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Summer for a lot of people was about hanging out, family vacations and getting in to trouble while trying to avoid the kind of trouble that meant the police were called in.
For Stiles it always had the police involved, and more often than not meant extra days within school hallways making up for classes he was smart enough to pass but just didn’t have the attention span to focus on the best of days.
Most school days with the other students and the noise and the distraction of sunlight bouncing off of Lydia Martin’s strawberry blonde curls meant that most of the school year weren’t the best of days. Of course, it wasn’t just Stiles who found class difficult to keep up with, just that he was maybe the one with the IQ where it was shocking.
Unlike Stiles, no one at all seemed shocked when Isaac Lahey ended up in summer school.
Barely treading academic water hard enough to keep his head above water to stay off the radar when it came to kicking kids out of extracurriculars, Isaac had landed himself there not for grades but absences. Most excused him due to his father’s reports about his health issues, not to mention his dad’s standing within the school, but there was always that one teacher that held their ground on the rules.
Therefor Isaac found himself in summer school, pretending he cared and trying to keep his head down and turned just a certain way so that no one could see the knot just at his hairline. That the bruise that went with it seeped downward to his temple was no help at all.
Assigned to a group project with Stiles, Isaac found it was easier than most days to pay attention, if only for the animated way that the other boy seemed to approach school. Not to mention life, lacrosse, and just about everything, up to and including the debate they were meant to be preparing on the ongoing debate of just who was Shakespeare.
Despite himself, Isaac found himself smiling, especially when Stiles managed to knock over his own backpack, scattering papers everywhere just as the bell rang.
It was a sudden memory, a thought that Isaac hadn’t had in months. He had asked Stiles to ditch and while he hadn’t, no one had ever reported Isaac for slipping out either. While the handful of students scurried out, Isaac knelt down to help Stiles gather his things.
“We have to stop meeting like this,” he teased, looking up at Stiles past the fall of his bangs. Despite his mood, his eyes crinkled in response to his smile.
“Stop? Why would we stop? Not like I’m doing it on purpose to make you help me or anything. If I was going to do that, I would do more than knock over books. I mean, really, wouldn’t shoved in a locker work better? Or thrown out of the gym without clot…”
The words caught in Stiles’ throat. In part for the mental image suddenly in his head, but a lot of it in response to Isaac’s hand coming to rest against his, fingers curling slightly around his fingers.
“It was a joke,” he assured him, raising his head to meet his gaze fully.
“Right. Of course it w…hat the hell happened,” he asked suddenly, lifting his free hand towards that vivid bruise, dark purple seeping around the edges with a center of brilliant scarlet.
Jerking away, Isaac was on his feet in an instant. For a moment there was a look on his face like a kicked puppy, eyes wide and rooted on the spot before he shook his head, groping for his backpack without looking away from Stiles.
“It’s… nothing. Really.” With that word he took a breath, exhaling sharp and loud. It was enough to remind him of himself, of the stories and that he had to make sure he didn’t say the wrong thing. Especially not to the Sheriff’s son.
Tentatively he reached out, touching the spot. Wincing, he rolled his eyes. “I was practicing in my yard. Messing around, you know? And I hit myself in the head with my own stick,” he said, sighing and looking to Stiles imploringly. “Please, you can’t tell anyone. The guys would never let me live it down if they knew.”
He could see it. See it in the way Stiles made those adorable faces he made, trying to argue his story and accept it at the same time. He wanted to, or maybe it was that Isaac so desperately needed him to.
“Please? Come on, Stiles. You can’t do that to me.”
Maybe it was the please but he made a sound and nodded as he slung his backpack onto his back.
“Right. Not a word. See? Lips are sealed,” he said, pantomiming locking his mouth shut and tossing away the key. “All good.”
Relief washed over Isaac, shoulders slumping as he gave Stiles a genuine smile. “Knew I could count on you. Listen. Want to come over later and work on the rest of this? I can’t afford to fail summer school.”
“Tonight? Sure. I can do that. Say seven?”
“Seven.”
Stiles rolled his eyes. “You know, you’re kind of a smart ass. How come no one knows that?”
Isaac shrugged, turning away before he found himself answering the question. No one knew that because no one knew him, and even if small moments like this felt nice, he knew he couldn’t have them. Not for real. Not and risk his dad finding out.
*****
It was nearly eleven on a school night. The idea of working on the debate had been forgotten about five minutes after Stiles got there. At that hour, the only light on in the Lahey house was in Isaac’s bedroom, creeping through his blinds and casting a series of light bars on the lawn.
The window was open a crack, despite the soft hum of the central air, allowing the sound of shouts and laughter to break the silence in the quiet neighborhood.
“Wait! Wait! Stop shooting me!”
Laying belly down on the bed, Stiles shrieked and rolled to one side as if he could dodge the incoming barrage of bullets that shredded his soldier. It did nothing to save his character, but did send him rolling off the bed to land on his back with a thump. Staring up at the television upside down, he continued to jab buttons, desperate to go
Laughing, Isaac continued to load and fire, strafing the entire area with bullets until he was the only one standing even as he slid off the bed, landing on the floor.
“You were warned! I take no prisoners,” Isaac crowed, still laughing as he dropped the controller on the floor.
“There’s a difference between warning and turning on your own team,” Stiles argued, not that he could help laughing.
Laying the way Stiles was, Isaac couldn’t help but notice the smattering of moles along the side of his face. They were different, and he would bet a lot of people would cover them up with makeup or something but on Stiles they worked.
Of course, it didn’t hurt he kind of wanted to trace them with his fingertip like connecting the dots, playing with whatever shapes he might find. He remembered how soft Stiles’ skin had been beneath his hand earlier and he wondered how much more sensitive his face might be. Or more.
How far did the moles go? Where could he trace them along Stiles’ body?
There was a sudden flash in his mind, an image. Of Stiles just as he had been moments before, laying stomach down on the bed, one leg curled up towards his ass. Only this time he was naked, all pale skin and moles and maybe it wasn’t Isaac’s finger he was using to trace those brown spots but his tongue and…
“Earth to Isaac? Come in?”
Jerking as if he’d been slapped, flushed though from those thoughts. Flushed and hard, the front of his sweats tenting from the press of his cock.
“Right. Sorry. Shit. How late is it,” he asked, leaping to his feet with a small strangled sound. Damn but that had hurt and he didn’t care, turning away from Stiles to glance at his bedside clock. “Damn. Sorry. I must have been falling asleep. So, uhmm… see you tomorrow then?”
Rushing through the words, flustered and unsettled. It wasn’t the first time he’d thought of someone like that, not even the first guy, but there was something about being there, so close and alone in his own bedroom that had Isaac stunned and more than a bit lost.
“Sure. Tomorrow. Maybe we’ll even work,” Stiles said, frowning as he watched Isaac. He forced himself to grin when Lahey turned towards him. “Probably not, but we can pretend,” he said, making a joke to try and probably trying to fix whatever went wrong suddenly.
“Tomorrow then,” he said, watching as Stiles pushed the window open and went out that way rather than through the door.
Panting softly, trying to ignore the fact that he was still hard. All he had to do was ignore those thoughts, ignore the mental image he’d had of Stiles. Go back to Shakespeare and Call of Duty and everything else that was just normal. That’s what Isaac needed; a little normalcy in his life.
“Your little friend gone?”
Despite himself, Isaac screamed. Jumping as he spun around, heart racing and panicked.
“I… I thought you were asleep.”
“How the hell did you expect me to sleep with you and that… boy in here making all that noise. Besides, had to make sure you weren’t…”
His gaze took in the rumpled bed, the obvious sign of arousal that Isaac desperately tried to hide with his hands.
“You little fag,” he growled, voice little more than a whisper. “In my house?!”
The first blow struck exactly where the knot was. Blinding, white hot pain exploded through the side of Isaac’s face as he dropped, curling into a ball with his hands over his head.
The window still stood standing open as each blow landed, yet the only sound that might have been heard by neighbors used to ignoring the truth was the steady, dull thud of flesh on flesh.