#and half bury him in the dirt outside and watch bugs and stuff crawl on him and inspect him

[fear-no-mort]

shy socially awkward em representation

[triscuitsandsoup]

The Autumn in August - Stetopher Fic (Dark, Angst, MCD)

Peter’s arms ached all over, one hundred and forty-seven pounds wasn’t easy to drag, not when the bramble was so thick. Their growth was quick and quiet, it didn’t used to be, but the trees were silent now. Even the wind had no sound, deafened by the cold that fell over the land like a blanket smothering an infant's face. The shadows of the leaves shook back and forth over the ground like scampering bugs in the whistle-less wind.

The only noise came from dirt as Peter packed it tight with his hands. It was soft and warm, warmer than it should have been for the dying growth around them. It was a little moist too, he’d rather not think about what that wet, clumped earth was made of. He wiped his hands on his jeans and pushed through a shudder as he felt the wet on his knee. A long smear joined the others on his clothes.

Beside him, Chris smoothed the dirt over with a shovel. He wore gloves so his hands were clean but his eyes were just as untamed as the wilderness around them. The hairs on his chin had grown out a lot since the forest started breathing again, it’s ragged, faltering breaths. His gray and silver whiskers were nearly as long as the brittle grass on which he stood.

Peter at last was satisfied with the way the earth lay flat. He watched it for a few seconds, to see if anything worm-like would wiggle out from underneath, but no. It was still.

Chris stabbed the dull nose of the shovel deep into the earth, wedging it in further with his foot until it was embedded deep enough not to get dislodged by any wind or any clambering thing.

“Nothing ever grows here,” Chris mused. Save for the dead tree-trunk the little patch of wet, warm, earth stood alone in the middle of the forest. “We could get something. Maybe take some cuttings off the house? That stuff’s a weed. It might take.”

The image of little worm-like things wiggling up and pushing through vines forced its way into Peter’s mind. They weren’t soft little plants, they’d dulled his claws and one of Chris’ machetes too. Soft hands would be torn to shreds.

“No,” he said. “Think of the blood.”

“Right,” said Chris. He peeled his gloves from his hands, underneath his palms were rough and calloused. After stashing them in his pocket they began their long, half mile walk back to the house.

When they arrived, the door was swaying in the gentle breeze, wide open and inviting. Vines climbed the outer walls of his home like little hands, hugging, squeezing, and constricting the walls. Some orange and brown leaves were already piling up on the welcome mat. A small scattering lay inside the hall.

“Did you forget to shut it?” Chris asked.

“No,” Peter said, grabbing the broom from the stairwell.

The leaves clung to the broom like a lifeline as he swept them back towards the door. He shook them violently out on the porch, some had the audacity to flow back inside with the wind.

“Did you forget to lock it?”

“No. They must be in the walls.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, Chris. I am sure. Do you think I’d just forget to lock the door?” he paused and met Chris’ eyes.

Chris’ lips were pressed tight.

“… No,” he said after a time. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” said Peter.

“I’ll go check upstairs.”

“Please do.”

The stairs creaked as Chris made his way through the house. From the main hall Peter could hear him mumbling to himself. Each door was opened and shut in turn.

Peter resumed his sweeping. At least the hardwood made the job a little easier. He missed the way the floors had shined when they’d first been put in, how they’d looked so perfect with the white walls and marble countertops. Now they were warped and wrong.

“There’s nothing up there. Damn things must have broken through the roof,” Chris said, coming back down the steps.

“Fuck,” said Peter. He swept the last of the leaves outside and slammed the door shut. It rebounded off the frame and he had to shove it back a second time. The wood splintered in the corner.

“Don’t break it,” said Chris.

“It’s already broken.”

Peter leaned the broom on the wall and brushed past Chris to the kitchen. The cabinets he’d once spent hours installing by hand creaked when he opened them. He still had the receipt in the glovebox, if only he could explain how the hinges were already rusted and the doors were crumbling from mold.

The day passed slowly. Peter sat listless in a chair, hands curled around a warm mug of tea that he refreshed every hour but never drank. It was just nice to have the warmth.

Chris read a book in the kitchen, but the pages were falling out, practically turning to dust in his hands. He’d had one of those fancy electronic tablets, but the electricity went out days ago. Now all they had was fire and each other.

It was time for bed when the embers died. The flames licking brick were snuffed out like a strong breeze had come violently through the chimney, but no such chill afflicted the air. It was still and quiet as it ever was, only flooded by dark.

The two rose from their spaces like clockwork. They trudged up the stairs and stripped the muddy sheets from the bed. He held his breath until it was gone so he could only guess at the smell instead of knowing in that awful, sickly, way that only a wolf could.

“We’re down to the last set,” Chris said as they rearranged the sheets to tuck over the mattress.

“We should buy more soon.”

Peter scoffed. “All the good that would do. Does the car even start?”

“It starts.”

“Does it go?”

“The jeep might.”

Peter’s heart lurched.

“Maybe,” he said. It was a sturdy car, on the furthest edge of the preserve. The rot may not have reached it yet, but he didn’t want to try digging it out from the ditch they’d stashed it in.

They changed into clothes they didn’t mind losing and crawled into bed, leaving their dirty clothes in the hamper along with all the rest. As the sun set below the horizon the chill set in and the shadows on the walls grew to unnatural heights and loomed over their bed.

Peter buried his nose in the crook of his arm. He clenched his eyes shut so hard they hurt but nothing he did could stop the noise from reaching its way to his ear. Like earwigs the sounds bedded themselves into the house and at night and burrowed deep in his brain.

The hand-vines on the walls outside were restless, their leafs played on the window glass like little tapping fingernails. The door downstairs, the one Peter had been so careful to lock creaked and swayed in the still night air, dislodged from the frame by some unnatural force.

A dull thump came from the woods.

Peter swallowed.

The fireplace crackled without flames. Water dripped from leaky pipes onto warped wooden floors. Chris’ breathing stuttered, his heartbeat was steady and strong.

The thumping grew louder, and closer. One after another, heavy footsteps dragging through the bramble until it was right outside the house.

Peter tensed.

There was a scratching at the sill, not as sharp as it had been when it first started. Unlike all the other noise the scratching didn’t last long. The thumping rounded the house up to the porch. The steps creaked under the weight.

The swinging door stilled.

Chris’ breath stilled too.

The thumping came inside.

Peter wondered if it was too late to ask Chris to staple his eyes shut. In return, he’d do Chris’s nose.

The thumping echoed inside the empty house. They drowned the leaking pipes, the hand-vines, and Chris’ heartbeat. It came up the steps in a slow, ragged way. The thumps were heavier and along with them came a new sound – struggling breath from a dirt-clogged throat.

It didn’t have to push open the bedroom door, the knob had been ripped from its socket. Even nails were torn from the frame when they’d been foolish enough to think they could keep it out with plywood and a hammer.

Something wet hit the floor. It sounded like mud.

The figure Peter could only smell lumbered closer bringing with it a foul odor like spoilt milk and rotten wood.

A cold, dead, weight fell between where Peter and Chris lay. Exactly one hundred and forty-seven pounds of cold, dead, weight.

Chris coughed.

Peter squinted one eye open just enough to catch a glimpse of Stiles’ matted hair dirtying the pillow and Chris’ hand pressed over his mouth and nose. His eyes were red and watering.

body tensed and curled as a violent cough went through him. A patch of wet dirt landed on Chris’ shirt.

Chris grimaced and turned his head away as the violent hacking continued. It sounded so much clearer without the mouthful of dirt, but it never sounded like Stiles.

Peter closed his eyes again. He had too. Before it looked at him.

The bed shifted as the – as it rolled over. Stiles’ little worm-like fingers wiggled their way along the sheet to Peter’s cheek. Its legs twitched and spasmed like a dying roach. One shoe jabbed Peter’s leg, the other foot was bare. His foot was wet.

A guttural, gurgling, rasp of breath brushed along Peter’s ear. He didn’t move. Not once. Not even when it started to choke. Choking was good. He couldn’t talk if he was choking.

Sometimes Peter thought it had gone blind. He’d been in the ground long enough, the stench of decomposition was strong, but he didn’t have the courage to ask Chris, not even in the daytime. The hand – if it could still be called that – rested on Peter’s cheek for several, long minutes. Then he shook his head lightly to shake it off.

It fell away without resistance.

Only when light broke through the curtains did Peter dare to open his eyes. The hand was still resting next to his cheek on the pillow. He turned his head away, towards the window, away from the lifeless thing beside him.

He slid out of bed, shaking some of the dirt from his body. Stiles’ coughed up a lot that night, more than usual. They must have buried it too deep.

Peter brushed his teeth, combed his hair, and threw on some clothes he didn’t mind getting dirty. Chris had already covered the body with a sheet, still wearing his night clothes with a mud-stain on his chest. He was right, they would need to buy more soon, or learn to like sleeping in piles of dirt.

Stiles had. Maybe one day he’d like it enough to stay there.

He helped Chris carry Stiles down the staircase. He didn’t move at all during the day, that was a small blessing. As soon as they were outside Chris laid him down, Peter grabbed the end of the sheet, and they began dragging him back up the hill. There was a small path through the thickets, one they’d worn every day for weeks. The orange and brown leaves were starting to pile up. The trees that hadn’t yet lost all their green wouldn’t last much longer, stuck in a perpetual state of autumn in August

Peter looked behind him and saw a few small smears of red left on the white sheet.

“How do you still have blood to bleed?” He grunted.

He thought he saw the sheet wiggle, but it may have been the silent breeze.

Stiles’ grave site was open as if they’d never filled it in to begin with. The loose dirt was piled up on the sides. He could see the marks where Stiles’ blunt little nailess fingers dug at the ground to get out.

Chris picked up his shovel and waited for Peter to drop Stiles inside.

“I hope he stays tonight,” Peter said.

“Tenacious asshole,” Chris said, with his softest smile.

“I miss him.”

“Yeah, me too,” Chris sighed. Without another word, he began to shovel dirt back into the hole, this time more careful to avoid piling it too thick over Stiles’ face.

When they were finished they looked to the nemeton. A little sapling grew in the center of a wide trunk, struggling to grow.

All it wanted was a sacrifice.

So why wouldn’t it keep him?