Stiles Stilinski hit the snooze button on his alarm, rolling from his back onto his stomach, clutching his cherished pillow to his face. He didn't want to get up, knowing that if he did, he'd have to go suffer the pain and humiliation of high school, which, in Stiles' case, was much more painful and humiliating than anyone else he knew. When he was in third grade, Stiles was diagnosed with ADHD (attention deficit hyperactivity disorder), which meant, as explained to his eight-year-old self, he couldn't sit still very long nor focus on his studies. The diagnosis made its way through the hallways of Beacon Hills Elementary and Stiles found himself being teased by a lot of his classmates, most particularly two of them, Jackson Whittemore and Scott McCall.
Jackson was a magnificent douchebag, something Stiles did not hesitate to call him when the blond boy started up on his daily tirade of why Stiles didn't fit in and why he should transfer elsewhere. Scott, on the other hand, was an entirely different story; he stood quietly beside Jackson as the other boy berated Stiles, but when it was Scott alone, it was more vicious, as if Stiles had done something to personally piss off Scott. Stiles had bruises from all the times that Scott had slammed him up against or into something. Maybe it was when the two were paired up for a science project and, despite what their teacher had said about being graded as one, Stiles got an A and Scott got a C, which was because Stiles did all the work and Scott did nothing more than show up for the presentation.
Stiles finally decided to roll out of bed and get ready for school. He dug around in his closet for a clean shirt and produced his favorite red hoodie. Sliding on a plain white T-shirt, he tugged the hoodie over his head. Rifling through yesterday's jeans and pulling them on, Stiles found his keys and bounded downstairs, skipping breakfast since his father, the Sheriff, had already left early. He opened the Jeep door and got in, starting the car and turning up the radio. He tapped his hand on the steering wheel to the tune of "All Night".
"We could do this all night
Yeah, everything is alright."
He reached the stoplight and looked at the next car over, instantly regretting it. It was a jet-black Porsche and in the front seat was Jackson and beside him, his girlfriend Lydia Martin. Stiles used to harbor the biggest crush on Lydia, but as she wanted nothing to do with him and Stiles slowly came to the realization that he was gay, it dissolved and he just tried to steer clear. The Porsche's windows were rolled down and Stiles could hear Jackson's loud, obnoxious laughter.
"Stilinski!" Jackson called out and Stiles groaned, wishing that his beat-up blue Jeep wasn't so damn recognizable. He shot Jackson and Lydia a forced smile.
"Hey, guys, what's up?"
"Don't sound so good-natured, dork. We're doing dodgeball in gym today and your ass is mine." Jackson pointed a finger at Stiles, smirk plastered on his model-like face, and the boy gulped. Every time Coach Finstock made them play dodgeball, it usually ended with at least half the class in the nurse's office, and Jackson, Scott and a couple of their lacrosse teammates were always victorious.
Stiles, as always, had to keep his bravado up, so he scoffed and looked right back at Jackson, twinkle in his eye. "Knew you always liked holding balls, Whittemore. Maybe that's why you're dating the girl who's had the most out of anyone at school. Hoping she can get you some more."
Lydia shot him a disgusted glare and flipped her strawberry-blonde hair over her shoulder, folding her arms and giving Jackson a look, as if telling him to beat up Stiles.
"You're fucking dead, Stilinski," Jackson called out, clenching the steering wheel as the light turned green. He sped away and Stiles pulled off to the side of the road. He knew he had a big mouth. Being only 147 pounds of pale skin and fragile bones, sarcasm was his only defense. But now, surely enough, Jackson would break some of those bones in gym class.
On most days, Stiles would be ambushed upon entry through the front doors of Beacon Hills High School, but when he stepped through the threshold, there were only students milling about before classes began. Stiles released his held-in breath and began his trek to homeroom when the inevitable came, and it honestly didn't surprise him, he was yanked into the nearest boys' bathroom and held up against the wall.
"Hey, Stilinski." Stiles felt the sink beneath him, propping his hands up onto it. Scott loomed dangerously close to him, clearly invading his personal space. "Got my work done?" Stiles fought the urge to gag, the tan boy's aftershave was getting to be too much.
"Maybe if you didn't waste all that Bay Rum, McCall, I'd be much more willing to do your math homework." Scott scowled and fisted Stiles' hoodie into one hand. "Hey, lay off the hoodie, man. It didn't do anything to you."
"Do you ever shut up?" Scott pulled his fist back. "Because I'll shut you up for good."
"That's really original," Stiles sassed. "Who writes your material? Jackson? Matt, perhaps? He's always been quite a charmer. Not like you, however."
Scott threw his fist and stopped it an inch before striking Stiles' jaw. Stiles had shut his eyes but opened them slowly when the blow never came. "You're not gonna hit me? That's not like you."
"No, I'm not gonna hit you." Scott released Stiles' front and the black-haired boy slumped against the sink. "I'm going to give you one chance to grovel at my feet or I bust up your pretty little face."
The words weren't lost on Stiles and his cheeks tinged pink at the words 'pretty little face', but he knew better than to goad Scott like that and left it alone for the time being. Scott, on the other hand, didn't seem to notice, which came as no surprise at all. Unless someone gave him the answer in words he could comprehend, and Stiles wasn't about to, Scott had no grasp whatsoever on what was going on.
"Let's see," Stiles hoisted himself up onto the sink and looked deep into Scott's chocolate brown eyes, "you're an acerebral, nocent lurdane and it's a wonder how anyone doesn't see that." Scott frowned, clearly trying to process the big words. Stiles couldn't help but bite down on his lower lip to stifle his laughter. "Welp," he put the emphasis and pop on the 'p', "I've had a wonderful time, only this wasn't it." Stiles stood up and straightened his hoodie, heading for the door.
Scott's arm shot out and blocked his way. "Not so fast, Stilinski," he growled. "I have this feeling that you just insulted me." Stiles snorted. "Might as well leave you with this." He slammed his fist into Stiles' gut, making the smaller boy double over on the white tile floor. "See you in gym class." Without another word, Scott left the bathroom.
"Fucking prick," Stiles grumbled, holding his stomach. He didn't know how long he was there, but he heard the familiar swing of the door and felt a hand on his shoulder.
"Stiles?" He looked up and there were his two best friends, Vernon Boyd and Erica Reyes. "McCall?" Stiles nodded and Erica scoffed. "He's such an ass. Like anyone's going to think that beating up the innocent is going to make girls like him."
Stiles couldn't tell them what Scott had said. Although Boyd was a man of few words, Erica couldn't keep a secret to save her life. "Come on, up you go." Boyd put one hand under Stiles' arm and helped him up. "We're late for homeroom."
Boyd and Erica assisted Stiles to the classroom and took their seats just as Mrs. Davis entered the room. Stiles exhaled sharply as he eased into his seat. Straightening up, he noticed three boys standing with the teacher.
"We have three new students today," she was saying. The tallest boy had golden curls that hung into his piercing blue eyes. "Isaac Lahey." The boy beside him was much shorter, his brown hair cropped but still sticking out here and there. "Liam Dunbar." The last boy was somewhere between Isaac and Liam, with jet-black hair and a little bit of facial stubble that Stiles could swear meant he was at least a senior. He was kind of lanky, but not as much as Isaac, and Stiles could see the abs through his tight black T-shirt. "Derek Hale."