He shuts the car door harshly, just barely maneuvering his clothes out of the way before the taxi is pulling away with more of Stiles’ money than he’d had in several months. It’s sprinkling outside, the rain making the air charged with fresh air and the light spark of spring.
Over the hill, he hears the cheers of practice, the grunts, the groans. He smiles when he sees it’s lacrosse and shuffles, moving his lacrosse stick to rest on his shoulder. Turning, Stiles takes in the campus. It’s gorgeous, with rolling hills and gothic architecture. His dorm, the cheapest option, has classic red brick and classy ivory molding. He takes a moment to stare at it, taking in the immaculate landscaping, the curtains blowing on the windows above, and the little windowsill gardens he cannot wait to grow.
He’s jerked out of his staring by a frisbee colliding with his head and Stiles sighs, blinking up from the ground with a hand planted on his throbbing temple. New place, same clumsy Stiles.
The frisbee is a deep burgundy and has the school symbol on it, BEACON HILLS scrawled across the top in collegiate block letters. He looks up to find a man staring at him, green eyes crinkled at the corners and a concerned smile plastered on his pale face.
“I’m assuming this is yours?” Stiles asks and he pushes himself up, bending down to collect the frisbee and handing it over.
The man nods, face contorting soon into a scowl. Stiles crosses his arms.
“A thanks would be nice you know,” he mumbles half-heartedly, only now noticing that all of his things-- a duffel bag, his lacrosse stick and a thick stack of books- are scattered all over the sidewalk.
“You’re new,” the man growls out and Stiles' eyes blow wide. He nods, clamping his mouth down on the stream of words wanting to pour out. Not a good idea.
Instead, he hums and goes to collect his things, bending down and swiping angrily at his now dirty black bag and double checking to make sure none of his textbooks are too beat up. But when he tries to return to standing his world tilts and he feels his cheeks go cold.
Hands slam down onto his shoulders as his vision greys out and a warped voice breaks through terrifying, all-encompassing static.
When he comes back to himself he’s on the ground again with his head shoved between his knees, there's a warm hand on his back, patting in circles.
“Thanks, “ he croaks out once he has his bearings a little more and realizes the frisbee guy is the one helping in.
“Feel better?” The man asks and Stiles tries to nod but he notices how deep the guy’s voice is and he’s flushing all over again, sending tingles tripping all over his body.
“Gimme a minute, still feel tingly.”
The man chuckles and lowers Stiles down, producing a water bottle from seemingly nowhere and dousing Stiles’ extra hoodie in it, wiping the cloth over his forehead and the front of his chest. Stiles almost groans at how good it feels.
“Who are you?” Stiles wants to ask the air, wants to flail his arms and pin down those pesky, mossy eyes with his own. But instead, he whimpers a little, pushes himself on an elbow and goes, “I think I can make it up to my dorm now.”
Before he can even blink he’s standing outside of his room, heard swirling, and leaning dangerously close to sliding on his door.
“I’m Derek,” scary but kind, sculpted God of a man says before disappearing down the hallway and Stiles only has half a brain left to yell a startled, “STILES!” after him.
Then his door opens and he goes careening onto the floor.
“Dude! Stiles, how? You’re hopeless you know.”
“Good to see you too Scott.”
“Whatever man, welcome to Beacon Hills.”
Welcome indeed, Stiles thinks as he clutches his injured elbow and catches the last few glimpses of Derek’s perky ass.