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Liam’s lacrosse stick whips through the air quickly enough to ruffle his hair and send the ball hissing at dangerous speeds into the goal, but Liam doesn’t pause, just shoots ball after ball with enough force that he would worry about tearing the net if he was capable of worrying about anything so trivial right now.
Seven. The lingering mistrust and unease permeating the halls at school when Liam walks by.
Twelve. The noose of leading questions and overt concern and quiet suspicion from his parents, tightening around his neck with every day that Liam runs around behind their backs and lies to their faces.
Twenty-three. The old, unabating anger and shame at the sight of Devenford green, mingling inextricably now with the miserable taste of crushing guilt. Twenty-nine. The unshakeable knowledge that Monroe is still out there, still wants Liam and his friends dead before they’re old enough to legally drink. Thirty. The inevitability of Scott leaving, the futile efforts to remind himself that leaving doesn’t mean leaving Liam.
Somewhere around his forty-second goal, Liam switches to trick shots, twisting his body and his stick into complex movements learned during long hours spent running drills over and over again with his stepdad and by himself, hours spent channeling all his frustrated anger and overwhelming guilt into precise motions and flawless technique.
Somewhere around his ninetieth, Liam gives up on playing like a human.
It’s not like he’ll break a sweat either way.
That doesn’t stop him from trying. God, does he try; he tries so hard to chase that half-forgotten sense of relief that he used to find at the end of a grueling set of drills, when soaked skin and and screaming muscles had burned all the helpless anger out of him, giving him an outlet for his temper that didn’t leave anyone bruised or bleeding or disappointed.
Liam loses track of the amount of shots he’s landed before they really start to taste like defeat, each twanging reverberation of the battered net screaming failure in Liam’s ears.
His werewolf ears, which should no more be able to pick apart the vibrations of the cords of the goal than his eyes should be to see perfectly in the dark, than his nose should be to track scents with frightening ease and accuracy.
Supernatural feels a lot like unnatural, some days.
Liam is so lost to the rhythm of it, to the way his lungs refuse to burn no matter how much he exerts himself, that he startles violently when a voice abruptly calls, “Nice form, Dunbar.”
He whips around, sending a ball hurling wildly off course to land somewhere under the bleachers where it will never be seen again. Jackson Whittemore tracks its course before giving Liam an unimpressed sort of look.
“The hell are you doing here?” Liam snaps, tossing his stick to the ground.
Jackson doesn’t even have the nerve to look intimidated like he should. Liam’s had a long, tense, nails-on-a-chalkboard kind of day, and his claws itch for something to sink into. Jackson should be at least a little nervous.
“Ethan and I fly back to London tomorrow,” he says, and something about his tone—like Liam is being deliberately obtuse—has Liam’s frustration ratcheting up another few notches. “Thought I’d stop by the field before we head out. Sentimental value, you know.”
He gives Liam a once-over. “Didn’t expect to find a full-on teenage angsting session, though.”
Liam is at least ninety percent sure that Jackson is a teenager, too, but he settles for glaring at him. Jackson flashes him a winning smile, and Liam scoffs, moving to collect the balls that have accumulated inside the goal.
He ignores Jackson completely as he drops them on the ground and takes up his stance again, but Jackson has apparently grown bored of the silence. “What’s got you all worked up, anyway? Last I checked, we just won a war.”
Spitefully, Liam thinks, you weren’t even here for most of it, but manages to hold back from actually saying it. Scott had filled him in on how Jackson had been tortured for over two days because he came back to try and warn Scott about Gerard, and no matter how much of an asshole Jackson is, Liam isn’t going to throw that in his face.
“Bad day,” he says shortly.
“Obviously,” Jackson says, in an expectant sort of tone that demands further elaboration. Liam gives up, throws his stick to the ground as he turns to face him.
“It’s just,” Liam says, hesitates, then forges ahead, because Jackson will be gone by tomorrow and he doesn’t particularly care about his opinion of him, anyway. “People aren’t going crazy anymore, but they still don’t trust us, and my Biology teacher is apparently a werewolf, too, but she’s still failing me, even though she totally owes me for standing around while I got my ass handed to me, and I agreed to be co-captains with Nolan even though he tried to kill me and I’m better than him, and half the team thinks I’m a cheater because of the werewolf thing, and it’s all just—”
He waves a hand weakly in an attempt to encompass everything that’s been ramping his anxiety and irritation up all day. Jackson whistles one long note as he processes.
“That’s shitty as hell,” he says, succinct, and Liam almost wants to laugh. He nods at Liam’s discarded stick and the balls scattered around their feet. “This help?”
And there Liam is, back at the catalyst for his frustration, because:
“It used to,” he says, bitter. “Before Scott bit me. But now—”
He bites himself off, tries to find the words to explain, but nothing comes to him, and eventually, like always, his mouth moves before he gives it permission to.
“You were team captain too, right?” Liam blurts. “Before you were bitten.”
Jackson blinks at the nonsequitur, then smirks. “Hell yeah, I was.”
“Was it—hard for you, after? Playing?”
Cocking his head, Jackson drawls, “I was actually a fan of the heightened speed, and the strength, and the reflexes. Crazy, right?”
“No, I mean…”
Liam doesn’t actually know how to put what he means into words, so he trails off, shifting his weight awkwardly. Jackson arches an expectant eyebrow, and Liam tries to figure out how to give voice to the tangle of frustration in his chest, compounded by the memory of how lacrosse used to help with this instead of adding to it.
He thinks of Mason saying that Scott and Liam both had made first line before junior year because they both had “supernatural help,” the stab of hurt it had elicited, and the words come tumbling out.
“It’s just—I was good. I was good enough that Scott and Stiles thought I was already some kind of shapeshifter even before Scott bit me. And now—”
Jackson’s smirk fades, and his gaze grows more focused.
“Now, it’s like—it doesn’t even matter how hard I worked to get that good, ’cause now that I’m a werewolf, I’d be good anyway. I wouldn’t even have to try—I don’t even have to try, anymore. I could make a hundred insane shots just going off my senses alone. And that should be a good thing, but…”
Evenly, Jackson finishes, “But you feel like something’s been stolen from you.”
“Yeah,” Liam admits. He huffs a dry laugh, devoid of humor. “How messed up is that?”
“I mean, I don’t think it is,” Jackson says, “but I felt the same way when Scott got bitten, so maybe I’m biased.”
Somewhat uncomfortably, Liam says, “Oh, yeah, didn’t you…?”
“Hate his guts?” Jackson offers. “Completely.”
Liam snorts.
“I was good too,” Jackson says. “The best. And then some skinny asthmatic kid who could barely tell his right foot from his left shows up one day with insane reflexes, making impossible shots, and suddenly he’s the star of the show. And no one else thought it was suspicious at all.”
Liam loves Scott. Truly, he does. Scott is warmth and comfort and protection, and Liam doesn’t know what he would do without him and his endless understanding. But—Liam gets it, what Jackson is saying. He remembers how hard he’d worked to become as good as he was when he transferred to Beacon High, how badly he had wanted to prove himself, the short-lived joy at his positive reception turning to confusion-hurt-anger when Scott and Stiles seemed to resent him for it. How he had forced down the reflexive insecurity and leaned into a cocky sort of pride that he was good enough to threaten two juniors.
“I guess that’s what Scott and Stiles thought about me.” Liam glances down and to the side, unable to face the sharp understanding in Jackson’s expression. “They, uh, put me in the hospital when I went up against them in tryouts. It was an accident, obviously, but at the time I just thought—like, what did I do wrong? I wasn’t a werewolf then, I was just a kid who practiced twenty-four seven so I didn’t lash out and destroy things.”
“That’s fucked up,” Jackson tells him, matter-of-fact. “A stunt like that could’ve ended your career, probably would’ve if you hadn’t gotten turned right after.”
It’s broken and it’s my fault. How crushingly disappointed in himself he had been, sitting on that hospital bed under his stepfather’s too-knowing eyes. How unable Liam was—is—to assign the blame to anyone but himself, because he’d made it all of a day at Beacon Hills before ruining it the way he ruined everything at Devenford.
“It was an accident,” Liam repeats, helplessly. “And I was showing off, I get that, I was probably insufferable.”
“It was still a shitty thing to do. Scott’s a good guy, I can admit that now, but he’s not perfect. He felt threatened because you were better than him, and he wasn’t as careful as he should’ve been. A human might be able to get a little rough on the field, but an Alpha?” Jackson shakes his head. “I was a dick to Scott when he made first line, but it’s not like I was wrong about him. Sounds like you were just a prodigy, no level-up required.”
Embarrassed now, Liam says, “I wasn’t a prodigy. I just had one friend in the world and a lot of anger to work through.”
“Please. Coach and I are tight, he told me all about your, uh, impressive debut. I’ve literally never heard him so excited about a player.”
Liam can feel himself turning pink. He remembers Coach telling Scott and Stiles once that Liam was the best new player they’d had in years, but Coach had also claimed he couldn’t remember who Liam was without his lacrosse number plastered across his back, so he’d never been quite sure where he stood with him.
“Bottom line is,” Jackson says, sternly enough that Liam wants to laugh. He doesn’t think he’s ever received such borderline-irritated reassurance before. “I remember what it was like to be great and to work for it. I don’t mind the skills boost, personally, but lacrosse was never a coping mechanism for me. Trying so hard to be perfect was honestly part of the problem. It’s different for you, and you’re not wrong to feel cheated.”
“Huh.” Liam is quiet for a few moments, then says, “I thought you’d be more of a dick.”
Jackson barks out a laugh. “You’ve been talking to Stiles.”
“I mean, yeah,” Liam says. “You guys, like, hate each other, right?”
“Hey, I never had a problem with Stiles. It was Scott I hated, Stiles was just irritating by association.” At Liam’s surprised look, Jackson laughs again, shrugging. “He’s a sarcastic asshole. I can respect that.”
“Huh,” Liam says again, unable to come up with anything else, and is saved by the rumble of a familiar truck. He can’t control the way he relaxes slightly at the sound, because at some point over the past few weeks, Theo’s truck has become something of a reluctant sanctuary for Liam. Theo always seems—softer, somehow, when he’s driving Liam around, like the lack of expectation of eye contact allows him to lower his guard a few degrees.
Not, Liam muses, that Theo ever manages to keep his eyes on the road. Once or twice, Liam has honestly been a little concerned that they were going to crash, what with the way Theo seems to prefer holding Liam’s gaze to watching the road.
Jackson doesn’t miss the fractional easing of the tension thrumming through Liam’s body, arching a quizzical brow at him. His second brow quickly climbs to join the first when Theo pulls into view before his lips quirk into a knowing sort of grin.
“Your boyfriend here to the rescue?”
Liam sputters, flushing violently. “We’re not—I’m not—Theo isn’t my boyfriend.”
“Right,” Jackson drawls. “You’re just that possessive over all your friends.”
Liam’s blush deepens at the reminder of his display at Scott’s house a few days ago—he had learned not half an hour later that the other man, Ethan, is actually Jackson’s boyfriend—but he forges on, insisting, “I’m not possessive over Theo. We’re just…”
He’s forced to trail off, because he doesn’t actually know what he and Theo are to each other. Friends, maybe, but the term feels too casual for the layers of complexity and history that make up their relationship.
“Wow, you’re really convincing me here, Dunbar.”
“Shut up,” Liam grumbles, too embarrassed to get properly angry.
He tells himself that Theo didn’t overhear them, but the amusement on his face as he hops out of his truck and approaches them diminishes that hope.
“You stalking me now?” Liam says, when Theo makes it to where he and Jackson are standing in front of the goal. Theo just rocks back on his heels, hands in his pockets. Casual, as though Liam had invited him here or even told him where he would be.
“Didn’t have to,” Theo says. “I could smell your angst from a mile away.”
Liam thinks he deserves a great deal of credit, really, for not giving in to the juvenile impulse to stick his tongue out at Theo. From the way Theo’s lips twitch, you would think he had done it anyway. His eyes flick between Liam and Jackson, and he arches a brow that makes Liam’s face feel proactively warm.
“Swapping kidnapping stories?” he asks. “I hear Scott’s first attempt was a lot more dramatic than your time in the bathtub.”
“How the hell do you know that,” Liam demands, because it’s better than groaning oh my god and hiding his flushing face in his hands like he wants to.
Jackson just laughs. “Oh, man, of course he did. I am starting to wonder if you’re omniscient or something, though.”
Theo cocks his head and drawls, “You do know that restraining order is still active, right?”
Judging by Jackson’s silence, he hadn’t known that, and Liam is inordinately grateful to not feel like the most oblivious person in any given room—or outdoor space—for once.
Theo looks back at Liam while Jackson processes, and Liam hopes that he’s not blushing as much as the lingering heat in his cheeks would indicate. “You ready to go, or do you need to completely destroy that goal net first?”
Once again, Liam feels the need to reiterate the fact that he had in no way, shape, or form asked Theo to come get him. He wants to be annoyed about it, even, but he’s more settled now and getting a ride with Theo is preferable to jogging back home, so he just rolls his eyes.
“You’re helping me put everything back in the storage closet.”
“Little beta can’t carry everything on his own?” Theo asks, faux-sympathetic, and smirks when Liam shoulders him, hard, as they both move to start loading up the bucket Liam had used to transport the lacrosse balls.
“Don’t make me hit you,” Liam threatens. Theo seems unbothered, like Liam hadn’t come out of their staged fight at the zoo the arguable winner. Inexplicably, he has to fight back a smile, Theo’s unexpected arrival and the fragile familiarity of their harmless, declawed bickering making him feel lighter than he has all day.
“Hey, Dunbar,” Jackson says abruptly. Liam looks up to find Jackson’s phone shoved in his face, a new contact page on the screen. “Give me your phone.”
Bemused, Liam does, filling out his own contact information on Jackson’s phone. Why Jackson wants his phone number, he has no idea, but he seems to be pack-adjacent at the least, so he figures there’s no harm in it. Jackson tosses Liam’s phone back to him when he’s finished.
“Got a plane to catch,” he says. “See you around.”
“Bye,” Liam says, still vaguely confused, and hears Theo stifle a chuckle.
Jackson saunters off toward the parking lot, and Theo snaps his fingers. “Come on, pack it up.”
Liam glares at him, but picks up his lacrosse stick, swinging it loosely as Theo finishes collecting all the balls and hefts the bucket up one-handed.
“What was that about?” Theo asks, low, as they begin the walk back to the school.
Liam isn’t quite sure of that himself, so he just says, “I dunno. I was just trying to—” He gestures at the air around his head, a little helplessly. “—and then he showed up and started giving me life advice.”
Theo snorts. “And you let him?”
“I don’t know, I just…” Liam hesitates, but Theo had been a shockingly steady presence during the war, had taken all of Liam’s anger and outbursts in stride and never once tried to use any of it against him, so Liam thinks he’s earned enough trust for Liam to confide in him. “This—lacrosse—it used to help. With the, uh, IED and the stress and everything. And it doesn’t anymore. It’s too easy. And now everyone assumes I’m only good because I’m a werewolf—even Mason said something like that a couple weeks ago. Jackson was, like, weirdly cool about it.”
“That’s stupid,” Theo says, and Liam is shocked at the degree of hurt the words elicit before he continues. “I wasn’t even here yet and I know you were already good.”
Liam feels a little flustered. Compliments aren’t entirely new from Theo, but something about the way Theo delivers them like they’re statements of fact, indisputable, makes Liam feel weirdly self-conscious, not quite shy, just aware of himself in a way he usually isn’t.
“Yeah, well, you know everything else, apparently,” he says, belatedly, as they reach the back entrance. He yanks the door open and Theo catches it, holding it open until they’re both inside. “Who in the hell told you about Scott tying me up in his bathtub?”
Theo goes quiet, and Liam glances over at him. Theo’s expression is carefully neutral in the way Liam hates, his voice measured when he says, “Scott told me, before.”
Liam doesn’t know what to say. Theo’s previous manipulation of the pack is something he and Liam haven’t discussed recently, Liam too preoccupied with the whole town trying to murder him to hold Theo’s sins over his head, especially when Theo had, inexplicably, taken up the personal mission of making sure Liam made it through the war alive with his hands unbloodied.
He’s been told by just about everyone in the pack how stupid he would have to be to ever trust Theo again, but hadn’t Theo earned some small bit of that trust back? He could have, and probably should have, left them all to fight their own battles. He could have kept Liam alive without bothering to keep him from hurting anyone else and subsequently hating himself for it. He could have sided with Monroe in exchange for his own safety, if he was really the same person who had torn Liam’s pack apart and gotten his claws in Liam, tugging all his strings until he snapped.
Theo could have done—or not done—any number of things since Liam brought him back from the skinwalker prison, since the citizens of Beacon Hills took up guns and pointed them straight at Liam’s pack. Liam still doesn’t know why, of all the safer, easier options Theo could have chosen, he picked the one that kept him at Liam’s back and at his side, but he had, and he’s still here, after everything, lugging a bucket of battered and grass-stained lacrosse balls to the equipment closet because Liam had asked him to, and in the silence, all Liam can think of are the implications Jackson had made about the two of them, and he stops in his tracks.
Theo stops too, meeting his gaze with wary eyes, like he thinks the reminder of their shared history will have Liam’s fist hurtling toward his face any second.
“Do you,” Liam starts, but can’t get the rest of the question out, isn’t sure what the question even is. There’s so much unsaid between them, he doesn’t even know what answer he wants first.
Why do you keep trying to save me?
Did you stay for me?
What does it mean that you calm me down?
Do you care about me?
“I don’t hate you,” is what comes out. It’s true, but he still winces a little at the awkward delivery. Theo’s face is still mostly closed off, but his brows raise a little, so he must be feeling pretty dumbfounded under his neutral facade.
He tries again. “We’re like—friends now, or something. You don’t have to get all…” He gestures at Theo’s careful posture.
Theo just watches him, and Liam knows he’s probably struggling to process everything, as emotionally repressed as he is, but he really wishes Theo would say something right about now, or Liam’s mouth is liable to run away from him and he’ll start firing off questions that will send Theo running for the hills, and at some point the thought of Theo leaving became intolerable to Liam.
“Friends,” Theo echoes, and the word sounds just as inadequate as Liam had thought it would, trying to explain their status to Jackson. “Okay.”
He gives Liam a tiny, genuine smile, the true one that he’s only seen a handful of times, and Liam feels it like smoke in his lungs, dangerous and addictive. It’s the smile Liam wants all to himself, wants to hold close to his chest like a winning hand, like something precious, and now, with the idea already planted, it strikes him that none of these thoughts are particularly friendly.
Faintly, he thinks, Jackson was right.
“Wait,” he says, when Theo goes to continue down the hallway. “Wait, just,” and he’s dropping his stick, pulling the bucket from Theo’s unresisting hands, and Theo’s eyes go wide, facade of neutrality cracking open as Liam steps closer.
“Liam.” Theo’s voice is low, rough. “What are you doing?”
Liam isn’t looking at Theo’s eyes now, any more than Theo had been in that elevator when he dropped his gaze to Liam’s chest like he could see his lying, stuttering heart there.
“I was just asking myself the same thing,” he says, a reference, a truth, and Theo’s mouth parts in recognition just before Liam covers it with his own.
Theo makes a soft, surprised noise, and then he’s kissing Liam back, hands coming up to clutch Liam’s hips as Liam anchors his own against Theo’s chest, warm and solid beneath the fabric of his shirt.
Liam is dizzy with it, tilting forward into Theo without actually moving his feet, and he trips, a short, stumbling movement, but Theo holds him steady like he has this entire time, keeps him close and safe, Liam falling and Theo catching him, over and over until it’s routine.
Theo lets Liam back him up against the wall of lockers, the air between them heady with the scent of their tangled chemosignals whenever Liam drags himself away to breathe. Theo is all jagged edges and stinging words, but his mouth is soft against Liam’s, opening up for him, his razor-sharp tongue silenced as Liam brushes it with his own. The same hands that clawed their way through flesh and bone are so careful where they hold Liam that Liam shudders, pressing a final, hard kiss to Theo’s lips before he draws back, suppressing a whine at the self-inflicted distance.
Theo looks stunned, split open, every bit of his well-tended control torn to shreds because of Liam, and it takes everything in Liam to keep from pressing forward and continuing to take him to pieces against the cold metal of locker number 476.
“Um,” he whispers, but isn’t sure how to continue, how to tell Theo what he needs to, and Theo senses it, clocks him as quickly as he always does.
“Or something?” Theo offers, softly amused, offering Liam another devastating half-smile like it’s not a targeted attack on Liam’s self-restraint.
“Or something,” Liam decides, reaching for Theo’s hand, fitting his fingers into the spaces between Theo’s, holding tight.
Liam’s classmates are still afraid of him. His parents are still suspicious, concerned. Brett and Lori are still dead and Monroe still wants to make sure Liam and his friends end up the same way, Scott is still leaving, and his teammates still think he doesn’t deserve the captaincy he agreed to share with a boy who tried to murder him.
Nothing has changed since Liam set foot on the lacrosse pitch, but he has Theo’s hand in his and Theo’s breath on his cheek and Theo’s heart thundering under his fingers, so, actually, everything has changed.
As if to prove it, Liam’s phone vibrates in his pocket, and when he pulls it out, he snorts and shows Theo the message on the screen.
Jackson Whittemore (5:56 PM): Congrats and all, but next time wait until I’m out of hearing range
Me (5:57PM): deal with it :)