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“Miss Stilinski?”
Stiles freezes. This isn’t the plan.
It’s the first day of school, the first day of sixth grade, and he and his father have a plan. They’ve had it for months. Practically since March, which was when he finally managed to speak over the guilt that had lived so long his in stomach that before, whenever he tried to talk, it reached into his throat and silenced him.
The plan is simple. He’s waited until the new school year, which is coincidentally the start of middle school to… “let people know” as his father calls it. His father thinks it will be easier like this, that middle school is bigger, that the teachers don’t know him, that he can make friends among the students who came from different elementary schools, who won’t know him as anything else.
Stiles thinks his dad’s plan is pretty good. Though, his own plan is slightly different. His plan is to tell all his teachers privately after school today and then hope that they just don’t address him and he didn’t have to talk to anyone his own age for the entire year.
He thinks his plan is solid. He can do it. Hell, he had practically done it last year anyway.
“Miss Stilinski?”
He makes it to fifth period. He has actually been feeling okay about school until now.
Until Mr. Kohen, an older gentleman whose hair has long turned gray and who clearly stands on ceremony. And that ceremony includes addressing students formally. By last name. And title.
“Miss Stilinski?”
People are looking at him now, students who had been to Morningside Elementary with him, who know – or think they know – who he is.
“Here,” he finally says, wishing his voice sounded stronger. He has practiced this. He can do this.
I don’t care what they think.
“Thank you,” Mr. Kohen says calmly, which is what he says to everyone. Stiles knows he has only a moment before the next name is called.
He has to do it. He had promised himself: At least correct them.
“Except it-” he starts. His voice catches and he is forced to stop and clear his throat. “It’s Mister Stilinski.”
He keeps his eyes on Mr. Kohen even though he feels heads snap to look at him.
“Excuse me?” Mr. Kohen says and Stiles’ hand clenches into a fist against his leg even though Mr. Kohen sounds merely confused, not upset, not judging.
“It’s Mister Stilinski,” Stiles repeats. “That- uh. There’s a mistake. On the paperwork. It’s Mister.”
That was all it was. Just a mistake on the paperwork. On the school records and his birth certificate and his social security card. On all the paperwork. But still, just a mistake.
That’s what his therapists said. His cells had made a little mistake but it isn’t disgusting or wrong or sick. He isn’t a mistake. Just the papers. His body.
He isn’t a mistake.
That’s what he tells himself as Mr. Kohen nods and the whispers break out.
*^*^*^
“How was it?”
To be fair to his dad, the sheriff manages to wait until Stiles puts his bag down and grabs a glass of water before asking the million-dollar question.
“It was fine,” Stiles says, shrugging, focusing on his fingers as they tap against his glass. He wonders how long he has to sit here until it won’t be rude to go to his room. He just wants to be alone. Away from stares. Even if the stares are full of concern and coming from his father who-
Who is never home at this time. Who has clearly arranged to have off so that he can make sure Stiles is okay. Who cares about him.
Stiles glances up and sees the worn lines of worry and exhaustion across his father’s face. It is all too familiar because for months the sheriff had had to watch his wife die and then Stiles could barely give him a year before slamming him into another disaster.
Immediately guilt floods him. He isn’t supposed to be making his father look like that. That’s what he had vowed six months ago. That he would try to make this as easy as possible.
When he’d finally talked to his father in March, he’d already had everything ready. He’d read all the blogs and had looked up a therapist and knew what hormones he wanted to be on and he’d tried to make it clear that this was his problem and he would take care of it. His dad didn’t need to worry. He would make this as easy as possible.
That vow is why he told his father that he could handle telling his teachers. He knows his dad doesn’t like it, based off the twenty minute conversation he’d asked to have in private with Stiles’ therapist but he’d agreed reluctantly. With a promise that he could easily arrest anyone who gave Stiles a hard time.
“All the teachers were really nice,” he says after a beat. Thankfully, it was the truth. It had been one of the few things that he was worried about that hadn’t come to pass. None of them had gone on some pseudo-Christian, this-is-morally-wrong rant. No one had said that they needed to call his father and make sure he was okay with this.
The worst he’d gotten was a pitying smile, a pat on the shoulder, and a request to “just let me know if you’d like to switch back, sweetie.”
And Stiles knew that that was Ms. Robbins just trying to be nice. She just didn’t understand. That wasn’t her fault. Stiles shouldn’t be mad at her. She just didn’t understand. No one did.
“Ms. Williams said she would let me into the faculty bathroom whenever I want,” Stiles adds, glancing up again. His father’s face melts into a tense kind of relief.
“She sounds nice,” he says. “What does she teach?”
“She’s my English teacher,” Stiles replies. “I have a list of books that I need for her class.”
“Do you want to run to the book store now?” His dad asks, straightening in excitement. He wants to go out, Stiles knew. Probably because Stiles never wants to go out anymore. Not even to the movies. Which used to be their thing.
His instinct is to say no. Because he likes being home. Home is where he doesn’t have to deal with stares, or people who still know him as “she,” or the people who look for a long time before saying anything and then still say “he” with a question mark at the end.
He knows he doesn’t look right. They’d updated his wardrobe to loose jeans and black converse sneakers and baggy t-shirts with comics on them but he still looks wrong. Even his haircut- a buzz cut that he’d done himself in a fit of desperation had backfired. It makes his eyes look bigger and softer and younger and-
He can start taking T at sixteen. Everyone assures him the blockers will be enough for now. But…
But four years seems like a long way off.
“Uh,” he says, twisting his hands absently. “We could probably wait till the weekend.”
As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he regrets them. Because his dad’s face falls and because he realizes that everyone will be waiting until the weekend. There are only three book stores in Beacon Hills. They will all be packed with students.
Students who probably all know by now because the only thing more exciting that sharing summer vacation stories is sharing the fact that over the summer a girl had magically declared herself to be a boy.
“Actually, let’s go now,” he says, hopping down and flashing his dad a smile. “I’ll get the list.”
And his dad looks happy and starts talking about books he’d read “back in his day” and Stiles remembers to make fun of how old they all sound and secretly breathes a quiet sigh of relief that his father didn’t ask about the other kids.
*^*^*^
Stiles takes to doodling Pinocchio.
Because he needs something to do during lunch period as he sits alone in the new spots he finds to hide every day and he keeps getting too far ahead in the English novels they are working on and Pinocchio is easy enough to draw.
And Stiles understands him. Understands what it is to be stared at and laughed at and called a freak and to just insist, over and over, even though no one is listening: I’m a real boy. I’m a real boy. Please, I’m real.
He spends September shouting and begging and pleading over and over that they see the truth. That he is a real boy. But the real boys and the foxes and cats and the donkeys all laugh and bray and forget and-
By the end of September, his promise to himself is slipping. He doesn’t have the energy to fight it. And it is always there to fight. It is the teachers who didn’t have him but who say hello in the hallways, the parents who only vaguely recognize him from before, from when he was “the sheriff’s daughter,” the new students who ask for a rundown of everyone to avoid.
“That’s Stiles,” a voice says and Stiles doesn’t even bother looking up to find out who it belongs to. “Her mom died like two years ago. She’s kind of a freak. Something about pretending to be a boy.”
“He,” he corrects.
But he says it softly and hollowly and he knows no one heard.
*^*^*^
He researches online schools even though most of them don’t start until high school and he knows without having to ask that they are too expensive. Because he has seen the bills – medical bills from his mom and from him that come month after month until the ink darkens and runs red. Because he knows that his dad is taking more and more shifts, that often he comes home only long enough to feed him dinner and put him to bed before heading back out again. Because he notices that certain items from their house have gone missing, that the new car his dad has always talked about has never appeared.
He will never ask. Online schools are just a dream for him. Something to look at and pretend and he knows he will never ask.
But today, he picks up the mail and one letter is from the bank and so Stiles opens it carefully, like he always does, wishing some pathetic dream that they will have found money from somewhere.
For a split second, he thinks his dream has come true because it’s the confirmation of a new savings accounts and there is two hundred dollars in it.
And then he sees the last line, the line that says “Description,” the line that states its purpose.
And he holds it and cries carefully so as not to wet it because he would never want to smudge the words:
For surgery.
He stops researching online schools then. Starts trying to find jobs that hire kids under sixteen.
*^*^*^
“Hi. I’m uh- I just wanted to say I’m really sorry.”
Stiles stares at the girl in front of him. He’s pretty sure she’s in seventh grade and maybe he’s seen her around, he thinks her name is Grace or Ann or something but he’s never talked to her before.
He certainly doesn’t know what she is sorry for.
“Uh,” he says, looking down the hall to see if maybe she is actually talking to someone else.
“For what happened to you,” she clarifies. “I heard you had cancer.”
He blinks. One side effect of trying to talk to absolutely no one is that the rumors have been flying. But this is a new one.
“Me and my friends were just talking and if you wanted someone to talk to,” she continues, seemingly ignorant of the look on his face. “You can come talk to us. Suzy’s mom had cancer. She knows all about radiation and hair loss and she actually helped her mom put on her makeup so-”
Stiles is sure he is blushing. Because this is somehow worse than the teasing or the careless forgetting that surrounded him. This was a girl trying to be nice.
And Suzy might be Suzy Treckle, who was in his grade, who knew he was – used to be – a girl and-
“Dude!” the voice comes as Stiles is still stuck staring at Grace/Ann, wondering what to say, what to do, if he can just run away and die. For a moment, it doesn’t even register that the voice is talking to him.
Then an arm is casually thrown across his shoulders and Stiles stiffens but the voice hasn’t stopped.
“C’mon, we’re gonna be late,” the voice continues. “Time to learn some history, bro.”
Stiles doesn’t react, still confused by his life in general but Grace/Ann is suddenly bright red in front of him.
“Oh my god,” she said, looking back and forth between Stiles and whoever it is that has his arm slung over his shoulder like they are friends. “You’re a bo-” She cuts off abruptly.
“Duh,” the voice says, sounding… not judgmental but honestly confused as to how someone could make that mistake.
“I’m so sorry,” Grace/Ann said, backing away a step, still impossibly red. “We thought that rumor was- uh. I’ll see you.”
Stiles watches her leave, still too shocked to move. The arm is removed from his shoulders carefully, as if it had never been. The loss finally has Stiles turning and-
Scott McCall is standing there.
Scott McCall, who had been his best friend from kindergarten up through the first half of third grade. Back when “best friend” just meant someone who you always played with at recess because you weren’t actually big enough to go play at other kids houses. He and Scott had been best friends. Scott made the best sand castles. He always let Stiles destroy them when the bell rang.
But then Stiles had missed huge portions of the end of third grade because of his mother and he’d been technically homeschooled for fourth grade although most of it was spent in the hospital and he’d done most of the learning afterwards as some sort of obsessive-grief thing and then-
And then last year, he’d come back and everyone had given him a wide berth, partly out of respect, partly because he had simply stopped responding, partly because he had been so angry that he’d lashed out. At teachers, at other students, at everyone.
When he first came back, Scott tried to rekindle the friendship they forged in sand but Stiles didn’t- couldn’t-
Maybe he has a crush on you! His mom used to say, smiling at his horrified face. Maybe you two will grow up and get married! It was light and teasing and she obviously didn’t know but-
That’s gross, Stiles would insist. Over and over. And his mom would laugh and the neighbors would agree because they were a boy and a girl who were best friends and that’s what everyone assumed.
Even when he got so angry that he cried and hismom had promised not to tease him anymore, holding him and apologizing while she rocked them back and forth, he knew that plenty other mothers still thought that way. If anything, his seemingly embarrassed outburst had convinced them that he had a crush on Scott as well.
Stiles couldn’t do it again when he got back in fifth grade. Didn’t want those assumptions resurfacing. Didn’t want any assumptions anymore. So he’d pushed Scott away. He’d ignored him and avoided him and made it clear. They weren’t friends anymore. By the end of September, even Scott was forced to stop trying.
“Sorry,” Scott says, smiling that lopsided smile that Stiles is somehow just remembering. “I know we’re not really friends- uh, but I thought… well, it looked like that girl was a little confused.”
“No, it’s- she was,” Stiles says. “Thanks.”
“No problem, man,” Scott replies, but he’s already backing away.
“Wait,” Stiles says, surprising himself. “Uh, you don’t have to…go.” He winces at how desperate that sounds. “Unless you have somewhere to be. Or if you want to.”
Scott stops sliding away but he looks at Stiles as if he hasn’t heard him correctly. Stiles tries to arrange his face into a friendly smile. Scott had just saved him from the most embarrassing moment of all time. He deserves at least that.
“I thought you hated me,” Scott finally says, tilting his head in confusion. “I mean, last year-”
“I’m sorry,” Stiles blurts, and then he realizes how dumb he must sound. His hands tighten around the straps of his backpack. He looks down at them. “About last year. I was… figuring some stuff out.”
His heart is beating loudly in his ears and Stiles is shocked to realize how much he wants this. Needs this. Being playmates from the age of five to eight and a half isn’t exactly the basis for real friendship, he knows but-
“Oh,” Scott says slowly and Stiles doesn’t dare look up.
It’s ruined. It’s all ruined and that’s okay. Stiles doesn’t need friends. Not during middle school at least. Maybe he’ll have better luck in high school or college and anyway, it’s nice that Scott is at least kind enough to stick up for him and-
“Dude!” Scott declares and just like that his arm is back around Stiles as if it had never left. His smile is blinding. “All this time wasted thinking you hated me! Are you still freakishly good at Mario-Kart? Have you played the new Zelda? I can’t figure out how to get past the-”
Stiles allows himself to be dragged along, ignoring the fact that he never did get his history notebook out of his locker.
The feeling is vaguely familiar and something in Stiles’ chest finally loosens.
*^*^*^
Just like that, Scott is somehow always there. Loudly calling him dude, proudly declaring Stiles his “bro,” ending every sentence with “man” and always, always using the correct pronouns.
In between classes: “Dude, that math test was killer!”
Later: “Come on, bro, it’s finally time to eat and I’m starving!”
The next day: “Man, you were right about the Thor Behind the Scenes footage. Totally worth it! That Natalie Portman, huh?”
Friday: “Duuude, bro, did you see they announced a new Spiderman movie last night?”
It’s like that all week. And Stiles still has to hide a smile every time Scott does it. Which is every time he talks to Stiles. Which is every day.
Most of the other students fall in line with this simple push. With Scott’s voice ringing through the hallways of Beacon Hills Middle School.
*^*^*^
Scott doesn’t settle for “most.”
*^*^*^
“Did you not hear him?” Scott asks one of the seventh graders in the hallway one day. His voice is a blend of friendliness and iron. “He just said he goes by ‘he.’”
The boy stares. He hadn’t been teasing Stiles, merely mentioning him as he gave another student directions that involved telling her to turn where Stiles was standing. But it came out “by where she’s standing over there” and Stiles had managed to say “he” loudly enough that the boy must have heard. But clearly the boy was content to ignore the awkward situation and, to be honest, so was Stiles but Scott-
“I know you didn’t mean to get it wrong,” he says as Stiles stares. “But you really should correct yourself, you know?”
*^*^*^
It’s easier to say something now that Scott is there to back him up. His voice is still too quiet sometimes and other times he tells himself it’s just not worth it but Scott’s voice is loud and open and friendly and gradually the question mark fades.
*^*^*^
The next week Mr. Kohen is out and maybe he’d printed a new roster and forgotten to make a note but the substitute teacher is doing attendance and Stiles knows before it even hits that he’s about to be called “Miss Stilinski.”
The bomb drops and he’s ready for it. He doesn’t even flinch.
“It’s Mister,” Scott pipes up just as Stiles decides it’s not worth it for one day. “Mister Stilinski. There should be a note of that.”
*^*^*^
It’s not like people refer to him often. For the most part, Stiles still tries to fly under the radar though, of course, the gossip doesn’t stop completely.
So it’s not perfect but there’s a difference. Such a huge difference between “She’s acting like a boy or something” and “He used to be a girl.”
*^*^*^
Two weeks later, his dad asks if he is sick because his voice is hoarse and Stiles blinks in surprise and shakes his head without thinking about it and it’s only when the phone rings and he answers it to hear Scott on the other line that he realizes it’s because he’s talking again.
*^*^*^
Stiles keeps worrying that Scott will get sick of him. Not only sick of the stares that he gets just by walking next to Stiles, or the whispers about Scott that are now circulating the school freely, but sick of him. Sick of Stiles’ constant fidgeting and long rambles that lead nowhere and tendency to space out and miss portions of conversations.
Stiles waits, telling himself that eventually Scott will want to go back to his other friends. Because Scott is nice and funny and awesome and he must have them even though no one sits with them at lunch. This must be because Scott is stuck sitting with him.
“You can,” he starts one day as they sit in their back corner. Scott stops talking abruptly and Stiles flushes as he realizes he hadn’t been listening and he’d interrupted. Scott waves at him to continue anyway. “You can go sit with your other friends sometimes. You know. If you want.”
Scott stares at him. Stiles pokes around at the food on his plate.
“Uh, bro?” Scott says. For the first time since Stiles has known him, Scott sounds a little hesitant. Maybe embarrassed. “I don’t have other friends.”
“Yes you do,” Stiles replies, frowning. “You hung out with that kid Tony at the beginning of the year. And Sean too right?”
“Oh,” Scott says dismissively. “They turned out to be not very nice.”
Stiles took that to mean that they didn’t approve of hanging out with Stiles. But that’s what Stiles was trying to say. That Scott didn’t have to hang out with Stiles all the time. He could split his days up if he wanted. Stiles could handle it.
He opens his mouth to try to explain this when Scott turns back to his food with a shrug.
“Why would I want to be friends with people who are mean?”
*^*^*^
Stiles stops drawing Pinocchio. There’s simply no time.
*^*^*^
It is still late October by the time he works up the courage to ask Scott and it’s only when he is sitting at the dinner table, too excited to eat the pasta in front of him that he realizes he’s forgotten to ask his dad.
“Dad?” He asks tentatively. “Can I-uh, can I have a friend over?”
His dad straightens. Looks at him as if he’s spoken another language.
“For a sleepover,” he clarifies, squirming a bit. “I mean… I actually already told him it was okay so… yeah. He’s sort of coming over in like an hour.”
His dad doesn’t say anything and the panic rises.
This is his dad’s first Friday off in forever. He probably wants to spend it doing father-son activities. Stiles should have checked before he did this. He can always call Scott and cancel.
“Sorry,” he says. “I should’ve asked. I can call and-”
“No!” his father croaks suddenly. “I mean yes! Yes, you can have a friend over. Of course you can.”
Relief pools in his stomach. He can have Scott over. He can have a friend.
“I’ll, uh,” his father is standing, food seemingly forgotten. “I’ll go buy food! Snacks! We’ll need snacks for you guys. You and your friend. I’ll just run to the store. And movies. I’ll pick up a movie. Something with action. PG-13?”
Stiles blinks, confused by his father’s sudden outburst.
“You’re only twelve but PG-13 should be fine,” his dad is saying as he puts his plate in the sink, whirling so quickly Stiles can barely see his face. “I mean I’m the sheriff. I say it’s fine. Okay. Snacks and a movie.”
His dad actually walks out of the kitchen before Stiles can react.
Then he pops his head back in and Stiles sees the reason for his quick exit.
His father is flushed. His face is red and his eyes are wet and-
“What’s his name?” his dad asks, clearly trying to hold it together. “Or her name? Uh- I don’t-”
“Scott,” Stiles tells him. “Dad, please don’t-”
He doesn’t want his dad to cry.
“I’m good,” the sheriff says, waving a hand. “Finish your dinner. I’m just gonna go get snacks. For your friend. Scott.”
He says “Scott” like it’s a holy word and it makes Stiles flush but he is gone the next moment.
If it takes a few minutes for Stiles to hear the engine start, well…
Stiles is pretty excited too.
*^*^*^
“It’s not Gizela,” Scott tells the 8th grade office aid who is frowning down at a piece of paper. He is speaking before Stiles can even raise in his hand in embarrassment. No one calls him his real name. Not even before all this. “He goes by Stiles. After his last name. Stilinski.”
“Oh,” the girl says in surprise. If it’s a sealed letter from the office it probably says Miss on it. “Do you know… him? Stiles?”
“Of course I know Stiles,” Scott says. “We’ve been best friends since we were four! Well, I was four. He might have been five. We met in the sandbox.”
“Uh, okay,” the girl says, glancing down at the note one last time before mentally shrugging. “Maybe you could give him this note then?”
“Sure!” Scott agrees and then the girl is gone and he is bumbling over. “Dude, bro, do you get to go home early?”
*^*^*^
For Halloween, Mrs. McCall makes them the Hulk and Spiderman costumes and he wears his mask all night and everyone knows he’s a boy and he doesn’t want to take it off.
But when he does, Scott’s face is smiling at him, green almost entirely smudged off and it’s not as bad as Stiles thought it would be.
*^*^*^
In November, Ms. Williams is absent.
He finds out fourth period when he arrives at the room and there is a sub sitting at her desk and Ms. Williams notes must be more thorough than Mr. Kohen’s because the sub doesn’t say his name wrong but-
But that’s not the issue here.
The issue is that he didn’t find out until fourth period and so he had been drinking his usual amount of water until then and he always asked Ms. Williams right after lunch and now-
Now he has to go to the bathroom and he doesn’t know what to do.
He’s standing, leaning against the lockers, staring at the two signs next to each other as if it he just waits long enough, they will tell him the answer to his problem.
Tears of frustration are just starting to fill his eyes when Scott appears.
“Hey, bro,” Scott says and Stiles jerks, snapping his head away from what he has been staring at and attempting to act natural. “You ran off sorta quick. Is something wrong?”
“No,” Stiles says, shaking his head quickly. Too quickly. And apparently not being friends for three years has had no effect on Scott’s ability to tell when Stiles is lying because Scott just frowns at him, eyes going soft and sad and Stiles hastily changes his answer. “It’s nothing. I just-”
He stops. This is too embarrassing. This is just…
He can just hold it. Or maybe ask to go during class. There will be less people then.
Scott is still looking at him, concern all over his face.
“I kinda have to pee,” Stiles admits, already walking away. “Ms. Williams usually lets me into the faculty bathroom but- it’s fine. I’ll just go later.”
If he moves fast enough, he won’t have to see whatever look is currently occupying Scott’s face. More importantly, Scott won’t see him.
But Scott’s arm lashes out and grabs him before he can take two steps.
“Dude,” Scott tells him. “Don’t be stupid.”
And then Scott is pulling him towards the men’s room.
“I can’t,” Stiles says, trying to dig in his heels. There might be people in there. People who are not Scott. People who don’t understand, who know he’s not a real boy.
In July, he’d agreed to go to the movies with his dad and he’d gone to the bathroom after and a man – an older man who was probably just trying to be nice – stopped him on his way in and told him that he’d made a mistake and he was “about to get a nasty shock, Miss” and teenagers at the sink had laughed and he hadn’t even known what to do except turn and go to the woman’s room and ignore the stares he got in there and then sit and cry silently and hate everything.
He’d said nothing on the way home and his dad must’ve known because he’d seen him exit the girls room and he didn’t ask what was wrong.
“Yes, you can,” Scott says calmly. “I’ll go in with you.”
The bathroom is empty when they enter and Stiles takes a moment to just stare. Not that it is anything worth staring at because all the stereotypes seem to be true: Boys’ bathrooms are significantly more disgusting than girls’. But still, Stiles is just… he’s just happy to be there.
Which is stupid but Scott stands there silently with him anyway.
“Okay,” Stiles says softly. “I’ll just, uh-” He gestures behind him to a stall and he hopes that no one else comes in because his feet will be facing the wrong way and he’ll have to use toilet paper and shit, people will know even if they don’t see him and-
He slips into a stall before he can talk himself out of it. He just has to be quick.
Then the stall door next to him is opening and Scott’s shoes are next to him. Pointing the same way.
Someone comes in right as he is finishing and for a moment, Stiles thinks that he can just wait until the other boy leaves. But he has already flushed and whoever it is seems to be spending a long time at the mirror and he can’t stay there forever and-
It takes Scott’s stall door swinging open with a squeak for him to finally risk it.
Jackson Whittemore, the sixth grader who is already playing on the eighth grade lacrosse team, is taking up the middle sink and Scott is sliding up to the left one with all the confidence of someone who belongs there. Stiles tries to mimic his nonchalance as he heads to the one on the right even as he’s certain the entire world can hear his heart pounding.
Jackson looks away from his reflection long enough to glance at both of them and Stiles sees the frown start to form on his face.
“Nothing like a post-lunch crap, eh, Stiles?” Scott says loudly. Stiles can’t stop the amazed smile that rises to his face. Doesn’t even want to.
“You two are both disgusting,” Jackson declares, rolling his eyes. But he goes back to staring at his face, seemingly content with ignoring them.
“I heard it is good for after school sports,” Stiles hears himself say seriously. “Makes sure that you are at minimum weight for speed and stuff.”
“Yeah,” Scott says immediately. “My mom’s a nurse. She told me that one time.”
“Don’t be dumb,” Jackson says, glaring at both of them. “Fucking weirdos.”
Stiles makes a show of shrugging and Scott puts his hands out as if to say ‘Well, we tried,’ and they both leave with smiles on their faces.
And right as he turns, he glances back to see Jackson eyeing the stall door.
He and Scott nearly kill themselves laughing.
*^*^*^
“You can tell me stuff, you know?” Scott says a week later as they both stare up at the ceiling of Stiles’ room, waiting to either fall asleep or decide to sneak in more video games. “About like the bathroom or… other stuff.”
“Okay,” Stiles says.
“And even before,” Scott continues. “Like last year. I- uh. I just wish- you could have told me last year too.”
Stiles doesn’t say anything. Because he regrets it. Of course he regrets it.
“Not that you should feel bad!” Scott says suddenly. “I mean- I’m not mad or anything I just… I missed you.”
“I won’t do it again,” Stiles promises and for once, it’s a promise he feels confident he can keep. “I missed you too.”
*^*^*^
“Hey, Stilinia,” the voice is gruff and harsh and Stiles makes a point not to flinch up against the locker. “Do you keep a sock stuffed in your pants? Do you get off playing with it?”
Stiles turns slowly, already knowing that it was one of the 8th graders who seemed to take a special interest in making his life miserable if they thought they could get away with it. Judging by the voice, it’s Ben Wright.
In this moment, they can get away with it. Stiles had lost track of time in the library and the halls are empty and it turns out there are two of them. Ben and Josh. Perfect. One to hold his arms back and another to thrash him. He is fairly used to the configuration.
“Seriously?” He says, raising an eyebrow in judgment. “That’s not even my name. I mean I went by Stiles since I was three (it should have been my first clue). You could have at least learned my real first name. Can’t you read? Or are you-”
The first that drives into his stomach efficiently shuts him up. Stiles finds himself just grateful that it’s not his face. So far he’s been pretty lucky in keeping this from his dad. It’s the one good thing about his dad working all the time and the beginner make-up kit he gotten as a birthday present last year from his mom’s older sister.
“Hey, dick,” a voice calls as Ben is winding up for his second hit. “You would know about sock-stuffing, wouldn’t you?”
Stiles’ head whips toward the sound, brain not even fully processing the insult. It is still caught up on the fact that someone had stood up for him, that someone cared. And it wasn’t a teacher.
The voice is familiar but the tone isn’t so it’s still a surprise when the face suddenly comes into focus though it shouldn’t be. Because of course, it’s Scott, who’s looking a bit surprised at the insult himself.
“You know,” Scott continues clearly. “Since your penis is so small.”
(Later, Stiles will tell Scott that he didn’t need to clarify the insult and Scott will blush and say “I just wanted to make sure he got it!” and they will laugh until they are both gasping for breath.)
Predictably, Ben lets go of Stiles and Scott gestures wildly and Stiles doesn’t wait another second. Ben’s face is still caught in surprise, Josh is looking between the two as if unsure who to attack first without his leader’s direction.
Stiles takes off.
Scott waits until Stiles catches up to him and then they both start running in earnest.
They only made it ten steps or so when the sounds of pursuit rise behind them.
Stiles still thinks that maybe they can make it to the locker room where there might be other students or maybe outside – his house is walking distance if you had enough time – but suddenly Scott slows.
Then he ducks into a classroom.
“Scott!” Stiles says, curling his hand around his friend’s shoulder as Scott leans over and puts his hands on his knees. “What are you doing? We gotta keep going!”
“You go,” Scott says, taking another breath that comes out slightly wheezy. “I can’t run anymore. You go.”
“What do you mean you can’t run anymore?” Stiles asks, glancing back. Ben and Josh are stupid but they are also the brand of 8th grader that has magically already hit puberty. And Scott just insulted them. Getting caught is not a good option.
“I have-” Scott is forced to pause and gasp. “Asthma. Remember?”
“What the-” Stiles stars, staring in confusion. He does remember but only vaguely. Scott had been officially diagnosed at the beginning of first grade. He had spent one day showing off his new inhaler and Stiles remembers him taking it a few times but he hadn’t seen it yet this year. “You still have that? Why would you say something if you can’t even run away?!”
“Dude,” Scott says, frowning up at him like Stiles is an idiot. He is still gasping a bit unevenly. “Bro.” The second word is accompanied by a hand gesture between them and-
Stiles knows that that is a dumb answer. The words “Dude, bro” should not be able to convey any depth of emotion. They are about to be beat to a pulp. And this isn’t even Scott’s fight. But for some reason the panic in his gut takes the form of a large, stupid smile that spreads across his face even though he can hear Ben yelling at Josh to start checking the classrooms. And the most wonderful thing is that Scott is smiling back.
And, later, Stiles finds that split lips and black eyes don’t hurt nearly so badly when you have someone sitting on the ground next to you.
*^*^*^
It’s not the last fight they get into. Not by a long shot.
Mrs. McCall frets and frowns as she treats their injuries and mutters darkly under her breath and the first time Stiles is afraid – so afraid – that she is going to blame him or tell Scott to stop hanging out with him or never allow Scott to come to his house again.
But when she’s done, she scoops them both into a hug and kisses them carefully where there is no bruising and takes them for ice cream.
It becomes a tradition.
And the one time he shows up at their house alone because he’d stayed after in the library and Scott had gone home, she cleans the scrape across his chin while glaring at Scott and telling him that he should be doing his work after school as well.
Stiles flushes and tries to say that that’s not necessary and Mrs. McCall turns her glare to him and Scott says “Bro” with such a tone of guilt and rebuke that Stiles blushes harder but stops protesting.
They still go get ice cream.
*^*^*^
Obviously, there’s no hiding all the evidence from his dad.
And his dad frowns and asks if he should call the school and Stiles shrugs silently but Scott takes the ice away from his lip long enough to sigh and sound older than his years as he explains that unfortunately, he doesn’t think that will help.
So his dad says that they can start doing their homework at the station and the officers on their downtime start casually mentioning principles of self-defense.
“Your elbow is one of the hardest parts of your body,” Thomas says one day as he’s filling out paper work. “Drive that back into someone and they’re going to remember.”
“I once broke a guy’s finger by jerking it backwards,” Cindy mentions a few days later. “Just grabbed it and yanked.”
“Go for the ears” is Rachel’s advice. Angela teaches them how to throw a punch. (She starts to preach about the merits of breaking a man’s nose right off the bat but Stiles’ dad interrupts). Brad shows them which places are the most sensitive to being gouged with fingernails.
“Dude, bro,” Scott says one day as they are walking home. “Police officers fight dirty.”
Stiles nods. He isn’t sure some of the tricks still qualify as defense.
*^*^*^
Stiles suspects that his dad calls the school anyway. He knows his dad goes in for a meeting with Ms. Williams.
There’s another meeting the next week and Stiles doesn’t know who it’s with but his father returns from it looking more angry than Stiles has ever seen him.
Ben doesn’t stop but he is suddenly more careful, settling for hits that will be concealed by a shirt or cruel quick pinches in passing. Stiles doesn’t tell his dad but he’s pretty sure he winces when he sits down for dinner because there is suddenly a speed trap right outside Ben Wright’s house.
Mr. Wright gets three speeding tickets before he finally figures it out.
Josh Baxter’s house is next.
*^*^*^
Christmas break is exciting because it means no school and that’s always exciting but it’s not like it was last year.
Last year, Christmas was a silent affair. The loss of his mother was a physical ache in his chest and the constant stream of I’m not normal. Something’s wrong with me. was a buzz that he couldn’t ignore. His dad had tried. Had gotten him all the books and games on his Christmas list and then had tried to be personal and gave him a Batman necklace and Stiles had stretched his lips into a smile and forced himself to try it on and wear it because his dad was trying. His dad didn’t know that something was wrong.
This year, Christmas is quiet because his mother is still gone. But there’s no buzzing in his head and he doesn’t give his dad a Christmas list because there is nothing he needs and he isn’t trying to avoid any gifts of clothes this year. His dad still tries. He gets him all the books and games that Stiles has casually mentioned over the past few months. And this time, the smile that rises to his face when he opens his new Batman hoodie is genuine and there isn’t anything wrong.
Last year, break was waking up and counting down the days until he had to go back because the dread in the pit of his stomach was so great that he spent all his free time worrying about everything and enjoying nothing.
This year, break is spent bouncing between his house and Scott’s, depending on which house has the best snacks or which parent is home to make them real meals (their attempt at cooking themselves had resulted in a pile of sludge that was quickly declared inedible) or whether or not they wanted to play Stiles’ Nintendo Gamecube or Scott’s Playstation.
This year, Stiles loses track of the days completely and so when school starts up again, it’s a shock but not a nasty one.
*^*^*^
“Dude, bro, you know what we should do?” Scott declares in early February.
They are on their way to Stiles’ house. Going two weeks without seeing everyone had apparently done some good. Or maybe “Don’t be a dick anymore” was a large portion of the pre-teen population’s New Year’s Resolution. Or maybe the few hits he and Scott had managed to score in the last few fights were enough of a deterrent.
Or maybe word had spread that it was the parents who would pay if their kid touched Stiles. Literally.
No matter the reason, after a tense first few weeks, both of them have relaxed enough that they simply walk home right after school. No more hiding out in the library or the police station until the roads are mostly clear. They have faded into a comfortable obscurity.
“What?” Stiles asks.
“We should start practicing lacrosse,” Scott says. “So we can play on the team next year!”
Scott sounds excited. Stiles is already frowning.
“Uh,” he starts. “Scott, you have asthma. And I’m-”
Trapped in the biological body of a girl.
“A klutz,” Scott finishes for him. “I know but I’ll have my inhaler with me and that’s why we start practicing now.”
“That’s not-” Stiles says weakly. Sometimes he honestly wonders if Scott forgets. Which isn’t a bad thing, it’s a great thing, but it does mean that sometimes he can have a few unrealistic ideas.
“I already checked the district handbook,” Scott says without looking over. “There are no rules about gender. Technically, even a girl could play on the team.
“Not that that matters,” Scott continues without pause. “You’re not a girl. So… will you?”
That’s when Scott finally looks over, eyes wide and pleading, hope practically glittering out of them.
“Alright, man,” Stiles says. “But we’re gonna be awful.”
*^*^*^
They are awful.
Truly terrible.
They can’t aim the ball or catch the ball and Stiles is ninety percent certain they’re holding the sticks wrong, no matter what Scott claims he read online, and it’s still the best time Stiles has had in a long time.
*^*^*^
The week of Scott’s birthday, he finds out that Stiles’ birthday was in August and so they’d missed it.
Scott is horrified.
So they have a joint party at the big arcade a few towns over even though Stiles claims it’s not really a party because they are the only two there.
“My mom and your dad are here,” Scott says, grinning at his pile of three presents. “Party.”
“You’re weird,” Stiles tells him even though what he really means is Thank you.
*^*^*^
He never figures out how to say it. Not as spring comes and goes. Not as they fill their time with lacrosse and video games. Not as both their grades start slipping enough that Mrs. McCall insist they start up their library tradition again. Not as he helps Scott with his English homework or Scott helps him learn 3rd and 4th grade math that he had skipped.
He doesn’t find a way as sixth grade ends and summer starts and Mrs. McCall and his dad both install an extra set of drawers in their respective bedrooms because at that point it’s just easier (though not entirely effective as they just start mixing their clothes up). He doesn’t find a way as Scott takes to wearing his shirt when they go to the pool too even though it gives him the most ridiculous tan lines in the world.
He gets close once, maybe, when they have just discovered the preserve and the old Hale house and spend the afternoon daring each other to get closer and then dragging each other away the second they get within 30 feet of it. Scott’s leaning over, panting from running, one hand on his inhaler but not using it and Stiles looks over at him and thinks I should say thank you. I should just say it. And he’s about to do it. He is but then Scott looks up at him and smiles and-
“Dude, bro, this is the worst idea we’ve ever had. We should stop. After one more try. Just one. Then we go home. You go first this time.”
And Stiles is distracted by the sound of his own laughter and Scott pushes him forward.
Two minutes later, when they are running away, laughing because a squirrel had jumped out and Scott had shrieked, Stiles realizes that Scott probably already knows.
End.