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Have you ever had one of those days where you wake up, open your eyes, and immediately think, “Fuck this, I’m going back to bed”? Now, imagine that, multiply it by a metric fuck-ton, and inject it with steroids. That’s how Stiles’ morning is going.
However, despite the fact that all Stiles wants to do right now is roll over and go back to sleep, he can’t. Today is the first day of Stiles’ senior year at Beacon Hills High and apparently, the entire Pack has forbidden him from missing it. In fact, Scott had even taken the initiative to stay over at Stiles’ house the previous night, just in case Stiles went back on his word and bailed on them last minute. Which, generally speaking, would be offensive. However, the simple fact that they were right and he actually was planning on skipping chased off any indignation he may have felt at the assumption.
But honestly, Stiles really has no idea why the Pack is hellbent on getting him to attend. It’s their first day for fucks sake. It’s not like he’ll be missing anything vitally important. He’s not going to fail his entire senior year just because he didn’t have the school’s rules and expectations laid out in front of him for the fiftieth time. No disruptive behavior, no running in the hallways, no murdering your classmates when they inevitably say something unbelievably stupid, and so on and so forth. In Stiles’ opinion, if it didn’t work the first forty-nine times, then why waste your breath explaining it again. But hey, if it makes them feel better, who is Stiles to take that away from them.
The sound of his bedroom door opening and closing alerts Stiles to the fact that it’s time for him to suck it up and start getting ready for the day, despite his brain’s compelling arguments for the contrary. Stiles lets out a histrionic groan, finally peeling his eyes open and taking in the sunlight streaming through the window and the digital clock reading 7:04 a.m. sitting on his bedside table. His first period begins at 7:50, so Stiles will have to be out the door in about thirty minutes if he wants to make it on time. After taking one last moment to enjoy the warmth and comfort of his bed, he kicks off his blankets and reluctantly heaves himself into a sitting position, immediately bending over with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands as he attempts to coerce his brain into some form of functionality.
Distantly, he hears his door open and close again, and this time the sound is accompanied by soft, padding footsteps.
“Oh, good! You’re up! You better get moving if you want us to make it on time.” Stiles only just manages to resist the urge to mock his best friend’s cheerful exclamation, instead opting to groan and shift his head marginally so that Scott’s figure enters his line of sight.
Stiles watches the True Alpha shuffle around the room, collecting his school supplies, which have inexplicably ended up scattered across the floor, and placing them neatly in his school bag, somehow managing to fit more stuff than is scientifically possible into the small, over-the-shoulder backpack. Stiles passively wonders if Scott has actually figured out how to bend the laws of physics in order to make his bag dimensionally transcendental like the T.A.R.D.I.S. from Doctor Who, but quickly decides that the teenage werewolf has neither the resources nor the necessary brainpower to achieve such a thing.
Scott manages to squeeze one last notebook into the already overstuffed satchel before he zips up the pouch and heaves it aggressively over his shoulder. However, it seems as though Scott has vastly overestimated the bag’s overall durability because the bag’s single strap only rests on Scott’s shoulder for a moment before succumbing to the weight and snapping cleanly at the seam, sending the bag plummeting to the floor with a clamorous thud. Stiles notices Scott’s shoulders sag almost imperceptibly and strains to hear the barely audible puff of air that Scott releases as a product of his frustration.
Stiles, being the amazing best friend that he is, simply raises a singular brow and waits for Scott to turn around.
He doesn’t have to wait long, because a few moments later Scott swings around to face him. However, instead of the defeated look Stiles is expecting - and secretly hoping for - he is met with a broad, humorous smile. Apparently, Scott is in too good of a mood to let something as nominal as a bit of bad luck bring him down from his first day back at school high. Which is good for him, and all, but this, unfortunately, means that Stiles will be stuck with a goddamned rainbow as a sidekick for the foreseeable future. And, considering Stiles’ current mood, he’ll only be able to take so much of Scott’s “everything is beautiful, life is a gift, and nothing can possibly go wrong” mindset before he runs out of patience and bites his best friend’s head off. Now, this doesn’t mean that Stiles routinely dislikes and deprecates Scott’s infallible ability to find a silver lining, no matter the situation. In fact, he predominantly finds it refreshing, even inspirational, at times. Stiles has never been one to give someone or something the benefit of the doubt, usually preferring to use a more pessimistic calibre of discernment when viewing the world. And, having Scott there to give him a metaphorical, and sometimes literal, slap in the face when he journeys too far down the rabbit hole of negativity is more than likely beneficial to humanity in its entirety. Don’t ask, alright? He was having an off day, and it’s best if we just leave it at that.
“Stiles?” Scott’s questioning utterance of his name brings Stiles out of his musings. Stiles hums, acknowledging Scott’s request for attention. “Hey, do you have a bag I can borrow?” Scott holds up his now unusable backpack and tilts his head enquiringly. Stiles answers without missing a beat, ignoring the tiny voice in his head warning him that what’s about to come out of his mouth is too sarcastic to be seen as friendly and too saturnine to be deemed healthy.
“The only bags I have are the ones under my eyes, and they’re specifically designed to carry the burden of my existence.”
Silence stretches between the two friends. Scott stares at Stiles, and Stiles stares right back, unsure of where to go from here. Finally, Scott sighs, his face going deadpan before he replies.
“Literally all you had to do was say ‘no’.”
“Maybe,” Stiles considers, “but I feel like my answer really expressed my overall mood. Through the dual use of sarcasm and hyperbole, I was able to elucidate the tenebrific and dysphoric demeanor that has been cast upon me by the recommencement of the school year. And would you look at that? I’m already getting into the academic spirit! I’m using sonorous and ostentatious language, interfusing a deeper meaning into an otherwise superficial string of words, and generally making absolutely no sense whatsoever, while somehow continuing to appropriate your time and attention, despite the fact that you ceased to understand my point an exceptionally long time ago. Now, if that isn’t an accurate representation of the dumbassery that is the public school system, then I don’t know what is.”
Scott decides to wait for a few moments once Stiles has finally closed his mouth and halted his speech, just to make sure that his friend is, in fact, done ranting. When Scott is 90% certain - one can never really tell with Stiles - he dissolves into a fit of raucous laughter, which is obviously not what Stiles had been expecting if the dumbfounded look on his face is anything to go by.
“Damn, Stiles, tell me how you really feel!” Scott jokes as he slowly regains his composure. He fixes his gaze on Stiles once his amusement dies down to a manageable level, but is immediately forced to grapple for control again when he takes in the state of his best friend, who seems to be acting out his best goldfish impression, opening and closing his mouth comically as he searches for a response. Eventually, it looks as if he’s settled on something to say, and he shuts his mouth with an audible snap before opening it again, this time so he can begin speaking.
“I- You’re…” Stiles trails off, muttering incomprehensibly for a few seconds before launching into his second attempt at articulacy. “There is nothing I can do or say to offend you enough to storm out of here and leave me behind, is there.” Stiles speculates, slow and deliberate like he already knows that what he’s saying is true, but isn’t quite ready to accept it.
“Yep!” Scott confirms jovially as he breaks into a beaming grin. Suddenly, he claps his hands together, glancing momentarily at the clock before moving his gaze back to Stiles. “Now, I expect you and your existential crisis to be downstairs and ready to leave in fifteen minutes. Let’s get this shit-show on the road!” Scott declares as he scoops up his - still broken - satchel and pivots with a level of melodrama that would, under normal circumstances, make Stiles proud. Scott leaves the room, but is only out of sight for a moment, when he turns back around, peaking his head back through the doorway to throw one last cheerful exclamation in Stiles’ direction before retreating down the stairs. “Look alive, Stilinski! It’s showtime!”
Once he is entirely sure that Scott is done bothering him for the time being, Stiles groans and falls back onto the bed.
Today is going to be a really long day.