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See, the thing is, there are only a few things that Jackson actually gives a fuck about. Like his hair. He works diligently every morning in front of the bathroom mirror to maintain his D.A. and he rarely leaves home without his comb inside his jacket. Oh, and his wheels, man, his screamer. She’s this gorgeous Ford Fairlane, brand-spanking new with sleek, black paint and a ragtop. He almost refused to race with her, you know, but whenever Danny’s in the car with him, he can’t help but press harder and harder on that accelerator.
Oh man, Danny. He’s first and foremost on his mind, because they’re tight—no, beyond tight. They’re brothers, family, and they won’t hesitate to stomp out any nosebleed that says otherwise. He’s more family than his so-called parents will ever be with their fake smiles and apple pies. It’s hard to believe that after eleven fucking years, they still don’t understand why he’s stopped going to country club, to church, why he’s stopped saying it.
After eleven fucking years, they don’t even realize that Jackson feels more at ease sucking on a cig with a bunch of queers in someone’s basement than being in the same house as them altogether.
Danny always looks pretty sharp with short, neat hair and single-breasted suit whenever they venture to the Jungle. Dressed only in a t-shirt and jeans himself, the vast differences never fail to amuse Jackson. Even though they seem to live in different worlds, Danny spending most of his time on the basketball court and Jackson with his car, it never seems to matter because they both don’t fit in where they’re supposed to. Danny’s too queer to even think about hanging with the other pussy-crazy jocks and Jackson’s grades, home life, wallet size are too good for him to relate to the other hoods. They fit so well together because they don’t fit anywhere else.
He’s content with this, sitting side-by-side with Danny as they watch men dance with other men, and the name Stilinski doesn’t mean a thing to him.
That is until Jackson returns from the bathroom, wiping his hands dry on his jeans, and finds that Danny’s not alone at their table. When he catches his eye, Danny grins and nods towards the boy—because, he looks more like a boy than anything—that chatters endlessly and fidgets in his chair. With a smirk, Jackson makes his way over and the kid clams up when he claims the seat between them.
“Well, if there isn’t a new faggot for the bunch,” he greets, pointedly directing the next question to Danny. “What’d I miss?”
The kid’s eyes skims over Jackson, but when he opens to speak only choking noises come out. Eventually, he manages, “H-Hey, Jackson.”
At Jackson’s questioning eyebrow, Danny snickers behind his fist. “You do know Stiles, right? McCall’s friend?”
Jackson stares. “Uh, no.” He knows McCall—he’s seen him with Lahey and some other hoods—but, he doesn’t remember ever seeing this joker.
“Wha?” The kid—Stiles? Who names their kid Stiles?—looks crestfallen. “But, we’re in three classes together.”
“We are?”
“We live a block away from each other.”
“We do?”
Frustration knits Stiles’ eyebrows. “You park your car next to mine every morning!”
Jackson closes his eyes and leans back, the chair teetering on two legs instead of four, and tries to think back to this morning, when he drove up to Beacon Hills High School this morning. He clucks his tongue. “Mm, sorry, man. Guess you didn’t leave much of an impression—ow.” He rubs his shoulder, casts Danny a sour look.
Danny returns it tenfold. “Get bent, Jackson.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Jackson teases and he fully expects another punch, but then foreign hands push on his shoulders and the chair is set to rights with a loud clack. He glances up and it’s the “club’s” owner who flashes him a grin that makes his skin crawl just a bit.
“Wouldn’t want you to have an accident, huh, Jacky-boy?” His hands start to move up from his shoulders; Jackson jerks away, hisses vehemently before they can think of ruffling his hair. The owner laughs and, disturbingly, Danny joins him. “So, who’s our new friend?”
Stiles frowns and Jackson’s respect for him increases. But, the kid’s apparently far better than him, because he extends a polite hand. “Stiles Stilinski. Nice to meet you.”
The owner takes his hand in what seems like a too-tight grip. “Peter Hale at your service. And, I—oh.” The music shifts and Peggy Lee croons “Mister Wonderful” from the radio and Peter sighs at the sound of it before turning to Danny expectantly. “May I have this dance?”
Jackson nearly gags at the dopey look that crosses Danny’s face as he stands. “Sure.”
See, this is the part that kills Jackson about the nights they visit the Jungle. He doesn’t like how Danny fawns over older men, dancing and flirting and, occasionally, even disappearing off with them for long stretches of time. His inner fraternal senses start to kick in, because, as far as he’s concerned, no man, especially not some Big Daddy like Hale, is good enough for Danny. It’s not until there’s a soft cough behind him that he realizes that he’s twisted in his seat, actually glowering at the slowdancing pair.
He turns back to Stilinski who seems less on-edge than before; he even looks sympathetic. “So, does this happen often?” he asks conversationally.
Jackson shrugs, reaches for his beer that’s probably warm by now. The basement isn’t that big so between the tables, bar, and mock-stage, housing only twelve people leaves the room stifling hot and thick with cigarette smoke. “I don’t care,” he mutters, which is both an answer and not. Before he can let the kid point that out—because he has a feeling he’d probably do something like that—Jackson shifts the conversation. “So, you’re queer, then?”
Stilinski sputters and his cheeks burn. “I—I mean, I—Well—Um—”
“Cool it, Spazlinski,” Jackson drawls, smirking at the kid’s scowl. “Seriously. You’re amongst friends, I guess.”
Stilinski blinks, continues to frown, but eventually eases, though his eyebrows remain drawn. He licks his lips. “I—Yeah, I guess.”
“You ‘guess’?”
“Yeah—I mean, I—” Stilinski runs his hands over his buzzed head. “Okay, yeah, I—I—I—” Stops. Exhales. Tries again. “I like guys. But, I like girls, too!” he insists quickly, like he’s begging Jackson to believe him, like he’s looking for a way out.
Jackson tips his beer to his lips, watching Stilinski over the bottle. Brown eyes are wide, desperate for acknowledgment, sympathy, some sign that he isn’t completely cracked, and it hits too close to home for Jackson to stand looking at. But, somehow, he can’t tear his eyes away.
When he doesn’t answer, reaches the bottom of his bottle, Stilinski visibly deflates, head sinking into his hands. “What’s wrong with me?”
The bottle hits the table with a hard slam; Jackson can see the younger Hale—Derek—glare at him from the bar. “There’s nothing wrong with you, Stiles,” Jackson declares, startling himself as much as the kid beside him. “I mean, there’s nothing wrong with you that isn’t wrong with the rest of us, you know?” He makes a broad gesture over the rest of club behind him. “Look at all the closet cases we have here. We’re all wrong. But—But, maybe if enough of us just accept what we are, then it will stop being wrong.” Now Stilinski looks to him, surprised and flushed with his lips slightly parted, and any bravado Jackson had abandons him. “You know?” he finishes, officially tapped out on words.
Stilinski only continues to gawk and the beer bubbles unpleasantly in Jackson’s stomach. He rises to his feet quickly and excuses himself without a look back. He escapes the basement, but he can’t go too far, because there’s no way he’s leaving Danny here alone. So, he makes it to the back porch, wary of the murmur of voices from inside the house, leans forward over the railing, and, after a moment, breathes.
He’s never thought about it. He’s never—
Jackson knows—somehow has always known—that he isn’t normal. But, he’s never—he’s never thought about it, you know? He’s never thought that, maybe, he follows Danny to the Jungle not only to keep an eye on him, but for himself. In the hope that, maybe, he’d end up crammed in the bathroom with some guy with alcohol on his tongue and searching hands. He’s never thought that, maybe, the way Stilinski looked at him with big brown eyes could make him feel the same as when that queen bee Lydia Martin runs her fingers over his car.
He’s never thought that, maybe, he’s queer, too.
Jackson fishes for his pack of Lucky Strikes and just as he shakes one out, a tentative hand on his wrist stops him. He squeezes his eyes shut, then lets them blink open.
“Hey,” Stilinski chides, “You know these are bad for you, right?”
Jackson scoffs, wrenches his hand back. “That some shit your mom feeds or something?” He feels Stilinski wince beside him, but he’s too caught up in his own shit to be sure what for.
With a sigh, Stilinski leans back against the porch railing and doesn’t hide his grimace when Jackson’s Zippo snaps to life, lights the end of his cigarette with a bright, red glow. When he takes a deep suck, relaxes and lets the smoke drift from his nostrils, Stilinski sighs again. “I thought about what you said,” he murmurs into the cool, autumn night air.
Jackson offers a grunt, inhales again. He figures if he stares off into the dark woods long enough, the fluttering in his chest will go away. “What of it?” he bites.
Stilinski shrugs and, dammit, why are those eyes so firmly trained on him? “I just wanted to say thank you, you know, for everything. For letting me bug you like that and for—yeah. I never thought about it that way. I never—” He smiles, this sweet, awkward stretch of curving lips and straight teeth. “Thank you. Really. I needed it.”
The kid’s face is infectious and Jackson feels a grin sneaking up onto his own lips. The tightness in his chest eases. “I—Yeah, sure. Just trying to help.”
They settle in companionable silence until Jackson reaches the filter of his cigarette and flicks the butt away into the dark. Suddenly, Stilinski is warm against his side, his hand bunching into Jackson’s shirt. He chuckles at Jackson’s confused stare. “So, are you, uh, going back inside?”
Jackson studies him, nods. “Yeah, probably.”
“Oh. Okay, cool.” Stiles hand stays balled in his shirt; the touch leaves gooseflesh in its wake. “Maybe when we get inside, we could, I dunno, dance a little? Or something else, if you’d rather,” he adds hastily.
It takes longer than it should to realize that the hand, the attentive gaze, the lips hovering so, so close to his are all a proposition for something more than stupid dance. His heart starts to hammer in his chest, his eyes flicking between brown eyes and pink lips and back. There’s a thrill here, an urgency, a fear, something that takes him over that he can’t really understand, and Jackson’s breath hitches as he whispers, “I don’t know. This—This is—”
“Wrong?” Stiles grins broadly. His hand releases Jackson’s shirt to tug at his wrist. “Maybe you should start taking your own advice,” he says kindly, his tongue wetting his lips, and Jackson lets himself be led back inside the house, downstairs to the basement, because, yeah, maybe he should.