Chapter Text
Stiles walked quickly across campus, feet pounding the pavement and hands clenched into fists in the pockets of his red hoodie. He had his hood up and his head down and it was dark and almost cold and he just hated everything.
But he especially hated Jackson fucking Whittemore.
Pretty much everyone else at school seemed awesome or at least not evil, but then there was Jackson fucking Whittemore with his car and his money and his privilege and his face and his lacrosse scholarship that he didn’t need and his general natural dudelyness and Stiles just wanted to punch him in his testosterone-filled face.
Stiles was not having a good day.
He was walking around campus despite the late hour and chilly weather because it was all he could think of to do to clear his head. He’d had enough of Jackson fucking Whittemore and his bullshit. If that guy made one more crack about Stiles not being a “real boy” or using the “wrong” bathroom or whatever, Stiles was going to kill him. It just wasn’t fair. Everything about college was so great and then there was Jackson fucking Whittemore and Stiles really just wanted him out his life. Expect that Jackson was dating actual goddess Lydia Martin and Stiles really liked Lydia. She was funny and sweet – not to mention totally brilliant and super-hot. And ginger. What more could you want in a girl? She was also in his freshman seminar. It was utterly beyond Stiles why Lydia was dating that asshole; it was like she had Jackson-shaped blind spot in her brilliance. At any rate, it seemed pretty apparent that he couldn’t have one in his life without the other. Plus, Jackson fucking Whittemore lived on his hall so there was really no escaping him.
Other than the total douchebaggery that was Jackson fucking Whittemore, college was panning out pretty awesomely. People called him by the right name because they’d never known to call him anything else and everyone was pretty chill about his stuff, but Stiles was having a hard time focusing on the good things at the moment. All he could hear in his head were Jackson’s earlier comments and the silence that had followed them. Before, Scott, Stiles’s best friend from home, had always been there to jump to his defense when people gave him shit, but lately Scott hadn’t been there and Stiles didn’t know what to do about it. Sure, Allison was great and all, but Stiles still didn’t know how to stand up for himself when people like Jackson fucking Whittemore asked him if was sure he was in the right bathroom.
"Stiles?”
Stiles glanced up. He’d been walking past one of the dorm buildings and, sitting on her bed by her open window, was actual goddess Lydia Martin.
“Hey,” said Stiles, stopping and turning back to her. He grimaced at how high his voice came out and he coughed.
“What are you doing out there? Aren’t you cold?”
"Says the girl with her window open.”
Actual goddess Lydia Martin smiled at him and Stiles couldn’t help feeling a flutter in his stomach.
She cocked her head to one side and contemplated him.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Me? I’m fine.” Stiles tried to laugh and ended up coughing again.
“I’m making tea,” she said. “Come on.” She jerked her head towards the rest of her room.
“You want me to come in?” he asked.
“Yeah,” she replied, rolling her eyes.
Stiles checked his phone and saw that it was ten of eleven and he could still swipe into her building.
“Okay.”
Minutes later, Stiles sat on actual goddess Lydia Martin’s bed, blowing on a steaming mug of what he’d been told was French vanilla chi tea.
“So,” she said, sitting down next to him. “What’s up?”
Stiles sighed. He really didn’t want to make her angry by saying anything bad about Jackson to her, but, on the other hand, he didn’t feel like he had anyone else to talk to at the moment.
"It’s Jackson,” he admitted.
"What’s he done now?” she asked, sounding exasperated.
Stiles smiled faintly.
"He just keeps giving me a hard time.”
“About—?” She flicked her gaze up and down Stiles.
“Yeah,” he mumbled.
“I’m sorry, Stiles. I’ll talk to him.”
“Thanks,” he said, sure it was pointless, but appreciating the effort on Lydia’s part all the same.
"I know you think he’s not a good guy,” she said gently, “but he’s really not a bad person. He’s just not good at dealing with stuff. Give him time and I think he’ll come around.”
She smiled at him and Stiles could not figure out for the life of him what an angel like her saw in a demon like Jackson.
“I hope you’re right,” he muttered, staring into his tea.
She gave his leg a little squeeze that made his stomach turn over.
“So how’s Scott?” she asked.
Stiles huffed out an annoyed breath.
“What?”
“Scott’s not exactly helping the situation with Jackson,” he said darkly.
"What do you mean?”
“He just hasn’t been around a lot lately.”
"I know the feeling. I’ve barely seen Allison at all this week.”
“I though she was your roommate.”
"That’s kind of my point.”
“I just don’t know what to do without him there all the time, you know? Like, we’ve been friends since forever and suddenly it’s like I don’t even matter to him.”
“I’m sure he doesn’t think of it like that.”
“Yeah, but that’s what it feels like.” Stiles sipped his tea. “I didn’t realize how much I relied on him until he suddenly wasn’t there anymore.”
“You guys aren’t roommates, are you?” she asked.
"No. He lives with Isaac. I have a single.”
"How’d you manage that as a freshman?”
"Note from a psychiatrist.”
"Seriously?” she asked, smiling.
"Yeah.”
"Oh.”
There was a slightly awkward pause.
"Thanks for the tea, Lydia, but I should probably go,” he said, getting to his feet and setting his mug on her desk.
"Oh, alright.” She followed him to the door. “Are you gonna be okay?”
Stiles shrugged.
"I dealt with worse after I came out at home. I just don’t like living with it two doors down from me.”
"I’ll talk to him,” Lydia said again.
On his way back to his dorm, Stiles passed a few people, but one caught his eye: a tall figure in a leather jacket that he recognized as a junior named Derek Hale. Stiles wasn’t really sure what Derek’s deal was except that he seemed to be majoring in brooding with a minor in lurking. Even when Stiles saw him during the day, Derek somehow always managed to be lurking in a shadow or a dark corner. In the edge of his vision, he thought he saw Derek tracking his movement with eyes that reflected a strangely vibrant blue in the darkness. Stiles shook his head and kept walking to his building, trying not to glance over his shoulder at that perfect jaw line.
When he got back to his hall, he found Isaac sitting alone in the lounge with his laptop.
"Sexiled?” he asked, leaning into the doorway.
Isaac looked up at him, face almost as broody as Derek’s had been.
"I have an eight-thirty class tomorrow morning,” he said, voice low and tired.
"Want me to talk to him?”
Isaac nodded.
Stiles walked down the hall to Scott and Isaac’s room and hammered on the door.
"What?” called Scott’s slightly breathless voice.
"You wanna wrap it up in there? Isaac has class at ungod o’clock tomorrow morning and needs to sleep.”
"Oh. Shit. Sorry.”
"Whatever,” Stiles muttered, heading down to the end of the hall where his room was. On his way, he passed Jackson’s room, which he shared with this totally awesome, totally cute guy named Danny. The door was open so, despite how much he liked Danny, Stiles walked quickly, trying not to be seen by whoever might be inside.
"Hey, Stiles,” called Danny.
Stiles stopped, sighed, and turned back.
"Hey, Danny,” he said, finding a smile and leaning in the doorway to speak to him. “Jackson,” he added politely, spotting the douchebag himself sitting at his desk.
Jackson didn’t reply for which Stiles was grateful.
"How’re you doing?” Danny asked.
"Fine,” said Stiles, shrugging. “Got a paper due at the end of the week.”
"Let me know if you still want me to read it over for you.”
"Yeah, that’d be great if I can get it done before like midnight on Thursday.”
"Won’t be reading it then, but if you have it done by ten on Thursday, I could probably take a look.”
"Awesome. Do my best.” He smiled at Danny. “Anyway, I should probably turn in. ‘Night.”
"Sleep well.”
Stiles waved and headed towards his room, grateful that Jackson had, for once, kept his mouth shut.
"Why do keep flirting with that dyke?” Jackson’s voice was scathing and loud and carried right down the hall to Stiles.
He paused, closing his eyes for a moment and taking a breath.
"Dude, shut up,” said Danny.
Stiles hurried to his room and shut the door before he had to listen to anything else from Jackson. He flopped down onto his bed and moaned. He lay there trying not to think about anything and therefore thinking about everything for a few minutes until someone tapped on his door.
"Yeah?” he called, barely raising his face from his pillow.
"Stiles?” asked Scott’s voice.
"Who the hell else would it be?”
"Can I come in?”
"Duh.”
Scott opened the door and came in, closing it behind him.
"What’s up?” Stiles asked, sitting up like a normal person to help Scott deal with whatever it was that was bothering him.
"Nothing,” said Scott, shrugging. “I just wanted to say goodnight.” His hair was messy and he looked a little blissed out, but Stiles appreciated the thought all the same.
"You alright there, lover boy?”
"I’m awesome,” said Scott smiling.
Stiles nodded. Even though Scott was pretty clueless most of the time, he was a good person and a good friend.
"Okay, well, goodnight, Scott.”
"'Night,” Scott replied, heading back towards his own room.
Stiles smiled vaguely as Scott left, but the expression slipped the moment his friend was gone. This bullshit was getting harder and harder to deal with. Whatever happened to “it gets better” or was that just for gay kids and not transgender pansexual kids?
He got ready for bed, trying not to think about it too hard, and then crawled under the covers with a book that he had to read for class. Try as he might, however, he couldn’t get himself to focus on Dostoevsky. His brain kept replaying things Jackson had said to him, things people had said to him in high school, harsh words hate-burned into his mind. He gave up on the book and turned out the light. He turned on his clock radio and found a late-night show in the hopes that he could listen to that instead of the mocking memories. At last his brain began to give into his tiredness and he stopped really hearing the problems of the people calling the DJ. In the distance, he thought he heard a wolf howling, mournful and lonely and he was sure somehow very out of place, but before he could remember why is seemed so wrong he was slipping away into dreams filled with impossible wolves.