Stiles smashed his iphone (again) by flailing at his bedside table when the alarm for his 8AM Crime and Culture class went off.<br/>The cell phone went flying across the room to crash into the opposite wall and did absolutely nothing to stop the wail of the alarm.<br/><br/>Some days Stiles really hated his life.<br/><br/>Groaning, he gave up trying to ignore the piping tones of the Pokemon theme song after a solid five minutes of squeezing his eyes shut with the pillow clutched over his face to roll out of bed and onto the floor in a graceless heap of limbs. By the time he had wormed his way across to where his now cracked phone lay (‘Gotta catch ‘em all, gotta catch em alllll! POKEMON!’) it became obvious to Stiles that something highly unusual was going on. Namely, Kian hadn’t kicked the door down to tell Stiles to turn his fucking alarm off like a normal person without throwing it.<br/>Weird, maybe Kian had finally started taking the Xanax he’d been prescribed forever ago (and of course Stiles knew exactly what medication his housemate/best friend/partner in crime was being prescribed since he made a point of going through Kian’s shit on a regular basis whenever he was being particularly moody and secretive). Good, a healthy dose of sleep would do him a world of good. Stiles didn’t exactly condone the use of chemicals to regulate what should be a natural body response, but if it meant Kian getting to sleep for more than four or five hours a night and not waking up screaming once a month, well he could get on board with that. Besides, Stiles daily routine involved a heady (a medically frowned upon) mix of caffeine and Adderall thanks to good old ADHD, so he wasn’t really in any place to judge.<br/><br/>Stiles dragged himself to the bathroom to shower and dress in something that didn’t reek of exhaustion and body odor. Thankfully, his favorite batman shirt only smelled faintly of aftershave and burritos, no BO. Excellent,<span style="font-style: italic">Stiles Eau De Parfum</span>was glorious and hunger inducing; time to have breakfast and get to class.<br/><br/>It was only after popping his pills, polishing off a strawberry poptart and flicking on the coffee percolator that Stiles realized he’d been awake for twenty minutes without seeing hide nor hair of his housemate. Typically by now Kian would have slouched out of his bedroom  to collapse onto the couch or kitchen chair at the scent of coffee (because lazy, Kian would never get up and start the coffee while Stiles was in the shower), probably bitching about Stiles’ alarm waking him up and definitely stealing one of his poptarts. Today, however, the kitchen was curiously Kian free.<br/><br/>Shoving another pop tart into the toaster in anticipation and pouring two cups of coffee, Stiles shuffled down the hall to the second bedroom with the steaming mugs of precious brewed gold in hand.<span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="color: #FF8040">“Good morning Starshine,”</span></span>He sang loudly - quiet was not a word synonymous with Stiles - pushing the door open with his butt and preparing himself to dodge to inevitable oncoming pillow hurled at his face. Only there was no pillow projectile. The was also no angry cursing and, most importantly, no Kian.<br/><br/>Huh.<br/><br/>Stiles stared at the empty bed for longer than was probably necessary as he attempted to figure out why his best friend was not where he should be. Kian never had an early class. He hardly ever went<span style="font-style: italic">to</span>class; 75% of the coursework was online and probably a hefty contributing factor as to why Kian had picked it. He also never started work this early, ‘Deja Brew’ didn’t open for another half hour. He vaguely remembered something being said about picking up an afternoon shift yesterday to work around the monthly appointment at SAAR with Dr Hale, maybe he’d gone to stay with a friend after work?<br/><br/>Who was he kidding, Kian didn’t have friends. Had it not been for Stiles’ limitless endurance and dogged determination<span style="font-style: italic">they</span>wouldn’t be friends and Kian would probably never talk to anyone at all ever. So maybe...a<span style="font-style: italic">date</span>? It wasn’t totally impossible, and it wasn’t like Kian was unattractive. Once you got past the general surliness and resting bitch face, Kian was...well there was still a lot of surliness. But he could also be quietly hilarious, with a slow-burn sort of dry wit that would leave Stiles in hysterics days after the fact, and super thoughtful - he was just awful at showing it. Really,<span style="font-style: italic"> really</span>awful. Truly, seriously, terribly awful. Whole new levels of-<br/><br/>Anyway.<br/><br/>If, hypothetically speaking, Kian<span style="font-style: italic">did</span>have a date, it still seemed unlikely that they’d have stayed out all night. Unless Kian’s pristine virtue was now in pieces. Dirty, sexy pieces. Stiles had managed to pry the gossip on Kian’s sex life out of him with a few well-placed shots of whipped-cream flavoured vodka (which neither of them were ever drinking again - just the smell was enough to reduce the pair of them to shameful bouts of tears and dry heaving) at a party during a game of ‘I’ve never’ - which was to say the total lack of it. Even<span style="font-style: italic">Stiles </span>had lost his virginity before Kian, which was saying something. As far as he could tell it wasn’t a ‘saving myself for marriage’ thing, more like a ‘I’m a grumpy cunt and all human interaction is to be shunned’  thing. Maybe he’d finally met an appropriate level of grump-cunt girl at work and they’d been completely unable to keep their hands off each other and they’d been up all night making the beast with two backs? Maybe they were in<span style="font-style: italic">love</span>? Maybe Kian would move in with her and Stiles would be left alone in this dump to rot alone forever, or maybe<span style="font-style: italic">she</span>would move in<span style="font-style: italic">here</span>and - man his Adderall really didn’t seem to be doing the trick today.<br/><br/>Kian’s deflowering and potential girlfriend aside, he totally would have texted Stiles at some point to let him know not to worry, no matter how busy his hands may or may not have been. Stiles dumped the coffee mugs on the bedside table and fished his cell phone out of his pocket to check their last few messages.<br/><br/><div style="text-align: center;"><a class="postlink" href="http://i.imgur.com/7X07z49.png?1">[ img ]</a></div><br/><br/>Nothing unusual in there, but not explanation either. Stiles frowned at his phone for a moment before he grabbed his coffee and wandered back into the kitchen to dial his dad.<br/><br/>Sheriff John Ślusarczyk had been losing hair and sleep over his son and, by proxy, Kian, for the better part of a decade. All the same, Stiles was a little offended when his dad answered the phone with a tired<span style="color: #804000"><span style="font-weight: bold">“What did you break now, Stiles?” </span></span><br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="color: #FF8040">“Nothing!”</span></span>He replied, scandalized.<span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="color: #FF8040">“Well, today.” </span></span><br/><br/>The sheriff sighed.<br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="color: #FF8040">“That’s totally not why I’m calling you.”</span></span>Stiles shuffled to the toaster to remove the now unnecessary pop tart.<span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="color: #FF8040"> “Kian didn’t come home last night.”</span></span>Silence down the line, Stiles heard the creak of leather as his dad settled back into the desk chair he’d probably been sat in for the past half hour already. Freakish early riser.<span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="color: #804000"> “You called him?”</span></span>John asked.<span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="color: #FF8040">“Not yet.”</span></span>Stiles admitted, halfheartedly trying to fish the pop tart out of the toaster. He only briefly considered using a knife. Briefly.<span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="color: #804000">“Might want to try that first.”</span></span>The sheriff replied.<span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="color: #804000">“I’ll call around to the stations and hospitals on your side of town, see if he’s turned up anywhere.”</span></span>His tone softened.<span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="color: #804000">“Try get in contact with him and let me know as soon as you hear from him. Go to class and don’t worry too much, you know as well as I do that ninety five percent of people who go missing are found within a week and usually doing something stupid, like taking peyote in the desert.” </span></span>Stiles snorted, vividly picturing Kian dancing half naked around a campfire singing ‘Kumbaya’ and Katy Perry lyrics.<span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="color: #FF8040">“Yeah, I know dad. If I don’t hear from him though…”</span></span>He turned to toaster upside down to shake the breakfast treat out impatiently in a shower of crumbs.<span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="color: #804000">“We’ll put out an ATL.”</span></span>Came the firm response. The jittery panic that had been building slowly over the past few minutes in Stiles’ gut settled to a tolerable level once again at his father’s calm common sense.<span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="color: #804000">“Now get to class Stiles, I know that’s the only reason you’re up this early.”</span></span>Damn his perceptive cop parent.<span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="color: #FF8040">“Ok, ok. Thanks dad, love you.” </span></span><span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="color: #804000">“Love you too. Don’t forget to keep me updated.” </span></span><br/><br/>Stiles called Kian 43 times before the end of his first class, then another 26 times before he managed to get home again to find the apartment untouched since he’d left that morning. He had a mild panic attack before he called his dad and admitted to himself that the situation might possibly be worse than he’d thought.<br/>------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br/><br/>Kian woke to gloomy darkness and the need to take a piss.<br/>He’d managed to get a few hours of fitful dozing as he alternated between standing to support his weight and slumping into shallow sleep, jolted awake by the pain in his shoulders and the occasional nightmare of the garden variety, predominantly features pliers and a face set with ridiculously high cheekbones. He dreamed Stiles was shaking him awake for work. He dreamed about riding in a car. He dreamed his teeth were being pulled out one by one and shoved back in again. That last one woke him for good when the sensation in sleep matched the steady throb of his jaw in reality, though the pain was nowhere near that of however many hours before. He groaned and stretched awkwardly, trying to release some of the tension in his back and neck.<br/><br/>The basement was unsurprisingly windowless, it was impossible to tell exactly what time it was with an absence of natural light. His phone was certainly not in his pocket either, though Kian had no idea if that was because Ian had taken it from him or because he’d left it in on the counter at work whilst he’d been closing up the day before. He wondered if anyone had realized he was missing by now. He also wondered how exactly he was supposed to pee.<br/><br/>He was not going to piss his fucking pants.<br/><br/><span style="color: #00BF80"><span style="font-weight: bold">“Ly-”</span></span>His voice was hoarse and cracked, he had to swallow thickly before trying again.<span style="color: #00BF80"><span style="font-weight: bold"> “Lydia.”</span></span><br/><br/>Her strawberry blonde tresses twitched at the sound.<span style="color: #FF8080"><span style="font-weight: bold">“I’m sleeping.”</span></span>She replied churlishly, refusing to open her eyes.<br/><br/><span style="color: #00BF80"><span style="font-weight: bold">“No you’re not.” </span></span><br/><br/><span style="color: #FF8080"><span style="font-weight: bold">“Be quiet.”</span></span><br/><br/><span style="color: #00BF80"><span style="font-weight: bold">“...How do I take a piss around here?” </span></span><br/><br/><span style="color: #FF8080"><span style="font-weight: bold">“Hold it.” </span></span><br/><br/><span style="color: #00BF80"><span style="font-weight: bold">“What?” </span></span><br/><br/><span style="color: #FF8080"><span style="font-weight: bold">“He’ll let you use the bathroom when he gets back, if you’re good.” </span></span><br/><br/>Kian squirmed surreptitiously.<br/><br/><span style="color: #00BF80"><span style="font-weight: bold">“How long until he gets back?” </span></span><br/><br/>She shrugged.<br/><br/><span style="color: #FF8080"><span style="font-weight: bold">“Few hours, maybe.”</span></span><br/><br/><span style="color: #00BF80"><span style="font-weight: bold">“A few <span style="font-style: italic">hours</span>? What the fuck am I supposed to do until then!?” </span></span><br/><br/>He could have sworn that she smirked.<br/><br/><span style="color: #FF8080"><span style="font-weight: bold">“Try not to think about running water.”</span></span><br/><br/>Kian may had a few choice words for her. Lydia ignored him.<br/><br/>For the first half hour he distracted himself with the most obvious question: How to escape? But after each of his attempts to lift himself up, yank the chain free or wiggle out of the shackles was shot down by a deadpan ‘Already tried that.’ by Lydia (or Lucas, and once even Thomas,  who was so pitiful in his misery that Kian just became aggravated with him and refused to acknowledge his existence) he soon gave up. The various movements also failed to help take his mind off his uncomfortably full bladder. From there Kian moved on to wondering whether Stiles had figured out that something was amiss yet, which blossomed into a vivid daydream of incredible forensic feats and Sherlock Holmes’ levels of brilliant scientific deduction that led to Kian’s inevitable rescue (possibly with an epilogue featuring a rather gruesome revenge upon his captor). But even that wondrous reverie eventually grew powerless in the face of the ever demanding needs of his body.<br/><br/>The hours wore on and Kian grew desperate.<br/><br/>His thoughts became pointless and short lived, anything to distract himself for even a moment. He solved riddles in his head. Recounted passages from his favorite books. Tried to recall all the lyrics to Bowie’s ‘Space Oddity’.<span style="font-style: italic">Sang</span>all the lyrics to ‘Space Oddity’ (badly, much to his unwilling audience’s dismay). That helped, temporarily. So he sang ‘Under Pressure’ (better), and ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’(a vast improvement on his Bowie). Then ‘Killer Queen’ (At one point the irony had him on the verge of helpless, hysterical giggles and he had to stop for fear of wetting himself) which somehow moved on to ‘The Way You Make Me Feel’ from Michael Jackson, ‘Single Ladies’ by Beyonce, Sia’s ‘Chandeliers’, all the way through to ‘Sorry’ by (and he hated Stiles for ever making him listen to that fucking song) Justin Beiber.He made up lyrics when he forgot them - which was apparently completely unacceptable and so were corrected by either Lydia or Lucas. Thomas merely appeared thoroughly convinced that they’d all lost their minds entirely and huddled with his back to them. He was halfway through butchering ‘Lola’ when there came the unmistakable snap of the first of the three deadbolts on the basement door drawing back.