer—even when he was a child, it was too small. It never changed; Isaac was the one that changed. He wishes he weren't so small. Wishes he weren't so big. Wishes and wishes and wishes don’t silence the nightmares—don't turning his thrashing limbs into soft curls.
Nightmares. He had nightmares at Derek’s place, but there wasn't any reason. Derek knew and Isaac knew he knew, but they didn't talk—there wasn't any reason. No reason for anything, and quick, long legs would take him out for a walk for the rest of the night after his father's voice silenced, and the pain subsided into a numbing, dull itch in the back of his head. He pretends it's nothing. Pretends the bruises he’s forced on himself in his sleep are him being clumsy from lanky, ugly limbs—always ugly, because he can't think of himself as anything else. He wishes someone else could admit it. Wishes someone would grab him and say "you’re ugly", because that's what he is, that’s all he is. He's not Isaac anymore. He's ugly.
The McCall household is different. Different feelings, he supposes, and strength finds him every night. Somehow, but he’s not quite sure. Like a moth to the flame, subconsciously his cracked and aching limbs bring him to Scott’s door. He doesn't enter. He sits beside the door, the back of his head tipping to touch the wall, listening to the steady heart beat of the tan werewolf beyond the breach of blandly painted walls. Until their heartbeats match, but even then he's still at the wall, still listening to breaths and struggling in breathing, faint snores and tussling of sheets as he wriggles around to get comfortable. Isaac smiles sometimes. Sometimes he doesn't. Sometimes he wishes Scott would wake up and comfort him, but what right does he have at that? There's no reason to console him. Not when tomorrow he'll be right back here, ear piqued to listen to him sleeping, and he curls against the cold, unforgiving plaster as he wishes it were werewolf arms.
Scott’s heartbeat grows to be his constant. What he relies on.
Which almost feels pathetic to admit to himself, and again he makes wry, judgmental smirk—internally mocking about how nothing's changed, how he’s still just a child wrapped up in a box, only ribbons are replaced with chains and colorful confines are exchanged for bleak white and gray. That's his life—white and gray. Bleak and boring and all too woe is me!. He doesn't want pity even if it might be what he needs. He doesn't open Scott's door because he doesn't want comfort, even if he does. He doesn't want Scott even if he does. Is it what he feels he deserves? Or, per chance, does he think he's better than that? Who knows?
Certainly not Isaac.
He just knows how he feels—a weird conglomeration of I want you and get away from me. A constant comparison of how hurt he is to how composed he wishes he were. Feet that walked bare through the open woods at sometime, that dug in the dirt and soaked out the earthworms buried far beneath soil and grassy plains, carry him back to his room where he can't find sleep. He still listens to the heart. He doesn't know why. He doesn't think about it. Just listens—happy, sort of—at the melody it provides, the symphony of beat breath beat breath beat. It's beautiful. Scott—he is beautiful. When he's around Scott it feels like beauty seeps in through his pores, almost like they become part of each other because Scott is bright like the sun, his smile infectious like the plague, and there's occasions when Isaac can't think about anything other than kissing him, consuming him, because his warmth is like nothing Isaac has ever felt before. A direct contrast from ice cold confines residual in freezers—Scott's kindness breaks the chains and opens boxes up to brighter days with genuine smiles. Not the fake ones he wears for everyone else.
Scott makes him happy. Makes him feel beautiful.
He's still at the door but he's also not—he enters in the room but he also stays away until he can't differentiate between reality and hopefully fantasies. He's lost control, maybe, and so far enveloped in his own feelings that there's no hope for him. He's gone, lost in the being that is Scott McCall, and for a little bit he doesn't seem to care about control. He doesn't obsess over it for a moment, instead letting his hands reach out to greet the other's shoulder, shaking him lightly until heavy, feather like eyelashes rouse into wake.
"Isaac?"
There's the sudden feeling that he's unwanted—not anything Scott had said of course, but he's here looming over him on top his bed, eyes slightly widen with fear and pain and longing. He doesn't have any reason to be here. There's no reason. No rhyme or rhythm to anything. Isaac is the cacophony that invaded Scott's beauty—he's not feeding off it. He's stealing it.
"What's wrong?"
Scott shifts so he sits up, but all Isaac notices is how much closer they are to each other from the movement. He's not some bubbling idiot, and he takes a seat beside the other, a hand falling on the opposing side of of his legs. Scott squints a bit, eyes still blurry from the haze sleepiness creates, but obviously not falling asleep anytime soon.
"Isaac, are you—"
"It's nothing," Isaac cuts him off, shaking his head lightly. Offering an apologetic smile—he's sorry he's here, sorry he's such a burden sometimes. He doesn't mean to be. He doesn't want to be. Maybe it's in his nature, maybe that's why his father beat him so badly. Maybe he's unwanted down to the core, at the very basic being of who Isaac is as a person, and maybe his ugliness is something unlovable. He certainly doesn't love himself.
"What's that face for?" Scott retorts, eyebrow creasing into a wrinkled mess of concern. And now he's worried him. Isaac can't even find it to hate himself—something about Scott worrying over him is almost heartwarming, like he's the first person whose ever actually cared. He isn't, but he's definitely the only one here and now.
"It's nothing."
Scott sucks in a breath at that, not entirely sure what he can do to help him since he doesn't know what's wrong. The scent of Isaac's sweat is vivid through the decently sized room—tart like crushed berries. The shorter of the two werewolves lets his hand fall on top the other—different as night in day in color and temperature. The sun kissed werewolf who's heated, and the pale one who runs icy. His opposing hand rises up, rough pads of his fingers brushing delicately over Isaac's protruding jawbone, memorizing the curve as his chestnut eyes scan over him.
Isaac is deathly still. Watching him watching him.
"Do you want to sleep in my room?"
"Yeah."
His response is so painfully not thought out, Isaac has to cringe at the desperation in his voice. Scott doesn't seem to notice, and instead shifts closer to one side of the bed so Isaac can lay down. Which he does, curling at the other's side like a lost puppy, happy to finally have found a home. Arms wrap and surround each other—the sun and the moon greeting each other in the sky for the first time in since the formation of the world. Isaac knows he's weak and that he needs this, but being weak doesn't seen nearly so hard when he's got Scott—a True Alpha—at his side.
Somewhere during the night, Scott lets his lips find their way to Isaac's—and the rest, as they say, is something close to history.