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Freshman year was still kind of a blur. A blur of hospital rooms and shaving his head and the beep of monitors blending in with the bell between classes and never knowing when he woke with a start if it was his phone telling him to get to the hospital immediately or Coach blowing a whistle in his ear to remind him the bench wasn’t for sleeping even if he was never going to see a minute of game time which meant most days he wasn’t seeing any practice time either.
Freshman year was still a blur that might never be anything else no matter how hard he focused on more. Except for one thing.
He had been running from one class to the next, late because somewhere between Shakespeare and the composition paper for the year he had lost track of time – or whatever the teacher was saying – and now he was down to the wire to make it to algebra on time.
Whatever he collided with in that second he took to look up at the clock wasn’t entirely solid. In fact, it was rather nice in that two seconds before Stiles went bouncing backwards, landing on his ass with a resounding thump and a clattering of teeth that made him whimper as he bit into the soft tissue of the inside of his cheek.
The resounding echo of the bell made Stiles realize they were both late for class, even as he looked up to apologize.
Right. Thinking. Words that said sorry and made up for being such a klutz and all he had to do was speaking words and say them and…
And there was nothing but a small series of sounds that were kind of not even human if Stiles was honest with himself, and he was damn well hoping that was drool he felt at the corner of his mouth and not blood, dammit. But none of that was as important as those eyes.
Brilliant blue and, well if he was honest, kind of puppyish, and something about them had him just sort of sitting there on his butt and staring up into them without realizing for a moment there was a face, or hair falling lazily over one brow, or even a person that was he or she or… They were talking, oh god.
“Sorry about that. I… well, I thought I was slipping out without being seen,” he admitted, offering a hand to Stiles.
Without hesitation Stiles took his hand, only then realizing just how sweaty his own hand was as it slid across the other boy’s palm.
“No. Sorry. I mean, I’m sorry. I wasn’t looking where I was going and… darn it, I’m late,” he groaned, looking down.
Which was when he realized his books were in a beautifully arching fan from one side of the hallway to another. It was a rather picturesque counterpoint to his papers which had skittered out the other way.
“Oh geez,” he groaned, intensely stunning eyes forgotten for a moment as he dropped to his knees, just jamming everything together and trying to scoop it all into his bag.
“I can help. Is partially my fault, after all,” the other boy said, not doing a much better job as he gathered things up and then shoved them into the bag. Their hands brushed one another and Stiles whimpered.
He actually whimpered.
Going wide eyed, stunned and utterly mortified that he made that sound and praying that even with the echo in the hall – or was that just it echoing in his head? – that he hadn’t been heard.
“There you go,” he said, acting as if there hadn’t just been this whole jump of electricity when their hands touched. Maybe there hadn’t been. Maybe it was just for Stiles that his heart was suddenly racing and his mouth was dry and he wasn’t sure he could speak.
Except his mouth wasn’t dry, it tasted like earth and old pennies, and he was Stiles. There was never a time he couldn’t find words. They might not be the right ones, but he could always find them.
“Right. There I go. And thank you. For helping,” he said, realizing he was stammering. “I should let you get to class.”
The boy laughed, ducking his head and rubbing at the back of his neck. “Yeah, not exactly heading to class but thanks.” Canting his head, he looked up at Stiles past the fall of his bangs that only made his eyes seem so much brighter. Then he smiled and it was like a spotlight and sweet and Stiles knew he shouldn’t be standing there, rooted on the spot and utterly lost just because of a smile.
“Want to skip out with me?”
Did he want to? That was an unfair loaded question. Of course he wanted to. He wanted to do anything the boy wanted. Skip school? Sure. Cheat on a test? He’d be up for that. Steal a car? Okay, maybe not that far but he’d want to. For that smile, he wanted to more than he’d wanted to do anything except for Lydia Martin, which was an unfair and wrong thought but it was the last person to make him want things like he wanted to skip class and steal cars. And why was he fixating on stealing cars suddenly?!
Except that the sheriff was his dad and he was already dealing with troubles in algebra and he really couldn’t afford to skip class.
“I probably shouldn’t,” he said, realizing he was still kneeling at the other boy’s feet, staring up at him and maybe he should be standing.
Rising slowly, he slung his back over his shoulder, trying to look nonchalant. “I mean, I want to but there’s this thing with my dad and…”
“Him being the sheriff, you mean?”
He.Knew.Him. Here Stiles was, practically losing it in his own little way and this guy knew him enough to know who his dad is. He wanted to ask how. Or why he hadn’t really placed him before because he looked familiar but in that kind of back of the class, see them in the herd moving for the door at the bell kind of way.
“Right. Him being the sheriff.” He paused a single breath. More like half a breath. “Do I know you?”
He laughed, shrugging. “We’re on the lacrosse team together,” he said, rolling his shoulder again like it was no big deal that Stiles didn’t recognize him. He offered his hand. “Isaac.”
This time Stiles remembered to wipe his hand on his thigh before shaking hands. “Stiles.”
Isaac nodded. “I know. So, I’ll let you get to class,” he said, letting go of Stiles’ hand. “See you at practice?”
“Sure. Course you will. Because we’re on the lacrosse team. Together. Of course,” he said, nodding as he started walking back the way he’d come.
“Stiles, this way,” he said, nodding backwards.
“Right.”
Changing directions suddenly and strolling past Isaac. “Practice then.”
“And Stiles, you have…” He indicated his own chin. “There’s a spot of blood,” he said, wiping to show him where.
Dashing at his chin with the back of his hand, Stiles nodded. “Right. Go on then and I’ll see you there.”
Laughing softly, Isaac headed down the hall toward the exit. Turning back to look at him, Stiles came to a dead stop.
Face to face he hadn’t recognized him but here, like this, he knew. The shape of his head, the soft curl of his hair at the nape of his neck. Not to mention that ass.
“Lahey,” he muttered softly, recognizing him then.
Standing there, gaping, he never did make it to class that day, and it was the only thing about freshman year that stood out as good amongst the pain and loss.