The house is quiet behind them and the yard’s full of sunlight and early afternoon air. Stiles is getting cooler, slowly, against his side.
Scott’s not crying, not yet, he doesn’t want— Stiles shouldn’t hear him crying when he goes.
He takes whatever pain is left, old bones and weary kidneys, and Stiles sinks into his side a little more. He’s so light, like brittle paper, one good breeze and—
"You’d better not be miserable," Stiles says, all breath, like he’s half-asleep. "Want you to go have fun and… just be awesome. Be a superhero."
He laughs into Stiles’ hair, a sharp noise behind it. “Promise,” he says, way too thick to sound normal.
Yellow stripes of sunlight move in a slow march up the steps, the occasional shadow from a drifting cloud. It’s a nice day, and Scott’ll probably be grateful for it at some point.
The grip Stiles has got on his hand is looser now, looser than it was ten minutes ago, than ten minutes before that. The seconds between the breaths are getting longer, waiting for something to fill them.
"I love you," he says, against the parchment-dry top of Stiles’ scalp.
Stiles’ body twitches with his snort, little quakes of laughter. “I know,” he says, and that makes Scott grin even if his eyes are burning. He wants to say there’ll be no one to make him watch that damn movie every Sunday anymore, but the idea hits him like a mallet and he can’t.
He folds Stiles’ hand gently into his lap when it goes slack all the way, breathes against his temple in wet and messy huffs. He listens for that slow rhythm in Stiles’ chest, and there’s just the birds and the air. Nothing’s moving in the world now, there’s a pause while Stiles gets to where he’s going.
Scott kisses his cheek, blinks away the blurry streaks. He tries to smile, because Stiles would want him to.
"See you soon."