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Lydia Martin is evil. Stiles wants it to be written down so that future generations of poor kids like him might be prepared.
It all started when Stiles was fourteen years old and he met Lydia; strawberry blond hair, sparkling green eyes, strong, flexible legs and a temper to match her dancing: fiery, sharp, confident. He had spent three years worshipping the ground she danced on and would dare anyone with eyes to say that she wasn’t worth it.
They met in Beacon Ballet Academy when they were both fresh faced and eager to conquer the world one pirouette at a time. Of course, Lydia being who she was, had her sights and ambitions set way higher than Stiles and somehow, even then, he knew that whatever she wanted, Lydia would get.
Being accepted at Anaheim Ballet at age seventeen was their first step towards greatness; Lydia waiting (because for her it was not just a dream) for the day she would get into the American Ballet Theatre and Stiles dreaming of San Francisco Ballet.
Enter Derek Hale, current lead dancer of Anaheim and the owner of the world’s most attractive cheekbones and probably the only male classical lead allowed- nay! encouraged to have stubble. Stiles was immediately and absolutely captivated. And this is how, poor love struck Stiles decided that Lydia Martin was indeed made of pure evil.
“Derek is an asshole, really,” Lydia said with a huff, her hand never once faltering as she painted her nails. It was mesmerizing to watch; her steady strokes, her beautiful fingers spread out on her delicate knee as she painted the nails a soft pink. Stiles was no longer in love with her, but he didn’t think he could ever do anything but love her existence. Nowadays she was his best friend.
Evil, but a best friend, still.
“He had to have a flaw, I guess,” he replied somewhat dreamily, clicking on the next YouTube video with Derek’s performance from last Christmas’ event. “He’s hot, he has the most amazing jum- look at his tour jeté! Damn! He had to have a flaw.”
“Mhhm,” Lydia hummed noncommittally. She didn’t even lift her eyes to the video. It was a sacrilege, really.
“Come on,” Stiles pleaded for the tenth time that day, “do it for me, please, please, please.”
“I don’t like him.”
“Who cares? I’m not asking you to talk with him! Come on, it’s just an address!”
Aside from being an apparent asshole (Stiles wasn’t as ready to take Lydia’s words on this particular matter as he would be with anything else), Derek was also a loner. Being hot, one of the best dancers under twenty-three and with one’s whole family dead, would probably lead a person to some kind of entitled douchebaggery and self-enforced solitude, Stiles guessed.
“You know you’re the only one I can ask,” he continued, employing his best puppy dog eyes even though Lydia was still focused on her nails. “You are above suspicion and I trust you.” Flattery was always his best card with Lydia.
“Say that I do it- I haven’t said I will, yet!” Lydia narrowed her eyes at his loud and, admittedly embarrassing, whoop, “what will you do for me in exchange?”
Ah. Yes, classic Lydia. Evilness at its best. Lydia’s demands were never as simple as any other common human being would come up with.
“Anything.” Stiles’ voice wavered slightly but seriously, it was Derek’s home address. Advanced stalkery had a high price. “Anything.”
Lydia finally looked at him in the eye and her lips stretched in a wide, close mouthed smile that spoke of Stiles’ pain and possible humiliation.
“How do you feel about pointes, Stiles?”
~*~
Bonus Derek's reaction as he walks in on them
