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When Danny goes down, Stiles knows immediately he’s going to die. Figuratively, mostly. But Stiles doesn’t want to speak too soon because Stiles is breakable okay? He’s skinner than every person currently waiting to go back on the field. And that’s a lot of people, but it’s also not saying much because everyone is bulky and secretly a body builder, but still.
There is a valid and completely necessary reason why his ass has been on the bench for the two seasons he’s been on Beacon Hills High School lacrosse team while Scott has been running around with ease and deftness despite the asthma that had plagued him his whole childhood.
He is not, and will never be good at sports, especially lacrosse.
Come to think about it, Stiles thinks it would probably be better if he just sat this one out and let the team be one less so he can skip dying from sheer mortification when he will inevitably miss the ball, pass about three metres too far behind his team mates in an attempt to move play forwards or trip over his own feet in the off chance that he does get the ball, does run far enough to get a shot at goal and that someone does take the unnecessary risk of passing to him in the first place, thereby missing the point and making the whole team lose anyway because the other team will scoop up the ball before Stiles had the chance to regain his feet and punch the bloody cockheads in the face.
Smug bastards the lot of them.
“Hey,” Scott’s voice says off to his left, as Stiles stares unseeing towards the field at the referee talking to Coach about how terrible an idea it is to ever think about putting Stiles in the position of Danny with even a hope of winning. “It’s going to be alright.”
Stiles swallows thickly and squeezes his hands together, tighter, thinking about all the ways this can to terribly wrong. Because if Stiles is involved, it definitely will.
Scott’s hand clutches at his shoulder, shaking it a little. “Stiles? It’s going to be alright. We went over this, remember? You’re not going to trip over air and you’re going to catch the damned ball.”
Stiles shakes his head and lifts his chin; the picture of confidence even if he’s screaming inside. “I’m going to be badass out there. I’m going to punch people in the face and they’re going to apologise to me for it.”
“Uh,” Scott flounders for a moment. “That’s probably not a good idea. You can, like, tackle them and make the apologise but punching them will get you off the field and Coach’s going to have an aneurism because then we’ll be one down and there’s no chance of winning.”
“Scott, buddy.” Stiles honestly thought Scott knew. “I hate to tell you this, but I can barely walk without tripping over something, do you think I will make any difference?”
Scott opens his mouth to say something before a contemplative expression falls over his face. “Okay. Fair enough. But the others said they’d cover for you the whole way if you need it. But they don’t think you will.”
Stiles nods slowly.
“You know why?” Scott asks, a mischievous grin lighting up his entire face. “Because you are amazing and I love you and I think you’re awesome. You’re going to kick some butt out there!”
Stiles gazes down at the ice wrapped around Scott’s ankle, then towards Jackson who’s face looks like it got beaten by a bear, and then run over by a steamroller, and then was well equated with Stiles’ fists multiple times in a row with those fancy knuckle busters on his fingers, and then kissed by a dementor with how pale he looks.
And lastly Stiles looks at Danny who is waiting with a screwed up face and obviously in a lot of pain because Stiles has never seen Danny cry and he never thought he would ever see Danny cry, for the ambulance to take him to hospital to get his arm x-rayed because it is definitely broken. There’s no way an arm could bend in three places including only the wrist and elbow. That means there’s one extra bend and that’s not good. Not good at all.
Stiles stands up suddenly, ignoring the near silence of his team as they contemplate their next move and wandering if Stiles really is going to be playing because even Greenberg was given the next position ahead of him.
“Coach,” Stiles says as he approaches Coach Finstock. “I’ll do it.”
“I don’t think you really had a choice in the matter, kid,” Finstock retorts, but claps Stiles on the back anyway—some sort of coded message to tell him not to fuck up or he’s going to come after Stiles’ Dad and his first born child and all the curly fries in the world.
“No, I didn’t think so,” Stiles mumbles to himself, but adjusts his shirt and stares the man in the face. “But I’m going to try my fuck—darn hardest to do at least semi-goodly.”
Finstock looks at him for a moment with squinted eyes. “Alright. You’re taking first position.”
Stiles blanches. “What? No!”
“Yes.” Finstock turns to the referee. “Okay, we’re ready.”
Stiles flails. “We never agreed to this Coach. I thought I was going to be the background person that doesn’t really do anything and looks all important but isn’t really because I’m just going to stand there doing nothing as I always do except I’m standing not sitting because—”
The referee blows his whistle and motions for the continuation of the game and the other team begins making their way back onto the field. Stiles starts panicking and waves his arms around, watching with agonised noises as Coach retreats into the gathering of injured players with no more than a, “You’ll be fine, Bilinski.”
“Coach, no,” Stiles protests, but at Scott’s encouraging thumbs up, Stiles turns around slowly and goes with his team to the middle of the field where they’re already lining up for start of play, hating himself with every fibre of his being that he allowed himself to be talked into it by Scott because he was too good a friend.
“Oh, god I’m going to die. I’m going to be crushed in a tangle of limbs and torsos and there’s nothing I can do but wait out the inevitable while Lydia and Allison watch and people are going to have to pay for therapy after this and I’m going to go home and Dad’s going to look at me with disappointment—”
“Stilinski shut up.”
Stiles jerks his head up, realising he’d been mumbling to himself too long and gazes into Aidan’s face, who looks like he could also use with an ice pack but is unwilling to tell Coach.
“You’re not completely useless,” is all he says before taking his place.
Stiles stands there helplessly, hand loose around his lacrosse stick before facing the other starter.
Dully he hears the crowd roaring, vaguely making out the screams of Allison and Lydia as they wave about the sparkly cardboard sign that reads, “GO CYCLONES!” Stiles thought it was pretty nice of them, especially the stripes on their faces and arms and the speakerphone blasting out their encouragements.
“GO STILES!”
Stiles shakes himself and meets the eyes of the other boy. Eyes that are hazel and brown and green and he can’t really tell the colour, and above that he can barely see the heavy-set eyebrows that are black in this lighting, with the dwarfing towers casting beams of light down on the people of Beacon Hills with no worry about blinding them at all four corners of the grass.
Stiles swallows again, spinning his stick in his hands absently.
“You’re going down, 24,” the boy growls.
Stiles freezes, ice shuddering down his spine quicker than you can say fucking shit what the fuck god damnit why now can’t you have said that at like a fuckin’ meet and greet or party of something. I’m going to die oh god—
Stiles chokes on his own saliva as he says, “Uh, no you fucktard I’m going to punch you in the face and make you apologise for it because I am great at lacrosse no matter what Lydia said in seventh grade and this is already getting out of hand because I, too, am delusional at the best of times, but fuck why am I still talking.”
And then the boy visibly freezes, too.
And they’re both just couching there, staring at each other like morons when the ball is dropped and neither of them move even as both their teams lurch into motion and soon they, too, are not moving.
Nobody is moving.
The stands are silent.
He can almost hear Lydia murmuring to Allison about how stupid Stiles looks right now.
“Oh god why did I say that,” Stiles blurts.
“What?” Isaac says from somewhere beside him.
Stiles barges forwards with no remorse or filter. “That is such a long sentence to say on the first meet and I can’t believe—Where is that on your body because I can’t imagine it on your arm because it’s too long. On your ribs maybe because that’s really—maybe your thighs, or back. Because mine’s on my shoulder and I can’t read it properly and my Dad had to be the first to tell it to me when I was like four years old--Oh, god. Did your parents have to explain what ‘fuck’ is? Shit I’m so sorry. Oh God I’m terrible. All I had was a vague threat about ‘going down’ whatever that meant.”
The boy’s mouth drops open behind his helmet sometime in the middle of Stiles’ long tirade.
And then the referee finally decides to say something. “Are you going to start?”
And doesn’t that just shake Stiles out of his reprieve because he’s scooping up the ball with only a small amount of guilt and legging it towards the goals, with Isaac on his heels because that man is nothing if not amazing with his reflexes and anticipating moves before they actually happen. Stiles almost crows in delight but he’s concentrating too hard on keeping his feet from tangling up with each other and keeping the ball from dropping and losing their unexpected advantage.
Even if the words on his shoulder blade are throbbing as they burn black with confirmation. Even as his heart’s beating out of his chest, wandering if his soul mate is going to hate him now for taking advantage of his shock. Even as he’s grinning in anticipation and trying to frown with worry about what he’s going to say later—if he’s even going to seek him out later—and if he’s going to ask him out on a date—
Stiles throws the ball to Isaac who’s now much close to the net as he is, and he catches it, runs a few paces and launches the ball—
And the horn sounds and—
They score.
That’s it.
Stiles jerks about to glance at the score board to make sure and—
Yes.
They’ve won.
They’ve won.
Stiles stumbles to a halt in shock, stick dropping to the grass with a lethargic thunk, vaguely aware of the other team dropping to their knees as the reality sets in for them.
Isaac sprints back to him, shirt already off and tackles him to the ground.
Stiles blinks.
“I did it,” he whispers. “I met my soul mate and then I stole the ball right out from under his nose.”
Isaac pulls back and grins in his face. “I know, and it was awesome.”
Stiles doesn’t know what to do now, so he waits as the rest of his team pile on top of the other in celebration. Not that it resembles much of a celebration to him. It’s just a pile of bodies. Stiles would rather—
“Get off,” he says suddenly.
“Let the boy breathe,” he hears Coach yell. “He’s not used to team celebration.”
“Now,” Stiles says. “Get off now I need to—I need to talk to—get off!”
His team is scrabbling off him and Stiles is sitting up, struggling to stand and looking around the field.
Stiles finds the number, ignores the different colours and shucks his helmet off before running to him, breath ragged, face heated and legs shaking. There’s something strange about approaching your soul mate the moment after The First Momenttm because it’s like you already know each other and you’re imagining spending the rest of your life with that person even if you don’t know their favourite colour or food. All you know is that you’re going to love them.
There’s also something to be said about the fact that Stiles had stolen a win from under his nose, but Stiles can’t really complain.
Stiles bounds towards him and stops a metre away, helmet under his arm, hair probably a mess, face flushed. “Hi. Hello. Bonjour. Hola. Guten Tag. Et cetera.”
The dude just stands there looking at him and Stiles peers between the gate-like front of his helmet that’s too green and black for his tastes. “Hello, 24.”
Stiles beams and sticks his hand out. “I’m Stiles. Stiles Stilinski. It’s actually Mieczyslaw Stilinski, but it’s nigh impossible for non-speakers of Polish to pronounce so I’m not going to expect you to say it, but—”
“Derek.”
Stiles pulls up short and squints. “Huh?”
“My name.” The boy—Derek—tilts his head forwards and slides his helmet off and Stiles doesn’t know what he did in a previous life but he’s glad he did it if he can be met with perfection as his soulmate. “Is Derek Hale.”
Stiles gapes helplessly. “Right. I’m Stiles. Have I said that? You’re amazing.”
Derek fixes him with an unimpressed stare. “Are you always this talkative?”
“Yes,” Stiles says, scratching at his wrist. “Sort of. But a little less so because I forgot to take my Adderall and I’m meeting my soulmate and I’m a terrible lacrosse player, Lydia was right, and I’m tired and Scott believes in me more than I believe in myself and I can’t believe I have such a good friend but also you’re perfect?”
Derek’s lips twitch. “Okay.”
“Okay?” Stiles echoes, tilting his chin forwards. “Just like that?”
“You talk more than enough for both of us,” Derek continues, eyes sparkling in a way Stiles didn’t think anyone could direct towards him.
“Yes. This will be awesome,” Stiles breathes.
Behind him he hears Scott’s voice, too close to mean anything other than he moved on his injured ankle. And Stiles is about to turn around and demand him go back when he says, “Have you punched him yet, Stiles?”
“Oh my God, Scott!”
Derek laughs.