Chapter Text
Stiles Stilinski was four years old when he first met his cousin, Will Graham.
The adults had been talking out in the living room, reminiscing, as Will sat with his cousin on the floor of the spare bedroom, Stiles’ tongue poking out between his teeth as he concentrated on the task before him.
Will only laughed softly while Stiles fumbled with the dull scissors in his hands. The older boy brushed tufts of discarded hair off of his lap as he sat cross-legged on a worn out rug. He’d never realized just how much hair he seemed to have.
“We have to match, Will!” Stiles whined as he haphazardly snipped off another chunk of hair, disappointed to see that no matter how well he cut, the hair left was never as short as his own.
“I know. Here,” Will replied before he slowly turned around and eased the scissors out of his baby cousin’s hands, “let me ask my dad for his electric razor.”
Sniffling, Stiles wiped at his nose and followed Will out hand-in-hand into the living room where the adults fell silent at the sight of fourteen year old Will looking sheepish with his hack job haircut.
“Dad, can we borrow your razor? We can’t get short enough with scissors.” Will ran a hand roughly through the choppy remainder of his previously thick head of curls as the adults looked at them, amused.
“Oh honey… You didn’t have to let him do that.” Claudia Stilinski nee Graham sighed, long-suffering but overwhelmingly fond, as she stood up and followed her brother into the bathroom, leaning against the doorway as Henry Graham obligingly lowered his hair cutting kit down from the top shelf before walking Stiles through how to use it. Will just shrugged, a small smile still on his face as he watched Stiles scrunch his nose up while trying to keep hold of the razor in his too small hands. He lowered himself onto the tiled floor obligingly as the younger boy clambered onto the covered toilet and beckoned him to scoot back.
“It’s okay, Aunt Claudia. I don’t mind.”
And he really didn’t mind. Especially not after Stiles had spent the evening after a pleasant dinner sniffling into his pillow about the kids at school making fun of him for how he looked with his newly buzzed hair. Intimately familiar with how cruel kids could be at such a young age, it hadn’t taken much for Will to understand.
Stiles was, after all, his favorite cousin. And being around him came much easier to Will than being around anyone else. The little boy had a soothing presence about him, even with the overabundance of buzzing energy Stiles possessed. While his empathy disorder caused so many pressing personalities and thoughts to crowd around the older boy’s perception, vying for attention and understanding, something about Stiles’ was so wholly and unequivocally unique that Will had no trouble simply turning his attention away. With other people, he struggled to detach their thoughts, their perspectives, from his, sometimes leading to moments when he was unsure of where he ended and where someone else began. Will met Stiles’ eyes easily and he could relax while it was just the two of them.
Grabbing the scissors off of his desk and telling Stiles to start cutting had been an easy thing. It was worth it especially to see his little cousin’s eyes go wide and happy as his hands reached out tentatively to hold onto the handles of the tool being held out to him.
The rest of the Stilinskis’ visit to Louisiana flew by pleasantly after that. Will’s newly buzzed hair was a pleasant change in the sweltering heat; an unintended benefit to the whole incident. And every time he caught Stiles looking wonderingly up at him with his identical short hair, Will couldn't help the pleased grin that crept up on his face.
He would never admit it to his dad, but Will was sad when Stiles left at the end of the week, his walls coming back up around his mind as the Stilinski trio flew back to Beacon Hills. While Will had never thought much on the subject of siblings, having Stiles around had been a welcome change. It'd been nice to have someone look up to him and rely on him without any big expectations.
.
Stiles is nine years old when he meets Will Graham again.
Stiles is nine years old and suffering after the death of his mother and the subsequent downwards spiral of his father when he steps foot in a small Louisiana airport to be picked up by his uncle.
He vaguely remembered Henry Graham, his soft-spoken and often distant uncle.
He remembered stifling nights full of soft lantern light, the surprisingly deafening cacophony of the wildlife of the bayou at night, and the joyous laughter and conversations as his mom, his dad, and his uncle sat around on the porch or in the living room catching up as their sons retreated to other rooms, feet pounding on the floors as they played any and all games that came to mind. He remembers dull scissors, the buzz of an electric razor and the bright sounds of joy as Will had hugged him and let him bawl into his shoulder in gratitude.
His mom had sighed and bemoaned the loss of Will’s beautiful, curly hair even as her eyes filled with tears as she watched both of them rub each other’s heads. But now his mom’s dead and his dad’s turned to his bottles. Other relatives had stepped in and intervened when they heard John Stilinski yelling in the background of a phone call that Stiles had picked up. Stiles tried his best to not let them hear the shakiness in his voice through the lines but it hadn't been enough.
His relatives stepping in meant his dad was carted off to get help for his alcoholism and Stiles was sent away.
And where better to send him off to than to a family that had survived and clawed their way into stability without their own matriarch. Stiles knew that Will had gone off to university and was planning to attend the police academy afterwards, thriving in the academic environment that was worlds away from the quiet life of fishing and boating in rural Louisiana.
“How’re you doing, kiddo?” A hand landed on his shoulder lightly jostling him out of his thoughts as another gently eased the handle of his rolling suitcase out of his hands. Stiles shrugged, his thoughts still on his dad back home. His hands clutched on tighter to the straps of his backpack. His dad had packed the backpack for him, both of the Stilinskis quiet as they rolled shirts and collected toiletries from the bathroom.
He hadn’t wanted to leave. They were doing fine on their own. It wasn’t like his dad was hurting him. He was just a bit louder; his words a bit more hurtful. A little more spiteful. But Stiles knew he hadn't meant it. They were just both hurting and showing it in their own ways; Stiles through his panic attacks and John through his drinking.
But Stiles was taking care of him.
He was taking care of it. He’d promised his mom that he would watch over his dad during some of her last moments of lucidity and being sent away felt like a failure. They needed to stick together now that it was just the two of them. And yet here he was, being helped into a truck in the sweltering Louisiana heat having just stepped off a flight he had taken on his own.
“Will’s home so you can see him again when we get there. He’s been looking forward to seeing you again.” The other man’s voice was deep but quietly so, almost like a rumble of sound barely registering as words. His accent was thick but soothing, nothing having changed from the last time he had come to visit. His mom’s accent had always leaked out when she was frustrated or excited.
God, he missed her.
Stiles just nodded in response.
Thankfully, Henry Graham wasn't the type to keep trying to make conversation from someone clearly unwilling. For just over the hour it took from the Louis Armstrong New Orleans International Airport to the remote bayou counties of southern Louisiana, Stiles rested his head on his window, looking out at the strange landscape. The air was molasses thick just as it had been several years ago, but this time it was uncomfortable without the soothing presence of his parents at his shoulders, the humidity pressing down on his already heavy chest.
Suffocating.
Summers in New Orleans were tough. Stiles wondered how his mom had grown up here, in this strange land. And he wondered if he’d have to grow up along the winding waters of the south after all. Who knew how long he’d be living with the Grahams. They had told him he could come back within three months if everything went smoothly.
Turning the windows down did nothing to alleviate the restrictive feeling around his chest and even more sweat pooled above his lips, down his neck, and around his hairline with the buffeting of hot air on his face.
“Sorry, the air isn’t working.” Henry grimaced, looking truly apologetic as he glanced at his nephew slouched down in his seat. His only response was another short nod.
Sighing, Henry turned his attention back onto the road and Stiles let his head fall, letting the rumble of the engine lull him to sleep. His consciousness drifted away to thoughts of warm Sunday mornings, frogs croaking incessantly along the waters at night, and harsh words spat out over the lip of a steadily depleted bottle of alcohol.
John always apologized once he was sober, but Stiles hated it. Hated when the lucidity swam back into his dad’s eyes and he crouched in front of his son, voice thick and wobbling with the tears spilling down his face. Hated seeing his dad cry because of him.
And as the car jerked over rougher roads and bumped along on the way back to the Graham residence, Stiles sighed. He should try to make the best of his situation as he could. After all, he did miss Will and he looked forward to spending time in his soothing presence.
As much as he hated being away from his dad and Beacon Hills, Stiles knew that it wasn't either of the Grahams' faults. Sinking deeper into his thoughts, Stiles watched the Louisiana landscape blur past.