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The thing is; Lydia doesn’t study. She reads through her books once and then they’re in her brain. She remembers everything - packs all of her notes and thoughts away into a mental filing-cabinet with colour-coded labels, titled with names like ‘School Things,’ or ‘Werewolf Things.’ During tests, she just closes her eyes and flicks through it all to watch the words swarm across insides of her eyelids. She always gets a good grade.
With her photographic memory and spotless GPA, she really doesn’t need to study. She likes the feeling of productivity she gets by organising her notes into chronological order and stacking them neatly on the corner of her desk, but she doesn’t slave over her books like some of her classmates. That means she usually spends that time reading college textbooks and doing extra credit work because she hears that looks great on college applications. She supposes people aren’t wrong when they call her a genius, but she likes to think of herself as efficient.
Lydia has an Allison file, too. It’s been a while and she doesn’t feel as hollow inside as she had, but it still hurts to think about her best friend. Lydia’s nails are still black and one of Allison’s cardigans still hangs in her wardrobe – she still wakes up in the night screaming. But it’s been happening less often, and Lydia supposes that counts for something.
The lack of studying she does also leaves her a lot of time to focus on her new topic of interest, the fresh drawer in her brain filing-cabinet – Malia Tate. Lydia lays on her bed and skims through the images of Malia just before she falls asleep – imagines Malia’s gentle hands against her cheek and the feel of her lips from that afternoon in the living room. Lydia’s caught herself replaying in her mind the way Malia’s smiles crinkle up her nose countless times.
Lydia doesn’t need to study for school or even research for supernatural things, since that seems to have been put on the back-burner after the showdown with the Nogitsune.
Instead, she studies Malia Tate.
Malia just can’t seem to get to grips with the concept of studying at all. Or really high school in general.
And honestly, she’d tried for the first few days. She really had. And it’s not as though she didn’t have a tutor at Eichen House. Malia’s just not used to the noise of the classrooms or the smell of pencil erasers and sweat. She doesn’t like the way the chalk scrapes across the blackboards or the way she starts to smell lunch being cooked in the kitchen at the same time every day.
And then there’s the whole Lydia thing. It’s a slow process, but Malia’s surely getting more accustomed to being thrown from ‘Coyote Wildlife Special’ to ‘High-School Movie’ – an analogy Stiles had proudly announced with a snort one lunchtime. No; it’s the strange coldness that leaks through her chest and into her fingertips when Lydia isn’t around that really gets to Malia. It wears her out, being apart from her redheaded girl, and she ends up feeling out of her depth after a few minutes in each of her lessons.
Malia uses her energy instead to think about Lydia; she tunes her focus into finding the girl’s familiar scent in the sea of people in the school and hooks onto it like an anchor stilling her bones on the waves of a rough, deep sea. At the end of each period, the paper in front of her is blank and all she gets in return is disapproving looks from her teachers.
She gets along pretending for a while, and since she’s in the bottom set for pretty much everything and the rest of the pack aren’t, there’s no one to call her out on it. But it doesn’t take long until her teachers start to become impatient towards the fact she’s done pretty much no work in about three weeks. Lydia had assumed with a fond eye-roll that when Malia neglected her homework it was just teenage rebellion (or ‘coyote rebellion,’ as she called it) but the truth was that Malia was struggling. And she was hardly going to admit that to the smartest girl in school, even if she was Malia’s sort-of-girlfriend-or-something.
The only class Lydia and Malia share is art, and it’s during the first lesson after their ‘moment’ on the Martin family’s couch that Lydia swaps seats with Greenberg so she can sit at the back with Malia.
“Hey,” Malia greets her delightedly as she looks up at Lydia with a surprised grin. They both ignore Greenberg’s frustrated huffs and Malia bites her lip as she watches the way Lydia’s dress clings to her thighs when she sits down in the empty seat.
Lydia gets her sketchbook out of her bag and lays it on the desk with a smile. “Is this seat taken?” She teases, looking at Malia with raised eyebrows. “Sorry, did you and Greenberg have some sort of arrangement?”
Their eyes follow Greenberg as he skulks away, leaving a pungent odour of deodorant and defeat, and Malia snorts. “Not my type,” she assures Lydia with a mock-serious nod and a squeeze to the girl’s hand.
Lydia hums approvingly, contented by Malia’s reply, and props her chin on her hand to watch Malia get out her stationery and sketchbook. They hadn’t exactly told anyone about the afternoon they’d spent kissing on Lydia’s sofa, but it was no secret to the rest of the pack that Malia and Lydia were ‘more than friends.’ Stiles had given them both a theatrical thumbs-up from across their lunch table, and Malia had flushed slightly as Lydia just smirked and held the were-coyote’s hand under the table. There’d been a chorus of ‘ahh’s that Lydia had revelled in for a few seconds just to see the adorable flustered look on Malia’s face, but then she’d hushed them in favour of wrapping her arms around Malia’s shoulders and smiling into her cheek. She’d noticed that Malia liked to push her face into the crook of Lydia’s neck when they hugged between classes, and she’d started pinning her hair back from one side for that reason, and it’s definitely worth it for the soft vibration she feels through her throat as Malia hums happily against her skin.
As Malia pulls out her pencil case, a white envelope flutters out from between the pages of her planner and onto the table. She doesn’t notice, too busy rummaging in her bag and mumbling about a pencil, so Lydia picks it up and turns it over, curious. The front reads ‘To Malia Tate and Parents,’ and Lydia tuts at the insensitivity of that and only considers opening it for a moment before she holds it out with a quizzical expression.
“What’s this?” Lydia asks, wondering whether a school trip had been organised and no one thought to tell her. She nudges Malia with her shoulder to draw the girl out of her concentration, waving the envelope again.
Malia looks up and sighs when she sees what Lydia is holding. She takes the envelope out of Lydia hands to put it back into her bag. “Just from my tutor teacher,” she says, avoiding Lydia’s gaze. “I’m sort of failing… Everything,” Malia adds with a shrug, sending a sheepish glance in Lydia’s direction. It wasn’t that she cared about her grades, but Lydia was the smartest girl in the school and she wasn’t exactly looking forward to everyone realising that the future valedictorian’s sort-of-girlfriend had a lower-than-low-average GPA.
Lydia tilts her head to the side in confusion, and just as she opens her mouth to say something, Malia interrupts – “I mean, I’m failing everything except art, so you can still sit next to me,” she announces with a toothy smile, eyes wide and hopeful.
Lydia pouts a little, unable to contain the rush of affection for Malia’s enthusiastic grin. “You should have said something,” she says quietly, frowning in concern as she realises Malia had been trying to keep it a secret. They’ve only been ‘dating’ - or whatever it was they were doing - for a few days, sure – but they’d been friends for a few weeks before that, and Lydia would have been more than happy to help her with school work. She’d even offered a few times, but Malia had always turned the suggestion down.
Malia just shrugs and holds her pencil up triumphantly when she finds it in the bottom of her bag, nearly stabbing Lydia with it in the process. “It’s not a big deal,” she insists as she pats Lydia’s elbow apologetically. “I don’t even care about classes. Scott’s been teaching me how to control the transformation and that’s way more important than anything at school. I’m only here because my dad makes me come.”
Malia doesn’t like to talk about her dad to Lydia, hasn’t even invited her to her house – Malia’s relationship with her father is still pretty weird, but Malia and Scott and Stiles have been trying to figure out a way to break him into the whole ‘hey, your daughter is a were-coyote and may or may not have unintentionally killed your family,’ thing, which will hopefully make it easier to be around him. At least - after the initial shock, Malia hopes.
Their teacher comes into the room and silences them after that, which gives Lydia a few minutes to think over what Malia had told her. Lydia watches as the girl holds her pencil awkwardly and draws a shaky border around a page of her sketchbook; tilts her head to the side in contemplation at the look of concentration on Malia’s face.
“Hey, Mali,” Lydia whispers under her breath as the teacher sits down at her desk and sets them doing a starter activity of an observational drawing of something in the room. She reaches over to tap the back of Malia’s wrist to get her attention, and the girl looks up in surprise and lifts her hand, palm-up, to close her fingers around Lydia’s.
“I’m going to tutor you,” Lydia tells Malia with a serious nod. She doesn’t let Malia reply before speaking again; “You’ll catch up in no time, trust me.”
Malia stares for a second before nodding, and she quirks her mouth up in a smile. She isn’t actually sure what she’s agreeing to – she’s more distracted by Lydia’s wide, earnest green eyes. When Malia looks down at her sketchbook a moment later, she realises with surprise that she’s started to draw out the perfectly symmetrical almond shape of them.
Lydia colour-codes a study timetable and staples it into the front of Malia’s school planner the next day as they stand side-by-side leaning against the lockers.
“Thanks,” Malia says in surprise, impressed and flattered by Lydia’s efforts. She reads over it and sees that Lydia’s even worked out specific times– Wednesday, 3.30 PM until 4.30 is math, followed by half an hour of English and an hour of science. Thursday is homework day and they start straight after school and go on until 5.30, when they have a break before carrying on until 7.30. She’s stuck star-shaped stickers in the corners and put hearts over the ‘i’s in a way she assures Malia is purely ironic.
Malia wrinkles her nose in disgust as Lydia explains the colours and the importance of studying and getting decent grades, but she can’t hide the excitement she gets from the prospect of spending more time with Lydia. She pecks Lydia on the cheek and rubs her face into the crook of Lydia’s neck to breathe her scent in deeply; whispers thank you into her ear.
Later that day, when Malia gets told off by her teachers for not listening, she opens her planner to stroke her fingertips over the highlighted page and lets her mind wander to later in the afternoon, when she’ll get to sit beside Lydia at the other girl’s kitchen table, thighs touching and feet tangled together. She sucks the end of her pencil into her mouth to hide her smile and gazes out of the window wistfully, wishing for the day to end sooner.
Lydia starts slow – after catching a glimpse of the incomprehensible scrawl Malia’s sporadic notes are written in; she meticulously draws out pages and pages of handwriting grids onto plain white paper. Malia sits cross-legged at the kitchen table and Lydia leans over behind her to arrange the girl’s fingers around her pen, gently guiding her hand across the page until Malia gradually gets used to the feeling of controlling it properly in her hand again.
The rest comes back to Malia reasonably quickly after that, with muscle memory showing her how to form the letters clearly if slightly messily. Her spelling isn’t atrocious, nor is her vocabulary, and after a few hours, Malia’s handwriting is definitely more legible than it had been. When Malia finally masters curling her ‘a’s just like Lydia does, she writes their names over and over again with little hearts over the ‘i’s, just to make Lydia laugh. When Lydia does laugh (she always does, now), Malia’s smile is so happy and enthusiastic that Lydia can’t help but wrap her arms around the were-coyote’s neck and pull her nearer to plant a soft kiss to her lips.
Lydia does her best not to let Malia get distracted by their kissing, but lets them celebrate with a break and some homemade brownies instead. They drink glasses of milk together and Lydia wonders out loud what on earth the tutors at Eichen House were doing with Malia in those few weeks she spent there.
“To be honest, they were usually too busy telling me off for growling and walking on my hands and knees to show me how to write in cursive,” Malia says pointedly, shaking out her aching hand and smiling with too many teeth at Lydia until the other girl snorts out a laugh.
Tutoring sessions with Malia quickly become the highlight of Lydia’s day. She finds herself rushing from her last lesson to meet Malia at her car, where they share a shy kiss before driving back to her house. And it isn’t hard work, tutoring Malia, not at all – it definitely isn’t that Malia is thick, because she’s witty and sharp, and Lydia, as a rule, doesn’t hang out with stupid people.
It’s just that whereas Lydia’s intelligence comes from books and college lectures and weekly practice IQ tests, Malia’s strengths are more geared to other things. She can run a marathon faster than anyone in the school and she has the best spatial awareness and directional skills Lydia has ever seen, but knowing where exactly on a map they are at all times doesn’t make up for the fact that Malia could barely hold a pencil properly until a week into the semester.
Lydia never gets bored when she watches Malia work. Sometimes does her own homework, which usually comes in the form of never-ending papers on subjects that leave Malia making fake-gagging noises. Well -pretends to do her homework. Usually she just ends up hiding behind her red hair and leaving her assignments unfinished in favour of watching the way Malia’s brow crinkles when she concentrates, or the way she leans right over the desk as she fills in her math worksheets. Sometimes she sucks in her bottom lip and chews on it, and Lydia’s heart judders a little in her chest.
Sometimes Malia is just so adorable that Lydia wants to slam the books between them shut and drag her upstairs – to lay her down on the bed and undress her slowly, run her fingers through Malia’s hair and press a line of kisses to the side of her neck. But having Malia get through high school with at least some qualifications is a duty she’s taken upon herself, so Lydia bites down on her tongue and points out errors in Malia’s workings as though she doesn’t feel like her heart is about to explode out of her chest.
Lydia gives Malia a stack of revision books with more pages than Malia deems should ever be necessary and they go through them methodically until Malia’s brain is fuzzy.
After a while Malia has to take her words back and admit, “Studying can be fun, I guess,” to which Lydia’s face lights up like a Christmas tree. And it isn’t even a lie told by the were-coyote just to see Lydia’s eyes crinkle in the corners – no, she really does find herself enjoying school more. Granted, boring teachers shouting at her from the front of the room are far less exciting than the way Lydia sighs lightly and taps her arm with her pen when Malia gets distracted, but at least she has the anticipation of their sessions to get through each day.
When Lydia gets excited about topics, like physics and chemistry, she can tell Malia has trouble keeping up. Maybe she gushes about string theory and quantum physics a little longer than necessary, but it’s worth it just to see the adorable crease between Malia’s eyebrows as she tries to keep up.
It doesn’t take long at all for Lydia to realise that Malia is much better with words than with numbers, and they speed through half of the English Literature reading list in just a few weeks by taking turns to read passages aloud to one another. Lydia can’t even find it within herself to get frustrated at the other girl each time she skips ahead or misses her cue; often she’s too distracted by Malia’s fingernails tracing the words lightly over the page.
She flies through Heart of Darkness and The Crucible, but try as she might Malia just doesn’t understand the point of algebra.
“I don’t get why people need to know this,” Malia mumbles for the billionth time as she stares at the endless equations and six-digit numbers littered across the double page like they’re written in some kind of foreign language. She’d managed to take most parts of math and science in her stride fairly quickly, even though they both agreed they were her weakest subjects. Nowadays she even felt herself understanding most of the topics in class. But it’s nearly 6 PM and she’d had a hard time with Scott that morning trying to get her claws up (and there were only so many times she could take Stiles’ ‘performance issues’ jokes before she felt like stabbing him). Lydia’s scent is overpowering and so distracting in the bright kitchen that Malia throws her pen down on the table, leans her forehead against Lydia’s shoulder, and sighs dramatically.
“It’s simple once you get the hang of it,” Lydia says slowly, lifting a hand to pat at Malia’s soft hair. Lydia knows that she’s pushing the other girl, but Malia had been doing so well that she didn’t want to stop yet. She’d had even had a few of Malia’s teachers thank her in the past few weeks, approaching her sheepishly in the hallways to admit that they’re grateful for Lydia’s ‘good influence.’
Honestly, Lydia thinks it’s sort of pathetic that some teachers in the school can’t even be bothered to help the new girl with the tragic back-story catch up. But, then again – she can’t really complain, not since it means she gets to spend even more time with Malia, combing through the girl’s hair as she buries her face into Lydia’s neck.
Lydia carries on stroking through Malia’s hair as she points to an equation in the book with her tip of her pen. “So you start by taking X – this one, here – over to the other side of the–“
Malia lets out an almighty groan, squeezing her eyes shut and pushing her face into Lydia’s neck as though to hide from the horrific numbers. She stops after a minute and pulls away, pouting up at Lydia with a sulky mouth; but there’s a glint in her brown eyes and her face is flushed in a way that makes Lydia want to see whether that blush goes down further than the neckline of her shirt.
Lydia considers her options for a moment, then closes the book on the table with her free hand.
“Let’s take a break, then,” she says to Malia’s suddenly pleased face. She pulls away and presses their foreheads together lightly for a moment before leading Malia by the hand up to her bedroom. If she shakes her hips a little more than necessary on the stairs, well – it’s not as though the view is wasted on Malia.
“Did I tell you my English teacher gave me a B on that paper about The Crucible?” Malia says as she trails after Lydia, trying to bury her excitement down. Lydia’s scent gets stronger the nearer they get to her bedroom and she finds the anticipation builds with it.
Lydia squeezes Malia’s hand and turns to flash her a proud grin in response before opening the bedroom door for them both. “I knew you would. It was excellent,” she says knowledgably.
It’s not as though they’ve never been in Lydia’s room before, but Lydia knows that Malia finds herself distracted by the littlest of things. Studying in Lydia’s room, where Malia knows she spends most of her time? Not the best way for the were-coyote to concentrate.
Malia thinks another reason she doesn’t often get invited to Lydia’s room often is because Lydia has only just stopped feeling guilty about it. Bringing another person into her bedroom, Malia imagines, is probably a big step for Lydia since Allison used to spend so much time there. It doesn’t smell of anything other than Lydia to Malia’s senses, but when Lydia passes her chest of drawers, her fingertips trail lightly over the framed pictures of her dead best friend. As much as Malia wants to gather Lydia up into her arms and hold her until she hurts less, Malia knows she can’t really do that.
Lydia is grieving, slowly but surely, as are the rest of the pack. Malia’s come to learn the unwritten boundaries she can’t and won’t cross with Lydia; things like tilting her chin at a certain angle, or wearing too much black. Things like silver jewellery. Random little things like avoiding heels that echo in a certain way down the hallway, or touching Lydia’s hands when her fingers are too cold. She learns that Lydia doesn’t like loud noises or surprises, and when she’s having a bad day Malia buys her cartons of apple juice from the canteen just to make her smile.
And Lydia’s smiles have seemed sincere more often than not lately, not to mention the fact that she’s stopped looking so tired in the mornings. Her nails are still painted black as she rearranges the trinkets and photos that remind her of Allison, but her hands don’t shake nearly as much as they used to, and Malia feels a swell of pride in her chest.
“What?” Lydia asks quietly when she catches Malia looking. Hey red hair wafts when she moves to sit on the edge of her bed and Malia literally wonders for a moment whether the girl is some kind of angel from heaven, and she isn’t even all that religious.
Malia shrugs in response and sits down beside Lydia. She fights down the urge to inspect every inch of Lydia’s room properly for the first time and keeps her focus on Lydia’s face. “Nothing. Just… Thank you so much, Lydia. For all of this. You really didn’t have to, but you did, and I really appreciate it.” Malia smiles bashfully and catches Lydia’s hand in her own to squeeze it on top of the duvet between them.
Lydia chuckles delightedly, and it sounds like bells chiming to Malia’s ears. “Thank me again when you pass your end of term tests with flying colours,” she says in a proud voice. It’s obvious that if Malia keeps up the impressive rate she’s learning at, in a few weeks she will have caught up with the rest of the people in her class – in fact, Lydia’s certain that Malia could definitely be in a few of Lydia’s classes by next semester.
“You’re a pretty good tutor, I guess,” Malia concedes, before poking Lydia with her sharp elbow playfully. It ruffles up Lydia’s dress, revealing a stripe of soft peach skin across her thigh, and Malia absently trails a feather-light finger over it.
Lydia stares down at Malia’s hand before rolling her eyes and looking up with a smirk. “Oh, I think I’m better than pretty good, don’t you? Miss I-was-getting-straight-Ds-until-three-weeks-ago,” Lydia teases. She lifts her hand to stroke a strand of Malia’s slightly messy hair back behind her ear and stares at the girl meaningfully until Malia closes her mouth in favour of saying whatever she was intending to say.
“How can I reward you for that B in English, then?” Lydia wonders out loud as she tilts her head to one side thoughtfully and lets her hand come to rest at Malia’s neck. She can’t help but smile as she sees Malia’s breath hitch in her throat. She leans slowly in to kiss her after taking the adorable flush to Malia’s cheeks as a sign of encouragement.
Lydia has always been appreciative of Pavlov’s work, and positive reinforcement is an absolute necessity if she wants Malia to keep up her good work. Obviously, rewards are one of the best ways to encourage repetition. Lydia likes to take a pro-active approach to everything she attempts, so she winds her arms around Malia’s neck and gently tips her backwards until they’re laying side-by-side on top of Lydia’s bed.
“Is this okay?” Lydia asks, a little breathless and more out of curiosity than anything, because judging by Malia’s wandering hands and tongue, it’s definitely more than okay.
Malia hums into Lydia’s mouth and hooks her knee around Lydia’s legs to pull her closer. “You’re perfect,” she manages between kisses, and suddenly she realises she isn’t lying beside Lydia anymore, so much as on-top of her – one denim-clad knee either side of Lydia to prop her up. She pulls her face back to beam happily and trail a finger down the side of Lydia’s cheek, practically glowing as she watches Lydia’s mirroring smile.
“This is perfect,” Lydia corrects softly. Her hands wander from Malia’s waist and down, to her sharp hips and round further still until they’re pressed into the back pockets of Malia’s jeans.
If, later on, Lydia hears a muffled I love you, she just smiles and tucks a strand of hair back from Malia’s forehead tenderly. And if Lydia echoes it back quietly between gentle brushes of her lips over Malia’s collarbones, the girl just leans eagerly into the touch and smiles.