[Stiles doesn't go immediately to Lydia's room. He shuts off his comm and paces his room for several long moments, anxiety weaving its way through his veins like the ice water that he once drown in. He doesn't want to do this, even though he's the one who brought it up. He doesn't want to, but it feels like there's no choice. (When is there anymore? When isn't at least one of them always left floundering without some kind of choice?)
He exhales and then draws in a slow, deep breath before pulling a gray hoodie on over his t-shirt and flannel shirt. He makes his way out of the room, tucking his hands in his pockets, moving past the people he sees in the hallways and stairwells without speaking. He has to focus now.
He makes his way to the fifth floor, fingers curling into fists in his pockets as he pauses outside of Lydia's door, closing his eyes for a moment. Then he reaches out and knocks lightly.]
[Inevitable Talk spam]
He exhales and then draws in a slow, deep breath before pulling a gray hoodie on over his t-shirt and flannel shirt. He makes his way out of the room, tucking his hands in his pockets, moving past the people he sees in the hallways and stairwells without speaking. He has to focus now.
He makes his way to the fifth floor, fingers curling into fists in his pockets as he pauses outside of Lydia's door, closing his eyes for a moment. Then he reaches out and knocks lightly.]