Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2141295.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Stiles_Stilinski/Jackson_Whittemore
  Character:
      Stiles_Stilinski, Jackson_Whittemore, Sheriff_Stilinski, Scott_McCall,
      Danny_Mahealani, Lydia_Martin
  Additional Tags:
      Hate_Sex, Consensual_Underage_Sex, Underage_Drinking, Canonical_Character
      Death, Slurs, Fighting, Pre-Canon, Rare_Pairings
  Collections:
      Teen_Wolf_Throwback_Fest
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-08-15 Words: 21092
****** What the Body Grasps Not ******
by sexyvanillatiger
Summary
     Fulfillment of this prompt from the Teen Wolf Throwback Fest:
     "So I have this headcanon that the reason Jackson and Stiles don't
     get along is because Jackson adored Claudia Stilinski. She was the
     children's librarian or volunteered at their school a lot, maybe
     watched Jackson after school, whatever, but she spent a lot of time
     around the kids, maybe helped Jackson overcome some reading issues,
     talked to him, listened to him in a way his mother didn't and so
     Jackson grew attached to her and jealous of Stiles, who always seemed
     to be acting up and giving her a hard time (pre-medicated ADHD) and
     Jackson was convinced Stiles didn't deserve her. Then she died. So
     Jackson doesn't know how to deal with that and Stiles is barely
     coping and maybe words are said which leads to years of actual,
     seething hatred, culminating in hate sex. Lots of hate sex. That.
     Keeps. Happening."
Notes
     The physical relationship between Jackson and Stiles begins before
     they are both sixteen, making them underage in the eyes of the law in
     California. If you are not comfortable with this, please refrain from
     reading.
The last time he sees her awake, she forgets his name. Stiles doesn't
acknowledge her at first until she says it again, the wrong name, and Stiles
realizes she's talking to him. He frowns at her, eyes watching the woman who
looks so much like his mother. Then he looks at his father, who is also
frowning, but more in a sad way. Stiles can feel tears at the edges of his
eyes.
After that, she falls asleep and never wakes up.
Stiles doesn't really understand the big deal. Even after the machines start
screaming and the medical staff start hustling him about, hustling her about,
she looks the same as she had since she fell asleep. He doesn't learn that
she's dead until his father tells him he doesn't have to go to school for the
rest of the week.
It's a quarter to ten on Tuesday morning, head heavy on one of her pillows,
that he realizes what the big deal really was. He was sitting in the hospital
with a dead person. And not just any dead person. He was alone in that moment,
more alone than he thinks he'll ever be in his life.
What he realizes that morning is that the most lonely a person could be isn't
one. It's two minus one.
 
When he gets back to school the next Monday, after the funeral is done, after
she's buried and her relatives are gone and the house only holds the broken
family she left behind, Jackson beats him up. He shoves him against the fifth-
graders' lockers and yells some ugly name at him, calls him stupid and
worthless. Scott tries to push him away, but Jackson is bigger, so when he
pushes back, Scott falls.
Stiles can't do anything but observe from his place on the lockers, staring
between Jackson and Scott. The bully loses its fire and Jackson finally looks
like he might cry, all the fight gone from him. He storms off, and Stiles,
shaking, peels himself away from the metal to help Scott back to his feet.
The hallway, now abuzz with chatter, remains still, locked from wall to wall
with onlookers. Scott, to his credit, finds his balance and starts to dust
Stiles off, righting his clothes and making sure his backpack is still zipped.
"Don't listen to him," he mumbles after a moment, obviously simmering. Stiles
just stares blankly into the graphic on Scott’s tee-shirt.
A teacher breaks through the commotion and asks if Stiles is okay. He shakes
his head. She asks if he wants to go home, but if that's what happens when he's
sad, he decides he needs to change his first answer. He can weather Jackson and
the crowded halls and the classrooms, chalk screaming, markers squeaking,
teachers begging him, Stiles, please just pay attention. He can weather it
better than he can weather the empty halls in his own house. Bottle clanging,
father begging him, Please, Stiles, just go to bed.
He's never been able to pay attention before, but it's worse now. He feels like
he can't even try, and by the end of the English lesson, he's on his first trip
down to the principal's office. The principal sits him down and asks him
quietly if he wants to go home. He says, "No, ma'am," and the principal tells
him that if he can't pay attention and stop being a distraction, then he'll
have to go home.
So he tries harder, but it doesn't get easier. He can't stop tapping his
pencil, can't stop drumming his fingers, jiggling his leg, squirming in his
seat until he's standing up and walking around his table to pass the time. All
the while, the teacher tries to quell the other students and corral Stiles back
into his seat, but instead, he tries to run for the door. It isn't because he
doesn't want to sit down. He would gladly sit down next to his mother's
hospital bed. It's just that he doesn't want to sit down with them. He can hear
them, their whispering louder than they probably realize, spreading the news of
his mother's death.
As though everyone in Beacon Hills didn't know already. More like they're just
reminding him that she's gone. He screams at them to shut up while the teacher
drags him back to his table, literally drags him, hands under his arms, heels
pulling against the linoleum.
This time, he goes to the principal's office and stays there.
When his father comes to pick him up, it's with a very angry look on his face.
The angriest he's ever looked. Stiles is certain that it's all because of him,
and he looks to the lady at the front desk to save him, to keep him in school
overnight, that's a punishment, right? He doesn't have to go home as long as
he's bad enough?
His father holds his wrist too tight when he leads him to the car. Buckles him
in, climbs into the front seat and turns the ignition. And then sits there.
Stiles jitters in his seat, staring out the window at his school. He didn't say
goodbye to Scott, he realizes belatedly.
"Stiles, we can't have this," his father finally says. "I know it's hard, but I
really need you to behave. Things are hard for both of us, okay? And I need a
little help from you. Okay, bud?"
Instead of answering, Stiles just clenches and unclenches his fingers. His
father sighs and puts the car in reverse. The ride home is quiet, as is the
house when they arrive to it. That night, Stiles retires to his own bed but
doesn't fall asleep until he crawls into his parents' bed. He had planned to
sleep on his mother's side, but his father is already there, so he takes the
side closest to the door and tries not to disturb anything.
 
The day Jackson finds out about Mrs. Stilinski, he goes home early. The whole
time he's waiting for his ride, Danny asks him if he's okay a total of twenty-
four times. He doesn't want to talk, so he snaps, barks, yells, "Shut up, I'm
fine," doesn't realize he's crying until his nana gets down on her knees and
wipes his cheeks. She takes his hand gently and leads him out to the car, and
when he gets into the backseat, he curls up on his side. She tries to do his
seatbelt, but he won't move, so she just drives extra slow.
He realizes that he can't stop crying when it becomes heaving becomes sobbing,
painful and coarse in his throat. He clings to his nana's waist, burying his
face in her stomach when she pulls him into her lap later, trying to bring him
comfort from a suffering of which she is ignorant.
Jackson thinks of asking for his own mother, but the thought passes quickly
when Mrs. Stilinski's image comes to mind. He doesn't want to see his own
mother right now, he misses Mrs. Stilinski too much.
He regrets this at dinner when he's eating alone, both parents caught in
meetings with clients that couldn't reschedule. Neither of them could make it.
He chews his mashed potatoes and pushes his peas around until nana affirms that
he will not get away with not eating them. He goes to bed more full than he
wants to be, and he puts his head over his pillow. Dreams of the things he
wants to say to Stiles when he comes back to school.
Just the thought of the kid's shrill voice puts needles in his eyes. They
tingle all across before welling with tears. How could a woman so wonderful
have been burdened with such a bad child? He wishes he could have been her
child, been good for her. He was her favorite student. He could have been so
good for her.
How wonderful it would be, how strange it would be to have someone to be good
for.
 
Two years later, a teacher recommends that Sheriff Stilinski take his son to
see a psychiatrist about his behavioral problems. At two in the afternoon on a
school day, Stiles is bouncing around the reception room. The receptionist eyes
him knowingly, waving away Stiles’ father after he tries to help pick up a cup
of pencils Stiles had knocked over.
ADHD, the doctor said.
Thank you, his father had breathed, prayer-like, unnoticed by anybody but
Stiles. The psychiatrist moves on.
Adderall, they prescribed. For the first two weeks, Stiles takes it as
directed. He finishes a lot more homework, and even manages to stay on-topic in
most of his essay questions. After two weeks, he stops taking it for a few
days. Not because he's forgetful, but because he doesn't like the way his
father doesn't look at him when he's so quiet.
The first thing his father asks is if he's still taking his medication. He
almost tells the truth but lies. It's clunky, a train-wreck of words crashing
into his teeth, and his father catches him without even having to try. He tries
to assure his father that it was only a Freudian slip, that he has been taking
it exactly like they all told him to, except then they pull the bottle out and
count the pills. His father gives him the most disappointed look.
When Stiles thinks about how he wanted his father to look at him again, he
knows that it wasn't like this. So he takes his pill before leaving for school,
and his stomach hurts when Scott greets him.
"Think it's the meds?"
"Nah, they don't do that, it's probably psychosomatic." His voice raises to
almost a shout as the result of Lydia walking past him. She used the word just
the other day when making fun of a girl, pre-menarche, complaining of menstrual
cramps. The girl had cried and Lydia hasn't shed one apology since the
incident. Rather, she gave a rude, pointed look towards Stiles when he'd
repeated the word, begging for definition.
Getting clarification from Lydia Martin is like seeing a unicorn: beautiful and
absolutely impossible. Instead, he'd looked it up in the dictionary. It's luck
that it fits where it does in his sentence (and if he forces it off of his
tongue, he still says it), but Lydia still doesn't look back at him as she
continues in the direction of her locker in the fifth-grade hallway.
He shrugs his shoulders and promises himself tomorrow, probably tomorrow.
Tomorrow he’ll think of something that will catch her attention, tomorrow he’ll
take her out of the path that is leading her to being that stupid lacrosse
groupie at the high school. He’ll take her away from a dead future of living on
the arm of Jackson Whittemore. He watches her leave and the bounce in her
strawberry hair tells him that she’s better than that. He knows that there’s
more to her, he just doesn’t know what.
When he looks back at Scott, his friend is smiling at him, a devil's smirk,
knowing and unnecessary and unnerving. Stiles pushes his shoulder as hard as
he's allowed to with the leniency that comes with friendship. He turns and
ducks through the doors, where teachers are herding students into lines that
will take them to classrooms. Scott breaks away to join his line, Stiles walks
straight ahead towards his. He cuts into the middle of the line in front of
Erica who smiles shyly and lets him in. Turns his head over his shoulder and
from the back of the line, Jackson scowls at him and mouths a dirty word that
Stiles can't understand. He sighs and faces forward, not clever enough to think
of anything with his muddied mind. All he can do is focus.
 
"It's so stupid," Jackson mutters, his entire body veering to the side as he
steers Star Fox away from Pikachu's thunder. Danny rolls the pokemon closer and
hooks onto Jackson's avatar. Jackson, in turn, grunts and jams the X button.
"Like, all of the sudden he pays attention in class. I mean, he pulls the same
stupid crap. He still turns in essays on the mating behaviors of jellyfish,"
Jackson remembers overhearing the teacher trying to have a serious conversation
with Stiles about that one, "but. He acts like he's paying attention."
Offhandedly, and with a stiff tongue, he says, "I bet his mom would have been
proud if he'd acted this good all the time."
Danny hesitates, sending Jackson a wayward glance, which gives Jackson just
enough time to throw Pikachu off of Hyrule Castle. "Dude," he says,
distractedly leaping Pikachu to safety.
"What," Jackson snaps angrily, the emotion in him growing. "I'm just saying. He
was such a...such a shit for so long," the swear trips him, and he blubbers his
way back to stable speech, "and now that she's gone, he's just the perfect kid?
I don't get it. Why wouldn't he have acted like this years ago?"
With a shrug and a sigh, Danny offers benevolently, "I don't think that's how
ADHD works. You can't just stop acting like that." He silences
conspiratorially, lets the moment drag dramatically for a moment. "Besides, I
heard he's on medication now."
Before leaving that evening, Danny adds, "He misses her, too."
"What?"
Danny smiles. "I know you miss his mom a lot. I just wanted to say...well, you
know. Because you two, like, hate each other. But you're really a lot alike."
Jackson almost asks who Danny is talking about before he gets it. He snarls and
hums low in his throat, the sound thrumming with nowhere to go. "Shut up
Danny."
Danny just shrugs and turns toward his mom’s car, parked on the curb.
That night, Jackson plans on climbing in bed in his parents’ room. He hasn’t
done it in awhile, and he almost feels a little bit old for it at the tender
age of eleven, but he needs a hug, and he’s not sure how to ask for one
anymore. Sometimes Danny gives him one. Not after what he said tonight.
Instead of following through on his plan the way it was supposed to go, he
falls asleep and has a nightmare, and he ends up going to his parents’ room
anyways. Before he goes, he checks the clock. It’s later than he wanted, but it
doesn’t feel like a plan anymore anyways. The walk down the hallway is
punctuated with glances over his shoulders, silent breathing, at some points
not breathing at all, walking on the balls of his feet.
When he arrives, the lights are out, like they should be. It’s a sixteen pace
walk to the bed on his small feet, still a large distance even for adults. The
sheets are smooth but not soft, difficult to hold onto as he uses them to vault
himself onto the high mattress. Wedges his toes between the box-spring and the
mattress to make his climb, and finally lands-face first into the cold sheets,
right where his father’s feet should be.
He scrambles his way up to the head of the bed, already having awoken his
mother, and she’s reached over to turn on a bedside lamp by the time he reaches
her pillow. She frowns at him and sits up, mumbling his name as he curls up to
her.
“I had a nightmare,” he begins, and then, after a minute pause, “Where’s dad?”
“Your father had planned to be home late tonight,” she explains tenderly, but
tiredly. Through a yawn, she asks him, “What was the nightmare about?”
Jackson tells her that he doesn’t remember. All he remembers is waking up
terrified, cold sweat sliding around between him and the fabric of his jammies.
All he knew was that he’d needed someone to hold him.
His mother accepts this and wraps both of her arms around him, pulling him into
her lap now. She bounces slightly and rocks him side to side, and for a moment,
he remembers how much she loves him, even if she’s not around to say it all the
time. When he’d gotten into bed, he’d wished that his father would also be
present, but it doesn’t distress him now. He doesn’t care that he probably
won’t even see his father the next morning. His parents love him.
“Do you think you’re good to go back to bed now?” his mother asks him softly,
biting off another yawn. He just leans back and looks at her. She smiles.
“It’ll be okay. You’re a big boy now. Big boys sleep in their own beds.”
Jackson glances desperately at his father’s empty spot, pillows pristine and
untouched, though the covers have been rumpled by his mother’s own in-sleep
tossing. Her arms loosen around him and her hands grasp him, turning him
towards the edge of the bed so that he may jump down easier. It’s too easy, and
he doesn’t look back when she tells him that she loves him and goodnight and
have better dreams so that he can wake up fresh for school.
It’s when he gets back into his own bed that he remembers what his nightmares
were about.
Mrs. Stilinski.
As a zombie or something, but he doesn’t think that part matters. the important
part is that he dreamt of Mrs. Stilinski and he didn’t get to see her face
because it was different, monstrous. His brow shrivels up and his eyes sting
like salt has just been thrown in them, and then they swell and burst, tears
flowing freely now. He cries into his pillow to keep the noises from echoing.
The next morning, he doesn’t wake up for school on time, and neither of his
parents are there to catch him.
 
Beacon Hills in November is green. Wholly and unequivocally living, blooming in
the corners that don’t bloom as they exist in other parts of the world. The
edges of the playground, padded with wood chips, boasts tall slots of grass
that the weedwhacker couldn’t reach or didn’t care to try.
All this and more because of the rains that come in the late fall and last
through the winter. Suffice to say, the ground is in a constant state of some
degree of moisture. Today, it is spongy. Not quite wet enough for mud to ooze
out of its grass-root holdings, but retaining enough water to slush up under
pressure.
The children’s shoes are soaked—a soccer ball was found behind the slides, one
that had not been there before Thanksgiving break, and a congregation of
several different classrooms have come together over a messy game during
recess. Scott and Stiles have the same recess, so they are put on the same
team. Flailing in the back behind some of the girls who actually play rec
league soccer, and flailing in front of the goalie, a boy who is on a real
soccer team with the city.
Jackson has a different recess than Danny and Lydia, so Jackson is on the other
team with some of his less close friends, ones that he’s in class with. They
don’t have as many actual soccer players on their team, but they play
aggressively, kicking the balls too high for the other teams’ girls to reach
them. When the ball slides in under their feet, the girls weaving in and out of
their reach, they close in and try to swarm everything the other way.
So it’s not a totally unbalanced game as much as it is horribly messy and mean
and spirited, laughter and tears in equal measures. Twice, teachers threaten to
end the game if the boys can’t play nicer, but nothing comes of it. Those who
are overwhelmed abandon the match for the swing-set, where they can watch from
up, beside the tree branches.
Eventually, enough players clear out that Jackson gets a clear view of
Stilinski and McCall toeing around at the back of the field, beside the
goalie’s net. A pathetic excuse for defense. He has the ball between his feet
and he’s controlling his kicks like his father told him once (he didn’t have
time to actually come home and show him, but he described it pretty well) and
he’s almost between the two boys in seconds.
Jackson takes this way because he figures it’ll be the path of least
resistance. McCall couldn’t breathe his way into Jackson’s path if it meant
winning an actual medal, and Stilinski isn’t exactly paying attention anyways.
He’s calculated this out. It should be a perfect goal opportunity.
He doesn’t slow down when Stiles runs right in his way. Not because he wants to
crash, but he just can’t comprehend the idea that Stiles would just step in
front of him like that. It feels almost like running into traffic. In his
shock, he bowls the boy over, and the both go tumbling onto the ground, one
rolling over the other until Jackson digs his palms into the earth and hoists
his body up, over Stiles.
He takes a ragged breath, feels his clothes soaked and clinging to his body,
the air slowly easing back into his lungs. And then he looks down at Stiles.
Who has his hands clasped over his forehead, eyes scrunched shut and half-
covered by his wrists. He looks like he’s in pain.
Jackson scowls. “Don’t be such a baby,” he sneers, and Stiles opens his face
furiously, looking about to say something. He gets out a short “What—” but
before he can finish, Jackson is lifted up by hands tucked under his arms. He’s
set on his feet, and another teacher helps Stiles up as well. Jackson shakes
out his t-shirt but doesn’t realize that the teachers are trying to lead them
inside until one starts pulling at his elbow.
He looks up at her and frowns and then looks over at Stiles, who stumbles a few
steps before pitching forward and heaving. Jackson watches with a sick
fascination as Stiles’ lunch comes out before him, watches as he almost falls
face-first into it. The teacher catches him before he can wobble too far, and
the walk into the school is much faster than it was a moment ago.
A nurse is shining a flashlight into his eyes when he overhears the phone call.
Something about Stiles’ father being very busy, maybe being able to come by in
an hour. He’s fine, Mr. Stilinski, he just needs rest right now. Come when you
can.
This one’s fine, the nurse grouches as she stands. Jackson looks over at Stiles
who really can’t focus but not in the same way as he can’t focus without his
medication. “What happened,” he asks before the nurse can walk away from him.
She looks back at him with a softer look on her face, and tells him, “He hit
his head too hard. How about you go over there and keep him company while he
waits for his dad? Let us know if he starts to feel any worse?”
Jackson scowls, but she raises a dutiful eyebrow at him. “It’ll get you out of
class for the afternoon.” Teachers always use that weakness. Jackson’s scowl
deepens, but he moves to sit next to Stiles on the sick bed. Stiles’ gaze snaps
toward him, but then his eyes close and he totters. Jackson steadies him with a
grip on his shoulder. Stiles rights himself.
“What were you even doing there,” he mumbles scornfully, not looking at Jackson
but obviously talking to him.
Jackson just can’t believe what he’s hearing. “Are you kidding me? You’re the
idiot who stepped in front of me!”
Stiles scoffs out a laugh and turns his head, leaning back against the wall.
“Whatever,” he mumbles, sliding to the side as if he doesn’t know he’s falling.
Jackson grabs out and catches him by the sleeve of his t-shirt. Stiles shakes
him off, jamming an elbow into Jackson’s side.
Like boys do, Jackson retaliates with a harmless slap to Stiles’ shoulder.
“Watch it,” he snarls.
Instead of doing that, Stiles intentionally lets his hand fly and catch the
side of Jackson’s face. He reaches out in retaliation, arms tangling with the
boy, both of them scratching and hitting what they can reach, Stiles lethargic
and Jackson cautious. Stiles groans in frustration, pushing harder with his
flailing arms but finding no more purchase than before. Jackson wards him off
by grabbing for his wrists and shoving them into his chest.
“Hi, I’m here to pick up Stiles.” The voice is faint, coming from the very
front of the nurse’s office, and neither boy pays it any attention. Stiles
continues to flail in Jackson’s general direction and Jackson continues to
shove his hands, his body, his face away.
“Boys,” is what finally catches their attention, Stiles’ father standing before
them with his hands on his hips.
The nurse walks behind him, face agape as she realizes the scene they’ve just
interrupted. “We all thought you’d be coming later,” she starts, but abandons
the sentence.
The Sheriff’s face is very hard, tough like Jackson has never seen it before.
“So let me get this straight: first, you give my son a concussion, now you’re
fighting with him?” His volume has gone up a little at the end in that way that
most parents do but not Jackson’s parents and so, in its unfamiliarity, it’s
terrifying. Jackson’s brain scrambles to excuse himself.
“No, no, he was gonna fall, I was just trying to stop him, he wouldn’t stop
moving,” he hurries to say, all of it almost at once.
The Sheriff takes pause, takes a deep breath, and in his sternness, seems to
resign himself. All that Jackson sees is that he’s probably out of the
doghouse. Right now more than ever, he just wants to go back to class, if he
can. As far away as he can get from the Stilinskis is the happiest he’ll be.
“Alright,” the Sheriff says, and he and Jackson both look at Stiles who is
leaned up against the back wall pitifully but also looking like he wishes he
couldn’t hear them. The Sheriff rests a hand tenderly on his bruised knee, and
Stiles softens.
Jackson softens with him, eyes slanting shut as they drag around Stiles’ face
and body. He’s never seen the boy look this sad, or never noticed. He turns his
head and tells himself that if he gave a shit, it would matter. Stiles and his
father sign out and leave, and the nurse asks Jackson if he wants to stay and
sleep or go back to class. He chooses class.
 
The last day of fifth grade, Jackson trips Stiles at their graduation ceremony.
Not inherently on purpose, but not stopping it from happening either. He can
see the Sheriff rub a hand across his eyes wearily. Seeming to have seen Stiles
just trip. Jackson smirks to himself. Stiles scowls at him and sticks his
tongue out.
He gets reprimanded by a teacher.
Jackson sits back in his seat and feels triumphant.
 
Jackson and Stiles end up in different sixth grade groups. They do not have the
same teachers. They are not in the same hallway. Instead, Jackson shares all
his classes with Scott. They do not talk, they do not look at each other at the
same time. They sit in opposite ends of the room and don’t share answers on
their homework.
When the bell rings, Scott meets Stiles in the atrium where all the hallways
meet, and Jackson beelines towards the back hallway to find Danny.
Sometimes Stiles watches him, warily.
 
The new semester of their seventh grade year starts with a half-day on the
eighth of January. Jackson walks into his new music appreciation class and
finds Stiles sitting in the back corner furthest from the door: what normally
is his corner in any classroom he occupies. It’s been a year and a half of
having his spot uncontested in all of his classes. He figured that his good
fortune would be broken eventually, but this. This is going too far. He’s
tempted to say something, but the thought of interacting with Stilinski just
boils his blood. He takes a seat in the opposite corner, right next to the
door.
The classroom fills up slowly until the last second before class starts, when
every seat fills itself in a matter of seconds. The teacher is late by two
minutes and walks in with a thermos, held at elbow length, and a folder,
clutched to her chest.
The folder turns out to be full of syllabuses, freshly printed and warm even as
she hands them out. Jackson lets his hands absorb the heat until he sees
Stilinski out of the corner of his eye doing the exact same thing (they meet
gazes—they freeze) and both of them stop.
This semester, they will have to learn to play at least one song on the piano
or the guitar. They will learn to read music and they will learn the different
types and periods of music. At one point in the year, they will be put into
small groups to write a presentation on a song of the group’s choosing. The
teacher seems nice. Young, relatable, almost pretty.
Jackson doesn’t pay attention to her at all. He’s preoccupied with watching
what should be his seat, keeping an eye on its occupant as though he could melt
away Stiles’ flesh with his gaze. Stiles meets his eyes a couple times but
doesn’t hold him for very long. He doesn’t seem to hold much. Jackson wonders
if he’s not taking his medication again.
Stiles, in his own shaken world, is more worried about the surprise erection
he’s suddenly sporting. For some reason, while staring into Jackson’s steely
gaze as they both fondled their syllabus, his autonomic nervous system thought
it an appropriate time to make an appearance downstairs.
Which is odd, because he’s gotten hard because of a breeze before, but never,
ever has it happened from even thinking of Jackson, let alone looking at him.
In one thought he’s suddenly consumed with insecurity. Is everything in his
life a lie? He thinks of Lydia Martin for a moment and realizes that that’s not
going to help him in his current situation, but it does make him feel better
knowing that he still finds her very agreeable.
So what he does is he doesn’t really listen to what the teacher is saying, but
he assumes she’s reading the syllabus, which is fine, because his father will
want to go over it again after dinner. Instead, he thinks of things that are
unappealing. Things like mean dogs and family pictures. Broccoli and cheese.
Bullies. Which inherently leads him back to thinking of Jackson.
Dangit, his mind screams, close to cursing, and he can’t focus. The bell rings
and he’s the first one out of his seat, not even putting his syllabus away,
just slinging his backpack onto his shoulders and carrying the sheet out in his
hand. He’s almost through the door when Jackson stands up, right into his path.
“Forget your meds today, Stilinski?” he snaps, a wicked smile on his face that
looks like Jackson doesn’t want to be smiling at all. “Maybe next class, you
can stay out of my seat.”
At first, Stiles is offended, but then, he’s just confused. Out of Jackson’s
seat? “What?”
“The back corner of the room is mine.”
“Go suck your thumb,” Stiles flares boldly, moving to step around Jackson only
to catch his shoulder in the chest. Other kids are trying to move around them
to get through the door, but slowly, the boys are moving to take up more and
more space. Stiles shoves Jackson away, and Jackson grabs him by the shoulders
and shoves him back even harder.
Stiles drops his backpack and now they’re fighting. More like a haphazard
slinging of fists than an actual fight, but the teacher still loses her head.
She drags both of them by the sleeves of their shirts down to the principal’s
office, where they sit and wait outside the door with another kid who has paint
spilled all down the front of himself. Stiles is harder than ever.
“Way to go, Stilinski. First day of school and you get me sent to the
principal’s office.”
“Whatever, Jackson,” Stiles huffs, exhausted of the attitude. “Just stop
talking to me.”
A girl with a red face and mean fists slumps out of the principal’s office and
into the hallway. The kid with paint all over him is called in. Jackson scoots
down one seat on the bench. Stiles hesitantly follows.
“Oh my god, Stiles.”
“What?”
Stiles looks at Jackson and Jackson is looking at Stiles’ pants. Oh. Jackson
laughs.
“You gay, Stilinski? I have to admit, I’m a little surprised—”


“No, I’m not gay! Just shut up!”
“Make me!”
It might be a record, come to think of it. Fighting in class, getting sent to
the principal’s office, and fighting at the principal’s door. They’re too short
for the secretary to see them through the office window, though, and class has
started so the halls are empty, and nobody can appreciate the phenomenon of
Stiles’ and Jackson’s hatred for one another.
Nor the fact that Jackson is much bigger and slightly stronger than Stiles, and
has him by his wrists in under a minute. Stiles is flushed and aggravated and
he hates that Jackson is touching him and loves that he’s being touched all at
the same time. If he knew how to properly head-butt someone, he thinks to
himself, now would be the time.
“Jackson, please let go,” Stiles grits out meanly, the last resort he uses
before he starts kicking and causing a scene. Jackson, instead, leans forward
and smiles and almost has the chance to speak when Stiles just finishes. Like,
finishes. Right there. It’s horrible and wonderful and he can’t see for a
moment, but when he can again, Jackson looks appalled.
“Did you just…”
This is, perhaps, the most mortifying unobserved experience in Stiles’ life.
Jackson scoots away from him, as far to the edge of the bench as possible.
Stiles wants to say something, apologize maybe, tell Jackson that this is what
he gets for being a jerk, something, but all he can do is stare. Jackson is
hunched over, probably going to be sick. What if he tells people?
Stiles notices that Jackson is hunched over his crotch. No. Couldn’t be. Stiles
strains to get a glimpse and is delighted with what he sees. Delighted to know
he's not the only one. He outright laughs, his own pants starting to soak
through with his come.
The principal comes out to greet them both and verbally announces that he is
not pleased at all with what he sees.
 
“An accident? Stiles, you’re thirteen years old, you don’t have accidents
anymore,” the Sheriff says tiredly. At one point, it might have been a
reprimand but now, it’s just disappointed disbelief. “I can’t leave work right
now. Is there anything in the lost and found?”
“No. We checked.” He twiddles the phone cord around his finger, saddened by the
tone of his father’s voice.
A heavy sigh is followed with, “Okay. I’ll see if anyone here can swing by and
grab you something. Just...be honest with me. Have you gone to the bathroom at
all today?”
Stiles twists his mouth unhappily and grouches out an indignant yes.
“Okay,” the Sheriff says. “I just want to make sure that you were at least
trying.”
Stiles waits for him to hang up first before he does. He’s going to get a
talking to for the fighting, but the accident is an old conversation Stiles
thought he’d never have to have with his father ever again. Still, he’d rather
everyone think he wet himself than let them know that he couldn’t control
himself while fighting with Jackson stupid Whittemore.
It was probably just the fighting, anyways. Stiles sometimes has the same
problem when he wrestles with Scott, but Scott says his mom said that it’s just
a normal things that happens sometimes and it’s nothing to be worried about.
She probably never took into consideration that it could happen with Jackson.
After hanging up the phone, he returns to the bench where Jackson is sitting,
waiting to call his own parents.
He gives Stiles a long look before standing to do so. Dials slowly, waits for
longer than Stiles would consider normal, and then leaves a message. Of course
Jackson would be so lucky as to not have to actually tell his parents what
happened. Jackson returns to the bench not looking like he feels so lucky.
The principal returns to where they sit just a moment later and dismisses
Jackson. Stiles is to return to class once his clothes have been brought to
him. Before Jackson leaves, he turns to Stiles like he has something to say,
but not like how he would normally say it. Maybe it would have been something
like don’t tell anyone or I don’t care about what just happened or something,
but whatever was on his mind never surfaces. He just shrugs his way through the
hall and slouches off towards class.
The hallway slows down after that. Nobody passes through, nobody exits the
office, nobody talks to him. Stiles sits in complete isolation until one of his
favorite deputies arrives, a clear plastic bag of his clothes in tow. He only
needs underwear and jeans, but she brought him a clean pair of socks, just in
case. She waits outside the bathroom while he changes and lets him put his
soiled garments in the bag. He doesn’t ask for a hug before she leaves but he
gets one, and he’s grateful for it.
Stiles does not share his next class with Jackson, nor any after that, and he
doesn’t see him for the rest of the day. After school, he meets Scott on the
bus. Considers telling him about what happened, but reconsiders. It’s not
really something people go around talking about, even to their best friends. Or
at least, that’s how the situation seems to Stiles. That is to say, Scott’s
never mentioned anything like this to Stiles, so Stiles figures it’s best kept
to himself until about that time.
 
Jackson masturbates as soon as he gets home. He pulls out one of the magazines
that Danny stole from his older brother, but doesn’t look at any of the women
on the pages. Which is okay. Danny says that he used to masturbate to the book
without looking at the pictures, either. Besides, this is far from Jackson’s
first rodeo, and he’s been able to get off from just his imagination before.
Mostly what’s different is that he’s never imagined Stiles in his head before.
Never really thought the guy even had a working penis. But the idea that he
does is strange. Different than he ever thought it would be.
A little bit dangerous, Jackson thinks as he comes. Too enticing. A kid like
Stiles shouldn’t be like that. It’s not normal for those kinds of kids to get
the attention of someone like Jackson. What it is is not fair. Laying in bed,
staring at his ceiling, feeling disgusted with the mess he’s made of himself,
he bets in his mind that Stiles isn’t thinking of him at all.
As per emergency protocol, Danny is over at Jackson’s house almost as soon as
he hangs up the phone. Jackson doesn’t know who else to turn to. And it isn’t
like he plans on telling Danny anything, but for god’s sake, he needs something
to keep his mind from running. Danny has Scrabble tucked under his arm, a game
that he never loses, and Jackson doesn’t even put up a fuss, just pulls out
seven tiles and asks,
“Danny, who was your first crush?”
With a wry smirk, Danny answers him, “It wasn’t you.”
“That’s not what I meant. Geez,” Jackson snarks in return, aggressive to a
fault. He doesn’t know how to cover himself, so he just gets mad. Danny is used
to it, so he throws his head back, laughs, and shrugs his shoulders.
“I don’t know. Probably Lydia, I guess.”
“It wasn’t a guy?”
Danny levels Jackson with a look. “No. That doesn’t mean anything, though. I
didn’t have my first crush on a guy until, like, third grade.”
Jackson’s stomach rolls. Can gayness be that latent? Surely, even if he were
gay, he wouldn’t be gay for Stilinski. The thought turns him in ways that he
shouldn’t be turned, and he is seized by a long, sharp shudder. Danny gives him
a withering look before turning back to the board to play his first word.
“Besides,” he adds, “you can still have crushes on people and not actually want
to be with them. It’s like, a different thing. I wouldn’t want to be boyfriend
and girlfriend with Lydia, even though I think she’s pretty.”
“Yeah, she doesn’t even hold hands,” Jackson adds absently. Danny laughs loudly
at that, loud enough for it to echo through the open door into the hall.
Jackson starts the game with ski for six points. Danny plays the word brick
over two double letter scores. At fourteen points for the word, Danny is ahead
already, and Jackson has little hope of catching up.
There are other board games they could play. Jackson’s desk, unused for school
or work, hosts a variety of boxes filled with cards and plastic pieces and
paper money. There are more than enough games for them to play through an
entire summer. But Danny likes Scrabble and this is the only game Jackson
doesn’t care if he loses, so he plays. Sometimes he even learns new words.
“So why are you asking about my first crush?” Danny asks, aloof, not even
looking up from his letter pieces.
Jackson shrugs. It’s because he’s not sure if boys who like boys have crushes
on boys and girls, which seems to be Danny’s case. Somewhat frightening,
because he isn’t sure that the feeling he’s had about Stilinski is the same as
the feeling he’s had about Lydia. It’s similar enough for the comparison to
have come immediately to mind, but different enough to make him uncertain,
unstable, and hopeful that maybe this is something else.
“I don’t know. What do crushes on boys even feel like?” There’s a derisive edge
to his voice, meant to be offsetting, but Danny is rarely offset. Especially
not by Jackson.
He stops fiddling with his pieces and finally looks at Jackson. “Why?”
Jackson sneers at him and plays a really stupid word, hello, only eight points.
He pulls his new tiles from the game bag and when he looks up, Danny is still
looking at him. Less offended, softer now, but still a devastating look.
Analytical. Danny is going to figure it out at any minute now, and Jackson
isn’t sure how he feels about that. Yes, he trusts Danny. But this isn’t the
kind of thing that can be negotiated with trust.
“Okay, whatever. I’m just curious.”
“Is this about Stiles?”
Jackson guffaws and throws the tile bag into the game box, scattering a few
pieces within its cardboard walls. Danny reaches in to put them away while
Jackson works to keep his face neutral. He only realizes belatedly that he’s
working too hard on being authentic that he has neglected to answer and is
sitting up too straight and is maybe breathing really carefully. Danny, of
course, picks up on all of these things.
“Look, it’s not that big of a deal—”
“It is a very! Big! Deal!” Jackson’s voice has risen for emphasis and the maid,
from downstairs, cautions him to quiet down before his parents get home.
“Boys can like boys, you know that—”
“It’s not that,” Jackson spits, though it is a little bit that. But mostly,
“It’s Stiles.”
Danny smiles. It’s not Jackson’s favorite smile. It’s probably closer to his
least favorite smile because it always means that Danny finds something
amusing. The things that Danny finds amusing do not always sit well with
Jackson.

“What’s wrong with Stiles?”
“This isn’t a joke, Danny.”
“I’m not saying it is. I was just asking what’s wrong with Stiles, is all.”
“Are you kidding? Everything is wrong with Stiles! He’s annoying, he never pays
attention, he’s loud and he never stays in his seat, he’s so stupid, he—he’s
gotten me sent to the principal’s office more than anything else in the world!”
Jackson fumes, his disgust with Stiles overflowing into his rant. “He dresses
dumb, he has no friends, no mom—”
Jackson stutters to a halt here, jaw clenched, body trembling, not realizing
there are tears in his eyes until he tries to read the pieces on the game board
and finds them fuzzy. He looks up at Danny, who looks scared and sad all at the
same time, and Jackson doesn’t know what to do, so he escapes to his bathroom
quickly, muttering something about being right back.
It’s not fair, he thinks to himself as he puts the toilet seat down and sits on
it. Pulls his knees up to his chest and lets his head fall forward into them,
jarring him, the sharp edges of his patellas catching him in the forehead.
It’s just not fair. He could have ended up having a crush on Danny or
something. Anyone except for Stiles. But for some reason, Jackson can never get
by with these things. Danny knocks on the door and says something softly.
Jiggles the knob and finds it locked, though Jackson doesn’t remember locking
it. Everything seems to be on autopilot. The knob jiggles again, the lock
turns, and then everything pauses for a moment before Danny finally enters.
“Sorry,” is the first thing he says, quietly, with penance.
Jackson shrugs his shoulders listlessly. “It’s whatever.” And then, “No, it’s
not,” he huffs out, breathing coming a little bit quicker again. He shakes his
head. “It’s...I mean, it’s...Stiles.”
“That’s okay.” Danny sits down on the rug, nonchalant even as Jackson watches
warily. “Yeah, so you guys have hated each other since he was, like, born. So
what? He’s not that bad. I mean, he talks a lot. But he has...issues, you know?
It’s not his fault.”
Jackson scoffs, but untucks his knees from his core. “He’s such a stupid…” He
can’t think of any way to finish the sentence, can’t figure out a way to make
this all better with words. “I just don’t know what to do. I really don’t like
him.”
Danny laughs. “Tough, dude. Why don’t you just talk to him about it?”
“No way.”
“No, c’mon. I know you want to hate him, but maybe if you talked to him, you’d
find out that he’s okay?”
“And then what?” Jackson frowns. “Tell him how I feel? Talk about my feelings?
He probably still hates me. He’d tell everyone. No way.”
“You really have that little faith in him,” Danny mumbles, amazed. “I mean,
you’ve never even actually talked to the guy and you’re assuming what he’s
gonna do if you tell him you have a crush—”


“It’s not a crush.”
“Whatever.”
They both know exactly what it is, but Jackson would be much more comfortable
if they abide by the rule of not naming it. Danny doesn’t seem to acknowledge
this, the denial not even seeming to register in the features of his
calculating expression.

“You have music with him, right?”

Instead of
answering, Jackson asks, “What makes you think he’d talk to me?”

Danny shrugs.
“Maybe he feels the same way.”
Jackson rolls his eyes in a yeah right fashion. It’s improbable, but not
entirely implausible. Jackson and Stiles have history. Not exactly the history
you see in books about mothers and fathers and forbidden lovers. More of the
history one might see between France and Germany, but history nonetheless.
“Okay. I’ll talk to him on Monday.”
Danny nods. “I think you should.”
 
The Monday talk never comes. Jackson walks into his music appreciation class
and heads to the back corner of the classroom. Puts his binder on his desk,
takes his seat and realizes that its previous owner is conspicuously absent.
While students are still trickling into the room, he takes the opportunity to
slide up to the teacher’s desk and ask her where Stiles is.
“Considering your reputation, the principal and I thought it would be
beneficial to both you and Mr. Stilinski if you were placed in separate music
classes.”
 
It’s fine. It doesn’t matter. Jackson lets it bother him for maybe a minute. He
doesn’t tell Danny about it, but he thinks Danny just figures out that the talk
never happens. Jackson hardly even sees Stiles with the new schedule. It’s
fine. Quiet. Peaceful. Jackson finally holds hands with Lydia and everything is
as normal as it should be.
 
Stiles sometimes forgets about that horrible moment in seventh grade, fighting
on the bench outside of the middle school principal’s office with Jackson
Whittemore. He only really remembers it when he has bad dreams that use such a
horrible memory as the foundation. Bad dreams from which he wakes with wet
sheets and soiled pajamas. Terrible dreams.
Sometimes it brings him back two years to when he had Jackson’s hands on him.
Jackson’s face near his. Back to when they couldn’t go one half class period
without talking to each other, fighting with each other. The first half of
eighth grade, they had two classes together. The second half they had three.
For an entire year, they’ve managed to not talk except in passing, not to
maintain a vicinity together except to work. It was an impressive streak.
Sometimes it makes him think. It’s not that he doesn’t know anything. He kissed
Danny last winter break at a Christmas party. He’s pretty sure that kisses are
supposed to feel like that: wanting, warm. Maybe with somebody who wanted to
kiss him more than Danny, but it’s the same infrastructure: if Jackson had
kissed him on that momentous morning outside the principal's office, he would
have let him.
So maybe Stiles masturbates and thinks of Jackson from time to time. It’s
better than porn. It’s better than Lydia, whom he cannot even imagine naked in
all of her fashion-designer-jacket, kitten-heels-in-eighth-grade glory. Maybe
it's a little masochistic; maybe it's a joyful pain. Maybe it’s easier now that
they don’t have anything to do with each other. It’s easier because he doesn’t
have to talk to Jackson tomorrow if he doesn’t want to, doesn’t have to even
see him if he sits in the right desk.
It’s not gay, Danny told him. It’s bisexual, and it’s fine, as long as you
don’t fuck with my best friend. Stiles isn’t sure if Danny was demanding
abstinence or peace, but it hasn’t mattered much since then, has it.
It doesn’t matter except when Stiles wakes up like this, remembering the first
time someone brought him to orgasm, remembering it well. Thighs soaked, sheets
soaked. Laying on his stomach, face and arms out to the side. He groans his way
into waking and sits up onto his knees. Palms his sticky crotch. Finished
already. He tucks his face into his elbow for an aggravated shout. An are you
kidding me into the darkness. And the darkness answers with silence. A short
snort from down the hall, where his father seems to have just rolled onto his
back.
There is a secret hiding place for nights like this in Stiles’ room. He keeps
his closet stocked with sheets enough for a week’s worth of emergencies, and
below that, he keeps a short, wicker hamper. Seemingly unused, since he has a
larger one next to his desk. And yet, there is almost always a set of yet-to-
be-washed sheets and jammies in it. As per custom, Stiles stuffs tonight’s
wreckage on top of the same from last week, when he dreamed about flying and
woke up a mess. He’ll have to do laundry on his father’s very next evening
shift.
He’s gotten good at unmaking and remaking his bed in the past year, so it’s not
very much time at all before he’s back beneath his covers, snuggling up to his
pillow. Sleep has not yet returned to his head, and his eyelids seem to resist
closing, so to pass the time to allow the darkness to slip back into his
breathing and thinking, he reaches for his phone. Used only for school, Scott,
and dad, he doesn’t usually have anything on it.
Surprisingly enough, though, there are two text messages waiting. His lazy
fingers fumbled to scroll towards them, and when he opens the thread, he
recognizes the sender as a number he knows but refuses to save. For reasons.
(925): i wrote the 1st paragraph of the presentation
(925): jane said have ur part done by thursd so we can put it 2gether
Stiles rolls his eyes and is about to text back a mundane okay while he tries
to equalize the Jackson in his dreams versus the Jackson so bent on getting
straight A’s, but instead, something else happens. Somewhere in his mind one
single neuron seems to poses the question: why did Jackson send this at what
appeared to be one-oh-seven in the morning instead of the evening prior. It
being closer to three now, Stiles is sure that it isn’t fair of him to
anticipate a response until morning, but he asks:
u been thinkin about me l8 @ nite, jacks? hottt
It’s crude, quite unusual for the new rendition of their relationship, but so
is a one in the morning text. So really, the final perception of who rocked the
boat first will depend solely on affiliation to one party or the other. Stiles
feels his sleep coming towards him, and he rolls over to embrace it.
His phone, behind him now, buzzes dutifully.
Stiles flops onto his other side faster than he can take a breath. He flips
open his phone, frowning at the screen and punching the center key madly to
open the message thread.
(925): i wrote the 1st paragraph of the presentation
(925): jane said have ur part done by thursd so we can put it 2gether
u been thinkin about me l8 @ nite, jacks? hottt
(925): gross. how bout u just bring ur piece n shut up
Stiles bites down on a grin and a bubble of laughter. He can just imagine
Jackson’s face, eyebrows flat and mouth flatter, eyes narrowed almost to
flatness as well. The entire, flat, unimpressed look. It’s not one Stiles is
unfamiliar with. It’s the one he knows that Jackson is making right now.
srry big boi. just cant help but think things when i get 1 am txts.
Immature and hopeless, but much more interesting than sleeping. Stiles pushes
his blanket back with his feet and sits up on one elbow, watching his phone
intently, delighted to no end when not a minute later, his phone buzzes with
that number, and he’s ready and waiting to read,
(925): r u messing w/ me? i s2g ill break ur face if u r
It takes the breath out of him, and his heart is beating so fast that he can’t
figure out whether this is funny or if he’s still in the same mode he was in
when he woke up. It’s all the same. The way the air he breathes feels
carbonated, everything feels shaken and fizzy. He reaches over to his
nightstand to grab at his glass of water, takes hold of it and then decides
that he’s not actually thirsty and replaces it on its coaster.
y would i b messing w/ u, jackie?
(925): i no where u live
good ;-)
Stiles feels the oncoming confrontation but never gets to delight in it. His
bedroom door opens faster than he can close his phone and roll over, and his
father is the one standing in the doorway. Groggy, but definitely disappointed.
“Stiles? What are you doing up this late?” The light spills in from the hallway
and both of their eyes adjust. His father can see his phone, and he can see his
father’s frown deepening. “I thought I told you that was for school.”
“It is,” Stiles insists. “Jackson asked me to bring in my presentation on
Thursday.”
“Stiles, school does not happen during bedtime. Here,” he steps forward and
puts his hand out, “give me the phone. You’ll get it back in the morning.”
Stiles opens his mouth to protest, holding the phone tight in his grasp, until
he feels the fight leave him. His father’s gaze has that power. He disconnects
the charger, closes the phone, and hands it over. Nothing pains him more than
feeling the warm plastic leave his fingers, knowing that Jackson will have
something unbelievably perfect to say that, come morning, will be unanswerable
because this is not a text conversation that happens while the sun is up.
He only belatedly thinks to fear his father opening the phone and seeing the
texts. He’s not exactly a pro with technology, but he’s not stupid. He’ll be
able to figure out in a handful of seconds what Stiles was saying.
But his father leaves the room, shuts the door on his way out, and the line of
light peeking in from the hall flicks out. Stiles feels no closer to sleep than
if he just woke up next to an intimate python. He breathes just as soundly. He
anticipates the morning with all the desperation of a ship in a storm. Curls up
into his covers. Wishes he’d never woken up.
 
“Sounds weird.”
“No, it sounds dumb. We have STARs in two weeks, the presentation next week,
and instead of actually working on anything, he flirts with me?” Jackson hisses
the last part under his breath, for fear that some idle nobody will catch onto
the fact that there are messages on his phone from Stilinski that he wouldn’t
will his worst enemy to read.
“In all fairness, it doesn’t sound like he’s not working on anything, just that
he’s working and flirting at the same time.”
Danny dodges Jackson’s elbow and pulls the hood of Jackson's hoodie up over his
face. The squabble takes up a couple lanes of the hallway, and Jackson ends up
bumping into a sixth grade girl with glasses, who apologizes when she turns to
face him. He rolls his eyes and mutters some dishonest semblance of an apology.
“Yeah, but he’s flirting with me,” Jackson picks up as they turn the corner,
his voice lowering again.
Danny shrugs. “What’s so wrong with that? If you don’t like it, tell him to
stop.”
Jackson scowls. “That would mean admitting that I know he’s flirting with me.”
It would also mean that Stiles might never text him like that again. In
reality, Jackson only fell asleep last night at four in the morning after
waiting for Stiles’ response (one that never came). It’s kept him on edge since
he woke up, checking his phone repeatedly. He tells himself that it’s not an
invested interest in Stilinski. It’s more like pining for a movie sequel. He
just wants to know.
Now that it’s on his mind, he pulls his phone out of his pocket and checks it
again. Still nothing. He hesitantly opens the text thread, following Danny’s
feet through the crowded hallway to keep from bumping into anybody. He catches
a quick glimpse of the same messages that have been there since three this
morning before his phone is snatched from his hands. For a moment, it feels
like he’s dropping it, and he scrambles to catch it. After that, he quickly
realizes that Danny has taken his phone.
“Give it back,” Jackson demands, face burning as Danny reads the messages.
“Wow.” Danny closes it and passes it over. “You weren’t kidding.”
“Um, no Danny, I wasn’t kidding.”
“Why did you text him at one in the morning?”
Jackson shoves his phone into his pocket and shrugs. “Because I was texting
Jane at one in the morning, and she said to tell Stiles to have his thing in
Thursday.”
“Why wouldn’t you text him this morning, instead?” Danny’s smiling, his smile
is growing, it’s becoming disconcerting, just watching, knowing that thoughts
are blooming, knowing that Jackson should not have let Danny read those
messages.
“Because I didn’t want to,” Jackson snaps, and pushes past Danny to get to his
class. Danny just laughs and says nothing, disappearing into the crowd towards
his own first period. Jackson won't see Stiles until right after lunch, at
which point he has class with him for three periods in a row. Until then, he
keeps his phone in his front pocket even his phone is supposed to be in his
locker the whole day. He thinks to himself that he really needs to figure out a
way to keep Stilinski from getting to his head.
 
By the time Jackson gets to the cafeteria, unbelievably, he’s not thinking of
Stiles anymore. He’s trying to wrap his head around pre-algebra, crunching
numbers. He missed almost a third of the problems on the homework and he
doesn’t understand why, and when he asked his questions the teacher answered as
though he had asked different ones. He should get his lunch and take it to the
counseling center where he could get someone to tutor him through his mistakes,
but instead, he spreads his sheet out on the lunch table next to his tray and
tries to figure out what went wrong. Thinks idly that he should start showing
more of his work.
Danny takes the seat beside him and puts his lunchbox down to the side so as
not to set it down on Jackson’s homework. He glances over it briefly before
turning to his food. “Has he texted you back yet?”
Jackson looks up, brow furrowed, confused, before his face opens and he breaths
a short, “Oh.” He frowns again and says, “No,” turning back to his homework
with more aggressive concentration now, although not exactly focusing as hard
as he was a moment ago.
“Well, you have next period with him,” Danny offers.
“I have the next three periods with him. It doesn’t matter right now. Here,” he
shoves his homework at Danny. “What did I do wrong?”
Danny glances over it. “Didn’t move the decimal over at the end.”
“For which one?”
“For all of them.” Danny unwraps a sandwich and takes a bite, then turns in his
seat to look around the cafeteria.
“What are you looking for?” Lydia asks him as she takes a seat, lips twisted as
though she doesn’t care about the answer to her own question. “Jackson, are you
ready for the quiz?”
Danny turns around and shrugs while Jackson gives her a long look and asks,
“What quiz?”
She smiles, not friendly. “The quiz next period. Or did you forget all about
cellular anatomy?”
Jackson pushes his tray away and drops his head onto the table. “Dangit.”
Lydia reaches into her binder and pulls out a sheet of paper, pushing it across
towards him. When Jackson takes it, she reaches into her binder and pulls out a
pen. “You’re lucky you have me.” The sheet she’s handed him is a diagram of a
cell, complete with detailed drawings of organelles. Throughout the drawing are
blank lines indicating to various structures. Lydia drew a practice quiz for
Jackson to use. He looks up at her, straight in the eye, and says, “I love
you.”
She scoffs and makes a rushing gesture. “Hurry up. I want my pen back as soon
as you’re done.”
As soon as he sees the cell, he remembers it all again. It’s fuzzy. His mind
won’t stay in place. It bounces from Lydia to Danny to Stiles, somewhere in
this room, Danny suddenly standing and leaving the table.
Jackson asking, “Where are you going?”
Danny holds up a zip-loc baggie full of plastic wrap and an empty fruit cup.
“Trash.” There’s a trash can closer if he goes towards the cafeteria entrance,
but instead, he heads for the trash can on the interior wall, close to the food
line. Jackson follows Danny with his eyes, but loses him when Lydia taps the
study sheet in front of him.
“Do you want to get an A on this quiz or not?”
 
Danny comes out of nowhere. One moment, Stiles is listening to Scott tell a
story about one of his mom’s patients trying to get up and go to the bathroom
after coming out of surgery, and in the next second, Danny Mahealani is right
in-between them, blocking his view. He reels for a second, sliding back, and
then recognizing that Danny has cut in between their chairs and is smiling at
Stiles.
“Hey,” he says, which is unsettling because yeah, he knows Danny, but they
don’t exactly talk. And yet, the next thing out of Danny’s mouth is, “Can I
talk to you for a minute?”
“What’s stopping you,” Stiles says flatly, still trying to figure out what’s
going on. Scott leans forward to see around Danny, catching Stiles’ eye and
mouthing What’s going on, to which Stiles can do nothing but shrug. Danny turns
to catch Scott mouthing something else, but he stops as soon as he’s caught and
leans back in his seat.
“Just wanted to talk to you about Jackson.”
“Oh.” Oh. “Did Jackson send you?”
Danny laughs. “No.” He crouches down between Scott’s and Stiles’ seats to avoid
standing, and looks up at Stiles acutely, eyes narrow and mouth quirked up.
“Just saw the texts and got curious.”
Scott’s eyes widen and he leans forward into their conversation. “You texted
Jackson? About what?”
Stiles flinches defensively. “We are working on a project together, you guys.”
“Yeah, but that’s not what you were talking about last night.” Danny smiles and
rocks back and forth on his heels; the devil’s smile.
“So what? It’s was three in the morning. I was just messing with him.”
“Oh, good. He’ll be glad to hear that.” Danny shoots up to his feet and makes
to step out, away from their table, but Stiles reaches out and grabs him by the
back of his shirt.
“What do you mean by that?”
Danny shrugs, pulling his shirt out of Stiles’ grip. “He’s been hung up about
those texts all morning. Anyways, why did you stop texting him back?”
“My dad took my phone.” Stiles watches Danny go, wondering if he’s telling the
truth. Probably not. It’s probably some cruel joke to get back at Stiles for
messing with Jackson in the first place. Danny disappears into the crowd before
Stiles can see where he goes to sit, so he turns back to his school lunch and
stares absently into his peas.
“Stiles?”
Scott watches him, concerned. Obviously concerned. Probably for Stiles’ mental
health. God help either of them for having to text Jackson Whittemore. But
Stiles can understand how a situation like this could be misinterpreted by an
outsider. Stiles turns towards Scott and leans forward, voice low when he says,
“I woke up really early this morning and had a text from Jackson, so I just
started messing with him.”
“Like how?”
“Like...I don’t know, I guess. Acting like...I don’t know. Flirting?”
Scott’s jaw drops and he turns back to his food, turning back to Stiles a
moment later. Seeming to be going into shock. Stiles smiles sheepishly but it
doesn’t come out like he wants it to. “It’s just a joke.”
“Okay, Stiles,” Scott says when he gets his wits about him again. Shakes his
head as though for a dead man. “But if he beats you up for this, I’m not
jumping in to save you.”
Stiles pauses for a beat before smiling. “What, my knight in shining armor?
What am I gonna do without you at my side?” Scott laughs an I-accept-you-
mocking-me kind of laugh and pushes at Stiles’ arm. “No, really, without you
there, the average oxygen intake on my side will be astronomically higher
without—ow! You don’t have to hit so hard!”
Scott laughs, for real now, and after the two of them have gotten their fair
share of blows in, they settle down. “So...do you often...joke with Jackson
Whittemore?”
“No. It just...I don’t know. I had a weird dream last night, and when I woke
up, I had his text, and I just. I don’t know. I just decided to go for it.”
Stiles doesn’t consider this to be a very un-Stiles thing to do; if anything,
spontaneity is his trademark. And yet, being spontaneous in Jackson’s general
vicinity...that is a new development. To be the one that breaks the peace.
“It’s probably just gonna be a funny memory one day.”
“Yeah. Probably.”
 
Stiles turns around three times in Biology and gets in trouble for it twice,
Eyes on your quiz, Mr. Stilinski, but he finished labeling six minutes ago and
he wants to know what Jackson is doing and why there aren’t any spitballs in
the folds of his shirt or notes with death threats being slipped into his
pockets (he knows, he’s checked). He can’t see much, but what he does see is
that Jackson is staring intently at the sheet before him, seeming to not notice
that anything in the world exists other than cell organelles.
“Mr. Stilinski, please.”
He nods and starts to turn around, but a calculated hesitation lets him see
Jackson’s eyes flicker up from his work, ceaselessly moving around Stiles’
person until they return to the quiz. Stiles rolls his eyes and turns around in
his seat. Some funny memory one day his ass. He only wishes that he’d never
sent the texts in the first place. It was a dumb idea, anyways.
 
Jackson is so relieved about his grade on the cell quiz that he actually gets
Lydia to skip sixth period, which she probably wouldn’t do if she didn’t know
everything they tried to teach her anyways. Danny meets them in the faculty
bathroom with the broken lock. Danny has his Gameboy DS, Lydia has a compact
and her lipgloss, and Jackson holds his phone, tapping it against his thigh as
the silence percolates.
Danny reaches over to show him the Pokemon he’s just caught, some stupid pink
cow thing. Jackson rolls his eyes and says what he really feels and Danny prods
him with the stylus hard enough that it hurts. He tells him, “Ow, Danny, that
hurt,” which he probably shouldn’t, because it just makes Danny laugh, and when
Danny laughs, Jackson laughs. When both of them laugh, Lydia looks at them like
they’re not worth her presence.
“So Stiles,” she says blandly, all amusement gone from her voice. A wry smirk
pulls at her lips. “I heard I have some competition?”
Jackson barks out a laugh and tucks his phone into his pocket. “As if,” he
mutters, casting his gaze to the side. Danny glances between them, leaning
forward when nobody speaks up.
“He said he was just messing with you.”
Heedless of how captivated he seems, Jackson’s attention snaps onto Danny. “He
said what?” Lydia looks on with narrowed eyes.
Danny shrugs. “Yeah, I talked to him at lunch time. He said that he was just
messing around. And he stopped texting back because his dad took his phone
away.” He puts his DS into his bag and pushes his hands into his pocket. “But
he seemed like he wanted to know what you thought of it.”
Jackson seethes. “Well I think he’s the dumbest kid on earth.”
Lydia rolls her eyes. Melodically, she says, “I’ll bet he thinks just as highly
of you.”
“Yeah? What would you do if Stilinski started flirting with you at three in the
morning?”
“I’d ignore him. Like I'd do if it's three in the morning or not.” Lydia smiles
sweetly and cocks her head, one finger twirling in her curls. “If you ask me,
you seem pretty invested in what Stiles is doing. Or, should I say, why he’s
doing it.”
Jackson stares at her long and hard. He glances at Danny, who is looking at the
floor. Looks back at Lydia. She meets his stare, demolishing him with her lips
quirked up and her eyes sharp, unyielding. He gives before she even seems to
have committed to bringing him down. “It’s just dumb, okay? I don’t care, I
just want to know.”
“Jackson, sweetie, that is caring.”
 
The meet me by the back trash is something that Stiles technically isn’t
allowed to respond to. He’s half “grounded,” which is difficult because he’s
supposed to keep his phone, he just can’t use it for anything other than
emergencies. If the Sheriff knew that Stiles knows how to delete messages and
even entire conversations, he would probably be a little bit more grounded from
his phone privileges.
Instead, he’s not, and he texts Jackson back, whatever, because he didn’t even
know Jackson was still in the school. He hasn’t seen him since Biology and just
assumed that he’d skipped off to somewhere more interesting. Also, he’s not
interested in fighting Jackson Whittemore. He’ll probably lose. He leans over
to ask Scott to go with him (because backing down would just make him look like
a wuss) but the teacher snaps at him and holds him in her hardened stare until
he rights himself in his seat and goes back to acting like he’s doing the
reading.
Which he’s not. He can’t focus. He can only think about whether Jackson will
start with a right or a left. Gut or jaw. Slam him into a wall or throw him to
the ground. Stiles sighs and puts his head down on his desk. The teacher barks
at him again. He raises his head, but just in time for the bell to ring, and so
he puts it back down. If he decides to meet Jackson, he’ll miss the bus,
anyways.
Scott shakes him by his shoulder and asks what’s wrong. Stiles just pulls out
his phone and shows him the messages.
Scott frowns. “Just don’t go,” he offers sagely with a shrug.
Stiles shrugs. “I’m gonna.”
“Stiles, I gotta go. My mom’s picking me up today.”
“Oh.”
Scott gives him a long look before pulling his backpack on and begging him not
to go one more time. Stiles stands, pulls his backpack on, and steps into the
hallway. Turns against the crowd, edging his way to the back of the school, out
by the gymnasium, to the big, heavy doors that open into a fenced-off area. You
can’t enter from the outside without a key, and normally there are too many
janitors in this hallway to get out from the inside.
Stiles always has that kind of luck. Fantastic adventure of his own volition?
Caught. About to go get his face beat in for flirting with Jackson Whittemore?
No witnesses, no faculty, what janitors?.
The doors lock automatically once they close, so Stiles props them open with
his backpack. He ventures out, hands in his pockets, circling around the
enormous dumpster in the center of the fenced enclosure. It smells awful, but
looks clean on the outside. Stiles isn’t nearly tall enough to see what’s on
the inside. The ground is concrete and stained from years of abuse. On two
sides of the enclosure are concrete walls—one of them belongs to the hallway
and the gymnasium. The other belongs to the music room. The fence is tall,
chain-link with painted dark green slats. The entire space is cast in shadows,
the only light coming from the brightness of the sky overhead. The sun has
since passed by this way.
The grimy squeal of the door sounds from behind Stiles, and he whirls around to
see Jackson stepping carefully over his backpack. Their eyes meet and for a
moment, neither of them move. Stiles is still convinced that Jackson might just
take his life today. So he toughens up, broadens out, sticks his chin into the
air before him and says, “Whatever you’re gonna do, just go ahead and do it.”
Jackson watches him for a split second before laughing, outright laughing at
him. Stiles has seen a lot of laughter in his time, a lot of it directed
towards him, but never like this. It’s the kind that hurts his feelings but
relieves him at the same time. A confusing feeling that is interlaced with
other confusing feelings that don’t mean as much to him as he might not punch
me anymore.
“You are so dumb, Stilinski.”
Stiles scowls. “Then what do you even want, Jackson? I'm gonna miss the bus.”
He's already missed it, but it's worth mentioning.
Jackson sobers quickly, eyes trained on Stiles. Sheepish, all of the sudden.
Looking about as uncertain as Stiles feels, and it’s not a good look for
Jackson. Too unusual to be edgy. Not practiced enough to feel sincere. But
Stiles knows better than that. There’s something up, and it still probably
revolves around that stupid text thread.
“Whatever it is, hurry up. I’m walking home today because of you,” Stiles
spits, anger growing in him as impatience gives way to unease.
“Whatever. Shut up. I can give you a ride home. Geez,” Jackson hisses in one
breath, speaking up too quickly and realizing it a moment later, roses in his
cheeks.
“What do you want?”
“What do you want?”
Stiles wants to say that the question isn’t fair, that he asked, first, but
Jackson has had this curiosity boiling in him since last night. Which is
actually pretty unfair of Stiles. Not that he often thinks about how Jackson
feels, but it’s pretty hard not to with the guy standing right there, letting
it all hang out on his face. Looking at it is kind of disgusting or something
that feels similar, like with butterflies in his stomach or something. Stiles
isn’t exactly sure.
“I don’t know. I just wanted to mess with you, I guess.”
Jackson scoffs. Shifts his weight from one foot to the other and looks away.
“Honestly?” he finally says, sounding more fed up than he does reassured.
“Yeah, I guess, whatever.”
“No,” and it comes out crude, dirty. Mean. Jackson advances with fists heavy at
his sides, swinging hard when he walks, and Stiles backs up until he’s right
against the fence, voice high and tight in his throat, ready for the blow that
will end him. “Not whatever. You don’t get to do that,” Jackson almost shouts,
and Stiles’ eyes flicker to the door on the far side, hoping that somebody will
come for him.
When Jackson gets into arm’s reach, he takes Stiles by his collar and shoves
him into the fence. The chain link pattern digs into his shoulders and his
spine, his body aching forwards, away from it. Into Jackson. Stiles can’t get
the rhythm of fighting, he always falls into one of intimacy.
Even now. He doesn’t know where free passes come from in moments like this, how
people get away from fights without scratches or dents. By panicking, he
supposes. By panicking. By—
—reaching forward and kissing Jackson Whittemore. Yes. By kissing Jackson
Whittemore.
Not exactly a technique that would be found in the Art of War, but it works.
Whereas before, Jackson’s grip on his shirt had almost been choking, it
slackens until his hands are practically cupping Stiles’ shoulders. Wait, they
are. Stiles is kissing Jackson. Jackson is kissing him back.
Belatedly, Stiles feels grateful for this. Come to think of it, kissing Jackson
would probably have been a good short-term plan, but the alternative to the
current turnout is probably getting punched harder than he ever would have by
just standing there and taking it.
But that’s not what he’s facing right now. Right now, he’s trying to figure out
how tongues factor into kissing, and where to put his, because Jackson’s mouth
is opening slowly but surely, and the kiss is getting closer with every
unsteady breath they take between them. Stiles’ fingers are hooked in Jackson’s
shirt, fists so tight it’s painful, and he lets out a small noise that has
Jackson pressing against him. He loses it; he thinks he'll stop, thinks that
he'll calm down, but even as he thinks this, he's coming in his pants. Because
of Jackson. For the second time in his life.
“Jackson!”
Stiles shouts it accusingly. A sort of darnit, Jackson!, but when he looks up
from his soiled pants at Jackson’s face, he can see how that could be
misconstrued. Because Jackson looks like he’s just been shoved headfirst into
the same predicament as Stiles. Of course somebody as self-involved as Jackson
would find his own name so enticing.
“Fuck,” Jackson mumbles when he finishes, when his breath comes back from the
grave in his chest, eyes staring fixedly at the nowhere in Stiles’ stomach.
Stiles flinches when he hears it, the swear a little bit too loud and too easy
off Jackson’s tongue.
“Fuck,” he repeats, shoving away from Stiles, stumbling at first, but getting a
solid grip on pacing in a circle around the dumpster. Stiles, who would have
pegged himself as the pacer out of the two of them, watches in horror.
It takes a couple minutes, but Stiles believes that they both cool off. Jackson
stops moving and Stiles stops fearing for his life, so they might just be okay.
Stiles is going to have to walk home in soiled pants, but it’s not the end of
the world. He’s still alive. That’s more than he expected coming in this
afternoon. He clears his throat and starts wobbling towards the door, veering
around Jackson to give him some room, and almost reaching the door before
Jackson says,
“Stiles.”
Stiles makes a good show of not freaking out, turning slowly and completely as
in control of his movements as he normally is. “Yeah?”
Jackson shrugs and doesn’t meet his eyes, but says, “We can give you a ride. If
you need.”
Oh, he thinks. “Oh,” he says. “Yeah,” he finishes when he finally figures out
that Jackson is offering something nice. Maybe he’s just realizing how
uncomfortable wet pants are, but Stiles decides that he should not waste this
opportunity, lest another one never appears.
The woman driving the car is not Jackson’s mother. Stiles has only seen the
woman once, but he knows that this is not her. That’s okay. She’s nice and
opens the door to the back seat for both of them, buckles them both in, and
doesn’t say anything about their jeans. Maybe she can’t tell. She’s been
waiting on them awhile, anyways, and they might be dry enough for her to just
ignore so that she can get home quicker. Stiles understands that.
Once at the wheel, she asks him for directions to his house. He gives them,
especially detailed, reaching as far into the front seat as his arms can reach
to point out streets and signs and his driveway when they pull up to it. The
entire ride, Jackson is unusually quiet. Stiles hardly notices until he’s about
to get out, and not once in his rambling about the town layout or his place in
it did Jackson interject. Stiles glances at him as he pulls his backpack onto
his shoulders, and Jackson meets his eye briefly, only long enough to sneer at
him before looking away, out the window.
“Alright, Stiles! Is your dad home? Or do you have a key?”
“I’ve got my key,” Stiles says, fishing it out of his pocket, and the woman
even walks him to the door to make sure that he can unlock it without trouble.
She seems like a very nice woman.
He gets inside, locks the door behind him and runs to the window to watch them
leave. The light falls onto the car windows, tinting them, making it impossible
to see what either of them look like as they pull away, but Stiles imagines
that it’s not as interesting as he wants it to be, anyways. He runs upstairs,
sheds his clothes, and pulls out new ones. He thinks about this afternoon, but
not deeply. In the same way as he would think of a dream. He could have dreamed
this. He comes to terms with it that way.
 
Jackson allows himself this crisis. He supposes that Stiles isn’t even thinking
about it. The word faggot races through his head, though he’s not sure where
he’s heard it before. His heart beats faster when he realizes that maybe he’s
not thinking of Stiles at all. Maybe he’s calling himself the faggot.
Danny has never been anything but normal, Danny even had crushes on girls at
one point, so what makes Jackson so different? Danny is a different sort of
thing. The kind of thing that doesn’t soil his shorts on school grounds, who
doesn’t respond to strange text messages in the middle of the night. Mostly,
the kind that doesn’t associate with kids like Stiles.
Jackson wonders if he’d ever tell Mrs. Stilinski how he felt, if she were still
alive. It’s an equal toss-up as to whether he’d just blurt it out or manage to
keep his mouth stuffed with the dry lump of his tongue enough to keep his
secrets hidden. She’s always the person he went to for advice, or to help him
figure out a word in a book, or to discern the difference between multiplying
fractions and dividing them. Although full of the greatest guidance he’s ever
known, guidance that he has kept with him since her passing, he’s not sure he
could trust somebody so closely associated with the enemy. A spark of red
flares up in him that Stiles would keep her from him then, too.
He loses his fire and throws himself on the bed. Stiles, for god’s sake. He
needs to get the guy off of his mind.
 
Summer nights are always dull. Soccer practice never goes past dark, a lot of
kids go on vacation to sunnier parts of the state, and Jackson’s parents are
still never home. Danny’s family sometimes goes back to Hawaii to visit cousins
and brothers and sisters. Lydia makes a checklist of museums she wants to
visit, and professors and politicians that she wants to meet. The list is
always substantial, and by the end of her summer, she’s usually only crossed
off a third of it. And Jackson finds himself alone, playing video games,
bettering his aim with his crosse, and he’s set up to be on the lacrosse team
this year, captaining it by sophomore.
All the time to himself is a lot of time to improve.
He doesn’t often sleep well, never tires himself out enough. He hovers
insatiably in consciousness, only sinking into sleep when he least expects it.
Dreaming that he’s running every night. Restless when he wakes, legs still
kicking the covers. Angry often.
The first good night of sleep Jackson gets, he dreams of Mrs. Stilinski. He
doesn’t remember her name, and her face is all wrong, but it’s definitely Mrs.
Stilinski. She is asking for a book he checked out weeks ago, promising to
waive his late fee, and he begs her forgiveness for being insincere. In the
dream language he’s speaking, it means the same thing as I’m sorry for losing
the book, and as a librarian, she understands that. He almost remembers her
name when he wakes up.
The name is on the tip of his tongue, refusing to roll out into the dark night
air, but he realizes that the name he was remembering is nothing like her real
name. He forgot her name completely and made a new one up, and the strangeness
of the dream reassures him that this is okay. A glance at the clock shows that
it is too early to be awake and that when he wakes again it will be much too
late to be asleep. He checks his phone, as per habit, and finds nothing.
When he wakes again, he smells breakfast. Probably a meal long past. Breakfast
is always made, whether he is awake for it or not. He hasn’t worked up the
heart to feel bad about that. He is dressed too slightly in only his pajama
pants, and he doesn’t meet anyone on his way into the kitchen. The house is his
own. A note on the fridge says that his parents are going to be headed straight
for the airport after their workdays, and there is a grocery list on the
kitchen counter—if he wants anything from the store, he should write it down.
So it’s the park today.
His escape when there is nothing for him in his room, nothing in his
neighborhood, nothing in the neighbors of his neighborhood. He packs his
snacks, his water bottle, his various game balls and his crosse, dresses in his
t-shirt and his athletic shorts and his grungiest tennis shoes. Now ready, h
hikes his way to the park.
Its rolling expanse denies the slight stature of the town. Something more fit
for a suburb of San Francisco, the parameters of the park boast variety and
care. The grass, despite the summer swelter, is green. The wood-chips beneath
the playground are soft and smooth, not a splinter to give. Each day, whatever
tarnishes the blacktop is washed away. The park could be the pride of the city,
for all anyone cares about anything else.
There are families surrounding the play area: jungle gyms crammed on either
side by baseball fields and a football field and a soccer field. None of them
particularly big enough for the rec leagues, but all big enough for days like
this. Chaperoned by those families, scattered amongst the plastic obstacle
courses and bases and endzones, are children from the local schools. Most of
whom Jackson doesn’t recognize, whether they’re younger or new or from the
surrounding area.
A couple of them, Jackson does recognize. For instance, Stiles, and his Scott-
shadow. Neither of their parents are around, so they are either accompanying
another family or are here, like Jackson, on their own terms. They take up the
two swings on the very end of the set, and Stiles looks about to fall off every
time he reaches his peak forward.
But that’s none of Jackson’s business. He never stops here. He slouches onward,
up one side of a hill and down the other, trees starting to appear less
sparsely, surrounding him, back where there is only a running path and the
stray adult trying to jog in the shade. He drops his backpack and pulls out his
crosse and a ball.
He’s got a can hammered into the hollow of a tree. His nanny helped him do it a
summer or two ago when she decided she would rather him fish the ball out of
that instead of the filthy hole in the tree. Bugs and dirt and germs, she had
told him.
Jackson is almost perfect at hitting the hole as long as he’s focused. He’s not
often unfocused. There is very little to distract him. He fires three shots in
a row, all of them clanging off the back of the can, two of them hard enough to
ricochet around its walls until thudding back down into the grass.
Three for three, he goes to make it five for five.
His next shot lands just above the can and bounces back towards him. His
shoulders are tense and his grip on the stick is painful. His head is still
ringing, and when he turns around to where Stiles is standing, seeming to
realize the error with his unusually loud greeting, Jackson tries not to throw
anything at him.
“I just...saw you over here by yourself.”
“Yeah, no duh,” Jackson snaps, pushing at the grass with the head of the
crosse. Scott is not with Stiles, he notes. He turns to collect his lacrosse
ball and resumes his scoring position.
“So...you’re just playing lacrosse with yourself?” Jackson declines to answer,
actively seeking his focus. “Scott and I were thinking about trying out. I
mean, it’s big at the high school, I guess.”
“Yeah, it is,” Jackson interjects, hoping to cut him off. No luck.
“Yeah, so it’d be really cool to be on a team like that. Besides, we’re too
short for basketball.”
Just about given up on his shot, Jackson turns enough to look Stiles up and
down. “Yeah, you are.”
Stiles smiles weakly, obviously putting a lot of effort into it. Maybe putting
a lot of effort into this. Jackson turns to look at him more fully and wonders
why it’s worth it. Yeah, he vaguely thinks about the schoolyard. Faintly
remembers fighting in the hallway. It all is behind him. He doesn’t think about
it anymore. So to Stiles’ smile, he sneers and turns away.
“I just wanted to hang out over here,” Stiles responds petulantly to the
silence.
“Well don’t,” Jackson demands.
“You can’t tell me what to do!”
“God! You’re so annoying! I can’t believe anybody puts up with you!” Jackson
keeps his back to Stiles and is unprepared to be pushed, almost losing his
balance and meeting the grass.
Fighting with Stiles is more difficult than Jackson remembers. They’ve both had
growth spurts in over the past few months, both of their bodies offering only a
few inches in preparation for high school, but Stiles is definitely the more
gangly of the two, limbs everywhere. Squirming. In the grass, too long for
Jackson to keep a hold on.
Which is dumb, because he would know exactly what to do if he were on top. He
would know exactly where he wanted to punch Stiles, exactly how hard he would
shove his face in the dirt. Down here, with his back in the grass and Stiles
hovering above him, it’s obvious the guy doesn’t know what to do. Probably
never considered hitting Jackson Whittemore. Smart, but not smart enough. He
fights like an octopus, wrapping around everything Jackson throws at him,
pushing it to the side.
Jackson shouts out in frustration, bucking his hips up and sending Stiles
sprawling forward, right onto him. Without his balance, though, Jackson is able
to shove him off and scoot up alongside him where he can push Stiles down with
a hand between his shoulder blades, scrambled up and lines up across his back.
He gets an arm around Stiles' neck, pulling his head back in a choke. Stiles
gives a concerted effort to buck him off, but Jackson stays put.
When they both still, their torsos heave for breath and in their chests, their
hearts beat wildly. Stiles has his hands planted into the ground, elbows crowed
up at right angles from the long line of his trunk. Prepared, ready to spring
up given the chance. The muscles in his arms are small, hard to define,
clinging to his bones desperately. Still, Jackson feels his strength.
This is not a position he wants to be in, fighting with Stilinski, but it’s one
he finds himself thinking of when granted the opportunity. Given their history,
he considers this to be reasonable. A better way of saying it, at the moment,
may be that most of the time he doesn’t want to be in this position. Still,
it’s the one he finds himself in, and he doesn’t regret it. He uncoils his
back, enjoying the lengthwise spread of himself over Stiles, and finally takes
control of what conspires against them.
Stiles’ breath stops, or slows, or quiets, and Jackson tries to ignore it. The
curve of Stiles’ body is beckoning, Jackson having found the space of it
pleasing against his front. He grinds and wonders if Stiles has silenced in
favor of or against this development.
His answer comes in moan, Stiles’ flat body bowing to meet the ground in a
motion mimicking Jackson’s rutting against him. Fucking into the ground, back
up towards Jackson. Fingers curled in the grass, desperate, pulling.
“Wait,” Jackson barks, because fuck if he’s going to soil his clothes again
because of this. He's seen Stiles jeans messed up too many times to make this
mistake again. He reaches down and gets his own zipper undone first, pushing
his jeans out of the way. Stiles is not long behind him, and while he works,
Jackson pushes the guy's shirt halfway up his back, leaning down once more and
rutting down against Stiles’ bare skin. Stiles braces himself on his knees, arm
tucked underneath him, fist tight around his arousal.
Jackson doesn’t last long. It might be the fact that they’re in the middle of
the park, it might be how warm Stiles is beneath him, it might just be that he
hasn’t masturbated in the past two days. He’s not willing to admit that it
might be Stiles making soft noises from below. Still, whatever it is, Stiles is
still panting when he’s done, hand working furiously as Jackson sits up and
looks in his bag for something to clean up with.
At the bottom of his backpack is an old hand towel, one that smells like it’s
been rotting down there for some time. He pulls it out and turns towards where
Stiles is laying, seeming to have just finished. Jackson wipes himself clean
before throwing the towel on Stiles, who uses it to clean his back and his
hands. Some semblance of thanks is muttered in the exchanging of towels.
Jackson buttons his jeans and Stiles pulls his up and they sit there, quietly.
Contemplative. Finally, Jackson says, “I don’t like doing this.”
Stiles just snorts. Jackson doesn’t say anything further, just takes his
lacrosse stick in his hand and turns it, making something to focus on that
isn’t Stiles.
“Whatever,” Stiles finally gives for a proper response. “It’s not even that
bad. You’re not the one who got messed up.”
“Messed up?”
Stiles indicated to the remnants of Jackson’s completion on the back of his
shirt. Jackson nods. “Wouldn’t’ve been a problem if you hadn’t just come over
here,” he mutters.
“Whatever,” Stiles says again, more forcefully this time. He waits for Jackson
to say something, and Jackson doesn’t. So instead of sitting there in silence,
Stiles stands and stomps off. Like it was stupid to come over here anyways.
Jackson watches him go and thinks, Good riddance. Good. Riddance. Right? Yeah.
Yeah, he decides. It’s whatever.
Except it’s not whatever, because it’s really dumb and a little bit slutty that
the past couple times Jackson has seen Stiles, they’ve ended up humping. When
he thinks about it, Jackson gets kind of mad. Mad enough to think about going
to a different high school just so he doesn’t ever have to worry about running
into Stilinski again. It’s a childish thought, but he figures it would be worth
his while to present it to his parents the next time he sees them.
If only he didn't really want to be captain of that lacrosse team.
 
Stiles makes it his goal to stick with the one who wouldn’t put a lacrosse ball
through his face if given the chance. Because Danny, unlike Jackson, does not
almost tear the netting of his stick when he finds out that Stiles and Scott
both made the team. And Danny’s actually pretty cool, except for the fact that
he’s so smart and so smooth that he doesn’t want to hang out with Stiles as
much, and definitely not around other people. He’s already hanging out with
Juniors.
Stiles would even settle for just not being near Jackson in general, because as
much chemistry as they have, they can’t have nice things. Jackson is a child
who breaks vases and picture frames. At least, that’s what he’s like in Stiles’
head, and Stiles is actually pretty sure that’s not too far from the truth. The
rude comments like Me? Being seen with...you? that Stiles can practically feel
rattling around his ears are enough deterrent from investing any more than has
already been invested.
And yet.
Freshman biology is not supposed to be a lab-centered class. It’s more of a you
kids need a science that doesn’t involve glass beakers you kids break
everything Jackson and Stiles break everything Jackson Whittemore and Stiles
Stilinski break—
“Mr. Stilinski, your lab partner for this year will be Mr. Whittemore.”
Stiles just stares at her for a moment. The longest anything has held his
attention since the start of last summer. She starts to read the next pair of
names on her clipboard but she sees him staring, zombie-like, probably some
sort of stupid-looking. She takes her glasses off and grinds her knuckles into
her hip, rising to the challenge.
“Is there a problem, Mr. Stilinski?”
Stiles snaps out of it. “Uh, yeah. Jackson and I have a history of not working
well together. Like fighting and getting sent to the principal’s office.” Some
of the kids in class giggle, muffling it with their hands, remembering well.
Stiles waves his hand in the air and makes a face. “Probably not a great idea
to have us working together this year. It just...might be a problem.”
“A problem?” she asks, lips quirked in a smile. “Mr. Stilinski, there will be
no problems in this classroom.”
God help him. Fortunately, this isn’t supposed to be a lab-centered class.
“Your lab partners will be your group partners for group projects, study
guides, and test corrections. For large-group projects, you will pair up with
other partnerships.”
Fuck.
Stiles turns in his seat to look at Jackson, who has the same murderous look he
had in the locker room the weekend before school started. Stiles turns around
in his seat, folds his arms on his desk, and slams his face into them. If he
thought he was finally getting away from this, he could not have asked for a
more potent way to crush his optimism. This is the only class he has with
Jackson this year. He asks the face of his desk why it had to be this one.
Because this means that there are going to be more projects at one house or the
other. After-school meetings. Being near Jackson which holds the equal
potential of being punched and being fucked. Stiles is certain that Jackson
could manage both at the same time, if he really put his back into it. Being
near Jackson: like he has to be for stupid things like corrections for the
syllabus quiz that they both missed two questions on. Unfortunately, that’s
four questions they have to explain, four right answers they have to
rationalize, and the teacher has given them ten minutes at the beginning of
class to do it.
“I bet if we got in another fight, she’d break us up for good,” Stiles mumbles
in the sea of mutterances that is a classroom at work.
Jackson snorts and chokes back a full laugh, but that’s about it.
 
Their first assignment of the school year, like real assignment, is in biology.
Of course it is. It’s the dumbest thing ever, too, because it’s a pre-lab. And
this isn’t a lab-based class. And they don’t even have a lab in their
classroom. They have to switch classrooms with a sophomore chemistry class so
that they can have sinks and instruments.
And Stiles expects that the teacher will let them work together in class again,
but she doesn’t. She gives them their worksheets, one for each partnership, and
tells them that ninth graders should be smart enough to figure out how to do it
on their own time.
Which means that Jackson ends up at Stiles’ house while Stiles’ father is on
patrol, and he lays the ground rules.
“I’ll work in the kitchen. You work in the living room.”
Jackson just stares at him blankly. “There’s only one sheet.”
Stiles holds the up the sheet in question. In his other hand, he holds the
notebook paper onto which he copied all of the questions. “See? We come up with
our answers, compare them when they’re done, and stick with whatever is right.”
Jackson rolls his eyes and staches the original sheet from Stiles. Takes a seat
at the couch. Works diligently for about half an hour.
Which is about the amount of time that this still seems to actually be a good
idea. For that half hour, Stiles prides himself on his ability to mediate
things between them so that they can at least get through this class.
And yet, at about the half hour mark, Stiles gets hit in the back of the head
with Jackson’s pencil. Which Jackson threw. Stiles turns around and looks at it
for a moment before turning to scowl at Jackson.
“What the hell?” he begins to say at the same time that Jackson says, “You guys
don’t even have a stupid pencil sharpener?”
“It’s in my room! God, you had to throw a pencil at me, just for that?”
Jackson snorts and stands up, walking into the kitchen to retrieve his pencil.
Stiles waits until he’s almost reached it before kicking it away, back towards
the living room. Jackson stares at him for a moment, seeming to debate the
merits of engaging, before turning to grab it from where it’s rolled into the
carpet.
Stiles won’t say he’s disappointed that nothing happened, but he does follow
Jackson up to his room. Just to make sure that he doesn’t get into anything. Or
mess anything up.
Jackson makes a beeline for the messy desk and Stiles flops down onto his bed.
The pencil sharpener grates obligingly, Jackson stands silently, Stiles kicks
at the side of the bed. Feet swinging back and forth, Jackson turning his head
over his shoulder to watch him, frowning, possibly appraising. Not paying
attention and accidentally taking an inch or two off of his pencil.
Throwing the pencil down and approaching the bed like a shadow, quietly,
surprising Stiles when he drops down on top of him.
“You’re so fucking annoying,” he grumbles.
Stiles smiles cheekily. “Yeah, that’s why you’re all up on me.”
Jackson actually hits him. In the side, pain blossoming outward and killing the
mood but Jackson kisses him anyways. Their pants come undone and neither know
whether they undressed themselves or each other. Jackson actually kisses him.
Stiles loses his breath for a moment but Jackson doesn’t seem to think anything
of it. But Stiles is losing his nerve. Is Jackson experienced? Has he done this
with other people?
To himself, Stiles thinks that Jackson is the only person he’s ever been with,
as far as not just kissing. It’s not monogamy, it’s just sad. The fingers he
has clenched in Jackson’s t-shirt loosen and he doesn’t really respond to the
kiss much anymore. He was clumsy in it, anyways. Jackson seems to notice the
lack of response, leans back to scrutinize, looking Stiles up and down.
“What?”
“Who else have you been with?”
Jackson barks out a laugh and starts to stand up, but Stiles grabs him by his
shoulder. “Never mind, then. I was just asking.”
“Why?”
Coiling at the question, Stiles says, “Because you’ve gotten better at
kissing.”
“What, was I bad before?”
“A little bit, yeah.”
Jackson’s face contorts a little and he hits Stiles again. Stiles kicks out at
him. The both collapse against the mattress in a fit of wretched limbs and
hair-pulling. Being more physically fit, Jackson has no trouble maneuvering
Stiles onto his stomach, one arm twisted behind his back. Stiles taps for mercy
and Jackson gives it to him, both of them laying across his bed with breaths
heaving in their chests. Stiles side-eyes Jackson and smiles at him. Jackson
rolls his eyes and doesn’t smile back.
It wouldn’t be so hard if every project they work on together could be like
this. Just goofing around. Stiles could actually like Jackson if it were for
the goofing around. At school, Jackson doesn’t even go near him, so the
physical contact almost seems friendly, sometimes.
But of course it’s not. The next time they kiss, they’re ignoring a study guide
for their first test on lab terminology. They agree that it should be a quiz
instead of a test, but it’s not, and so there’s a study guide (and later there
will be test corrections).
The next time they kiss, Stiles ignore the fact that Jackson is definitely
improving and pretends that he is just as good. Jackson gets Stiles to open
their jeans and take both of them in his fist, pressed together, so close it
could kill him. He finishes first, nobody’s name on his lips and nobody’s face
in his mind.
During a poster board presentation they’re putting together, Stiles lets
Jackson finger him. It spans the spectrum of worst feeling ever to best feeling
ever in a remarkably short amount of time.
At one point, he even gets down on his knees and blows Jackson. He’s foregone
keeping track of what happens during what projects. One day, he’ll be married
to Lydia Martin, or he’ll be in a real relationship with someone real who
really likes him, and knowing the layout of events as they occur with Jackson
won’t even matter.
As it stands, he really loves the night that they do a pre-lab for something
involving iodine and a plastic back, and Jackson decides to blow him in return.
They’re finishing up a diagram, colored in and everything, when Stiles asks
Jackson what he’s doing for the summer. Their pants are still off, boxers
barely pulled up, shirts still rucked from where they were shoved out of the
way. It’s okay. It’s normal. Stiles doesn’t think about it anymore. Casual
dress.
“I’m going out of state with my parents.”
“When?”
Jackson looks up at him and makes him feel stupid for a moment before looking
back down at their diagram. “For the summer.”
“The whole summer?”
“Yeah.” Jackson smirks at the kidney he’s drawing. “What, you gonna miss me?”
“No.”
Of course not. Stiles is just going to have a difficult time adjusting to life
without Jackson, otherwise known as life without getting any. And he’s sure
that when next year rolls around and Jackson is captain of the lacrosse team
and in all different classes and dating Lydia Martin for real, they’re never
going to see each other and yeah. That might be a difficult change to adjust
to.
“Sure, whatever,” Jackson mutters, obviously not believing Stiles. Stiles kind
of doesn’t believe himself either.
They’ve already done it tonight, each already finishing by each other’s hand,
but Jackson still pushes the long sheet of butcher paper off the bed so that he
can roll towards Stiles without crumpling it. Pushes Stiles down into the
mattress the way he would a ragdoll, maybe, but holds his face gently, urging
him closer and kissing him. Not slow, not romantic, but the best that Jackson
can do.
Stiles tries really hard not to think about that when he goes to bed.
 
Jackson gives him one last go for the road the night before he leaves, but it
doesn’t curb the hunger that comes a few nights later, or a few nights after
that. Jackson asked if Stiles wanted his new cell number, but Stiles waved him
off. His pride is dwindling and he’s wishing he’d taken it.
Scott doesn’t see the harm in summer. “At least you don’t have to hang out with
Jackson anymore.”
 
At least you don’t have to hang out with Jackson anymore, Scott says in May.
Scott's got a job, of course he can say that. He hangs out with animals all
day. In June, Stiles’ dad takes him out for fast food and says, I thought you
didn’t like that guy. Stiles just angrily sucks at his straw and talks about
getting his license. They get it done the next week. In July, Stiles dreams of
his mom and won’t talk for an entire day. It’s not like there are many people
to talk to, anyways.
In August Jackson comes back and stays home for a few days. Stiles knows about
it all, but he’s okay now. The lonely isn’t so bad. And Scott isn’t working as
many hours anymore, cutting back in preparation of the school year, so Stiles
gets to see him more. Deaton even let him come back and hang out for fifteen
minutes while Scott closed up the other night. He’s certain the guy is coming
around with him.
It isn’t until the night before school starts that Stiles decides to text
Jackson. Maybe invite him over, just see what he looks like now. The answer is
older. Much older than before. Has he looked like this always? Is it the tan?
The lightened hair?
He just stands there in the doorway for a moment, staring, Jackson staring as
well, though perhaps impatiently? Waiting on Stiles maybe? Probably not
noticing how he’s different, as well.
“You gonna let me in?” he finally asks, and Stiles steps back, out of the way.
“Yeah. Come on,” Stiles says, turning on his heel. The walk to his bedroom
should feel very familiar, it’s one they’ve made together many times, but it
doesn’t. It feels very much like the first time, where Stiles isn’t sure what’s
going to happen, or if he’s even going to like it. He gets into the bedroom and
just stands there.
Jackson sits on his bed. The bed that Stiles and Jackson have always shared.
With the way Jackson is sitting, down at the foot of it, they can both lay on
it without touching. It’s the first thing Stiles does, is lay across the bed as
far away from Jackson as possible. “This is incredible,” he says. “I never knew
there was enough space on this thing not to touch you. Just imagine—it was a
stroke of luck that we did it at all.”
A roll of the eyes conveys exactly what Jackson thinks of that, but he lays
back on the bed, and his head almost reaches Stiles’ belly. He scoots back a
little bit so that it does, using his stomach for a pillow. With the added
pressure, Stiles can feel his heartbeat, his trunk throbbing with the pulse. He
knows that Jackson can hear it.
“Been a long summer without me?” Jackson asks like he knows it has.

“No,”
Stiles retorts, which only sounds half-true because it was only true for half
of the summer. “I was busy. I got my license.”
“Yeah? Did that take three whole months for you?”
Stiles huffs out a laugh that pushes Jackson’s head around. Jackson reaches up
and elbows him tenderly, willing him still once more. Not quite in outright
defiance, but somewhat like he belatedly realizes he wants to see Jackson’s
face, he lifts himself up onto his elbows and looks down.
“You cut off your hair,” Jackson points out lamely.
“Yeah. Couple months ago.”
Jackson licks his lips and frowns, leaning up to kiss Stiles. Stiles tries to
make it easier, because they’re still sort of perpendicular, and he sort of
ends up kneeing Jackson in the head so Jackson frogs him just above the knee
and they end up tumbling onto the floor before they can even get a real kiss
in, and this is what it feels like to have something come together, Stiles
thinks. Maybe tomorrow, Jackson will acknowledge him in the school hallway.
Or maybe he’ll just stick his hand down the back of Stiles’ jeans, find him a
little bit wet from where he may or may not have masturbated earlier. Maybe
Jackson will just pull his pants down, lay with him, and never talk to him
again. It’s just as likely as Jackson holding him close, asking politely with
the little pleases and everything, please, Stiles, can I fuck you?
The kind of thing that Stiles has never been ready to say yes to until now.
It’s always been at least he’s never fucked me. The blowjobs, the handjobs, the
spooning, but at least I’ve never let it get that far.
“Yes.” He pauses and his face screws up and he kind of closes in on himself.
“But I mean, I’m not, like...you’re gonna have to—”


“I know, Stiles,” Jackson grinds out, eyes almost rolling out of his head this
time. Jackson came back sassier, and Stiles is starting to feel like he
shouldn’t do this. What if Jackson doesn’t do it right? What if they move too
quickly? What if he hurts Stiles? Or most importantly, doesn’t care about
Stiles at all?
But he kisses like he does. Or like how Stiles would imagine he would if he
does. Holding him. Opening him: his legs, his mouth, his body flattening
against the bed, willing Jackson closer into him. Letting it go that far.
Letting Jackson put his fingers in him and then, even then, asking for more.
Stiles has had things in him, considerable things, experimental things, but
nothing like Jackson.
“Fuck,” he says.
“Yes,” Jackson responds, and neither of them say names or mention deities or
say anything but quiet consents and round noises, rolling out of their chests.
Softly, so as not to be heard. Stiles thought his first time would hurt, but he
doesn’t have the breath in him to exclaim that it doesn’t. He’ll have to tell
Jackson later. He ruminates on it, body throbbing excitedly with every one of
Jackson’s thrusts, thinks about how much it doesn’t hurt. How silly he was to
think that Jackson would hurt him like this. It’s been a long time since he was
shoving Stiles into lockers. He won’t hurt him now.
And when they finish, they don’t finish together. Jackson goes first, and
Stiles can tell when it’s happening because Jackson stills completely, pushes
in almost too deep, and Stiles can feel his dick give a slow, thick throb.
Jackson moans loud, tired-sounding. Pulling out and the condom hangs with its
contents. Jackson discards it sloppily, looking very much like he doesn’t
exactly know how to throw it away so he just does.
When he comes back to the bed, Stiles is still laying there, sprawled, breath
wide and deep and desperate. It shallows, shortens when Jackson bends down and
takes him in his mouth. Stiles bows up and curls his fingers around Jackson’s
shoulders. He didn't even have to ask. He doesn’t last long after that.
Strangely, he’s completely silent when he finishes.
After, Jackson crawls back up the length of the bed to lay side by side with
Stiles. They don’t speak. They don’t really touch either, barring the overlap
of elbows and bowed out knees. It’s casual, as though neither of them realize
that they’re touching, but they certainly don’t seek to touch any more.
That is to say, the afterglow is normal. Stiles realizes that he wasn’t sure if
it would be weird, if they would try to cuddle; if there was some unspoken rule
that after having sex for the first time, one is bound to an unmentioned
afterglow ritual. Something that the cool kids learned from R rated movies, the
kind of movies that Stiles never watched and so never learned.
But no. Jackson stares at the ceiling, Stiles stares at the ceiling, and for a
long time, neither of them talk. At length, Jackson takes in a breath, opening
his mouth, looking about ready to say something when the phone rings.
There are footsteps downstairs, and Stiles glances at the clock. No way. No way
somebody is calling this late and it isn’t interesting. He scrambles over to
his desk to plug his phone into its outlet, delicately raising it off the
receiver as soon as he does. When he looks back towards Jackson, the look on
Jackson’s face makes him realize how crazy he probably seems, but he just
smiles and waves his arm to signal that it’s okay. No biggie.
“—immediately.”
There is the heavy draw of breath from what sounds like his father. “Are you
sure about that?”
“Positive.”
“I mean, this town has seen some crazy stuff, but—”
“We would not be calling you out if it weren’t serious. State troopers'll
probably be here in under an hour.”
“I understand. Have you checked the surrounding area?”
“We’re waiting for your call.”
“Half a body.” Disbelief and another heavy breath. “Alright, I’m on my way.”
The call clicks to an end, and Stiles hangs up in awe. Okay, way biggie. He
scrambles around the room looking for his clothes, finding them all in random
order and compiling them on the bed before putting anything on. Jackson has sat
up and is about to ask questions when Stiles’ dad knocks on his door.
Jackson and Stiles exchange wild glances, and Jackson ducks behind the bed
seconds before the door pushes open.
“Stiles, I—Jesus, son, don’t you lock the door when you change?” The Sheriff
ducks back out of the room.
“Sorry, dad,” Stiles mutters, shoving his legs into his underwear. “Didn’t
think there would be an intrusion.”
“Yeah, well, something’s come up, and the guys need me down at the preserve.
I’ll probably be home late.”
“Alright, dad.”
The Sheriff sticks around for a moment, seeming to wait for Stiles'
inquisition, but it doesn't come. Hesitantly, he takes his leave. They wait
until the Sheriff is gone and the sound of the front door locking echoes
through the house before moving again. Jackson stands from his hiding position
behind the bed, walking around it to take a seat near where Stiles is standing.
Stiles resumes fumbling his way into his clothes.
“Where are you going?” Jackson asks.
Stiles shrugs and mumbles something about the preserve and says more clearly
that he’s going to get Scott. Jackson watches idly but thinks to himself that
Stiles is not going to invite him as well. So be it. He pulls his own clothes
on and takes his leave at the same time as Stiles, who sees his new car for the
first time and compliments him on it. They stand beside their cars for a
moment, Jackson on the curb, Stiles in the driveway, and neither move. Jackson
thinks they'll stand there forever, and his temper is beginning to boil when
Stiles moves.
Moves forward, across the lawn, away from his Jeep, to kiss Jackson. He allows
it. It's dark outside, and Stiles doesn't live on the same street as anyone
from the high school, so it's not a problem. It's also not a problem that
Jackson winds his arm around Stiles' waist, pulling him closer, leaning them
both against his Porsche. Or that Stiles takes the shoulders of his shirt into
his fists, holding on tightly.
"Okay," Stiles says when he pulls away, his voice unsteady, as though he lost
it somewhere in the kiss. "Okay, I guess I'll see you at school tomorrow."
"Yeah," Jackson mumbles and can't think of anything clever, just says, "Don't
get killed, whatever you're doing."
Stiles smiles and shrugs his shoulders. "No promises."
 
While definitely not dead, Jackson can immediately classify both Stilinski and
McCall as off somehow, with validation from Danny who asks him if he knows what
happened to them. He doesn't, but after seeing McCall on the field, he's
convinced it has something to do with chemicals. Not that he would expect
Stiles to mention something like this to him, especially not when it's about
Scott, but he wishes he would have.
 
The worst part of it is that Stiles is suddenly buddy-buddy with some older
guy, who people keep saying is one of the Hales. Jackson tries to text Stiles
about him, but he never gets a response. Okay. Okay, that's fine. They were
never anything official anyways. Fine. Just because Stiles is hanging out with
Derek Hale, that doesn't mean anything.
 
Everything is different. Stiles doesn't sleep as well at nights. He's not too
surprised about that, he figures it comes with the territory of ruthless mass
murderers coming into town, and oh, you know, werewolves. Anyways, he's not too
upset that his fitful dreams are broken by the buzzing of his phone on his
bedside table. He snatches it up, expecting it to be Scott, maybe even Derek or
Allison, someone important, and finds that it's Jackson.
A brief sweep of nostalgia rushes through him and he opens the text, wanting to
read something about how they have a project and his part is due by Thursday.
He dreams of those better days. Instead, he gets,
(925): Don't see you much anymore. been busy, stilinski?
Stiles rubs his hand over his eyes and grinds his teeth together. His stomach
twists and a pulse of arousal runs through him, but it all dies in the face of
overwhelming sadness. Most days, he doesn't know what he's supposed to do. He
was never fit to take care of his own dying mother, and now he has werewolves,
he has hunters. Everybody is trying to kill each other. He's so scared of
losing his father.
It hurts that on top of that, he's already let go of Jackson.
It's okay, he tells himself. Jackson is safer, isn't he? They were all safer
that way.
I know. I'm sorry.
Stiles doesn't have the heart to say that it's better like this.
 
None of Jackson's texts before tonight have meant anything. Until now, they've
been conversational, the kinds of things he would say if Stiles would still
talk to him, would still try to get him to come over in the mid afternoon when
the house is empty.
But Jackson drank too much tonight and he feels like he's losing everything.
His team, his girlfriend, his grades. Stiles. He doesn't mean for the text to
come out the way it does. Bitter, edged with jealousy. He doesn't mean to get a
response, but he does, and he doesn't mean to end the thread with I miss you.
He really doesn't.
Swear down. He never meant to find himself in a position where he would miss
Stiles.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!