It was safe to say that Stiles' life at Elementary School is a good deal more normal than it is years later at High School (in fact a good deal more normal than it ever would be again). He had two parents (albeit one who was steadily getting more unwell), a best friend with zero supernatural powers and no responsibility for the welfare of his friends and family. All in all: a good deal less stressful than the life he would come to lead. In fact, aged eight the biggest problem he faces is the fact that nobody knows how to pronounce his name.
But for an eight year old that is a pretty serious problem. Never mind the fact that his mother was going into hospital on a weekly basis and he was repeatedly being sent out of class for his behaviour; never mind the fact that he kept feeling like he wanted to sing every time Lydia Martin skipped past him with her perfectly plaited hair swinging behind her. If nobody could say his name then quite frankly what was the point of anything?
One Monday, Stiles goes to find Scott. This isn't hard because it's the morning before school and Scott is always in the same spot at this time- underneath the monkey bars. There is a very good reason for this: Scott likes to think he is an expert on the best way to get Stiles through the day without any problems, and has discovered that distracting Stiles with monkey bar-related challenges stops him concocting some rash plan that usually ends in the principal's office (It usually worked, but the problem was then getting Stiles to stop if he hadn't completed the challenge by the time the bell rang).
Today is no different. Scott lurks around the metal poles holding up the monkey bars, warily watching his parents having a heated discussion over by the benches. But at the sight of his best friend approaching, he drags his eyes away and turns his attention to the scruffy little whirlwind he has befriended (be-brothered more like, if only that was a word).
"What?" he asks almost immediately, because it is clear that something is bothering Stiles (his eyebrows furrow right down, almost into his eye sockets and he chews at the inside of his mouth when he's bothered by something).
Stiles opens his mouth to reply, but doesn't quite get there fast enough to drown out the shout of one kid passing by: "Hey Spartacus, how it's hanging?"
"Funny." Stiles has a hefty set of stock responses to the numerous comments his name brings his way, and barely blinks as the kid hoots his mirth before scampering off again.
Scott, being only eight, does the rudest thing he can think of, which is to stick his tongue out after the kid (okay maybe it's not the rudest thing but his parents are quite possibly still watching). "Don't listen to him, he's just over-excited about Egyptian week."
"Spartacus is Greek, dumbo. And Egyptian week was last semester." In an automatic motion, Stiles begins to shimmy up one pole of the monkey bars until he has reached the bars themselves. It's a feat in itself that he manages to get up without accidentally kicking his friend in the head, but then he has been practising. Dangling from the first bar, he stays there for a moment with his head angled downwards so he can still see his best friend. "Do you think my name is stupid?"
Scott stiffens, moving to rest against the far pole so he is totally out of range of Stiles' legs. From experience he knows that having a conversation with Stiles when his head is in kicking range is always dangerous. "Stupid?" he repeats, fiddling with the cord of his hoody as if he might find the answer there. "I don't think so," he finally says, "It's unusual, I guess-"
"Are you stuck up there…uh…" A teacher from another class has rushed over but now pauses, eyes widening as she realises it's that kid; the one who has his own pronunciation card in the staff room. One that she hasn't quite got round to reading yet. "B…." she begins then wavers as both boys turn in spooky unison to stare at her. "D…Da…Dee…" she tries, her cheeks flushing as Stiles grits his teeth before swinging across to the next bar.
"I'm fine. I'm not stuck. Unlike you, Miss Smithers. Keep practising, you'll get there eventually." Stiles' words are dripping with so much sarcasm that Scott can practically see it forming a puddle underneath Stiles' dangling feet. This is going to be one of those mornings when even the longest line of monkey bars will not help his friend.
Unsurprisingly, Stiles gets sent to the 'Quiet Bench' until the bell rings for the start of school. Scott hovers as close as he's allowed to and makes funny faces to try and get his friend to smile. But it doesn't work. It's probably because Stiles is having to be part of a rather awkward moment, where his parents come over to ask what he's doing, only to be told by Miss Smithers that they have managed to miss their son being cheeky to a teacher and being punished for it. Things only get more awkward when she once again tries to pronounce his name and once again fails. The awkwardness reaches record-breaking levels when both Claudia and the Sheriff refuse as a point of pride to help her out. In the end she has to settle for a lame: 'Mr Stilinski', which makes the Sheriff mutter something under his breath about never letting his wife choose anything again.
All in all, it is not the happiest Stiles to ever grace the halls of Beacon Hills elementary that morning. With Scott leading the way to their form room, Stiles stomps along the corridor with one hand trailing along the nearby wall and the other hand flexing and unflexing. The whole time he mutters the correct pronunciation of his name, getting louder and louder until Scott is forced to turn round and place a hand over his mouth.
"Would you quit it? It's not that bad, it's just a name!"
Stiles licks Scott's hand (he's eight, what else do you expect? Although it should be noted that if Scott were to do that to Stiles aged seventeen he would still come out of it with a spit-sodden hand). With a predictable groan of repulsion, Scott pulls his hand back and then wipes it down Stiles' shirt. Stiles is not particularly bothered by this , and simply carries on down the corridor, now walking backwards so he can still face Scott. "That's easy for you to say. Your name is like the easiest name ever. S-c-o-tt," he sounds it out using the phonic patterns they keep drilling into them at school, then shakes his head with disgust. "When you try and do that with my name, you get a nosebleed."
Scott grins, and Stiles can sense his desperate need to lighten his friend's mood. "No, that was because you had been dangling upside down for the past half an hour then jumped up really quickly."
"Well…the name doesn't help." Stiles comes to a stop just outside their form room. His parents and Scott's are only ten paces or so behind their children and Stiles knows he hasn't got long. He tugs his friend close, looking around anxiously for a moment. "We need to do something about the name."
Scott hesitates. But then the girl in front of them turns round and gives him a friendly morning smile. "Hello Scott!" she greets, then her eyes flick across to his fuming sidekick. "Hello…you…" After that, Scott knows he has no choice. Stiles is right; something needs to be done about the name.
They meet for Operation Namechange at lunch. Stiles used to have pack lunches but Scott had school food and had to sit somewhere else and they weren't having that. At least that's the official story. In truth it's because Stiles' pack lunches have recently been getting a little sparse as Claudia begins to forget what is meant to go inside a pack lunch, but Stiles is far too proud of his mother to ever admit to that. He doesn't really like the hot food at school but at least it's there and it means he gets to sit next to Scott instead of the kid who doesn't stop humming when he eats.
"Maybe you could just shorten the first bit?" Scott's suggestion is thick with the mash potato currently jammed in his mouth but Stiles doesn't even notice that. Probably because his response in turn is equally muffled by the foodstuff:
"Which first bit?"
Scott swallows his mouthful, clearly recognising that this is going to take all the space in his mouth. "Da…." He begins, then shakes his head with a crinkling of his nose. Tries again: "Fr…." Again a shake of the head, before Stiles loses patience and chucks a pea at his forehead.
"It's unmanageable," Stiles says with an air of pride at using such a long word. But the pride is quickly replaced by dejection as someone across the table asks his neighbour in an audible whisper: "What's that kid called again? The one next to Scott?"
Scott pretends he hasn't heard this. "What's your middle name again?" he asks, trying to pull the pea out of his thick hedge of dark curls.
Stiles has to say it five times before Scott finally manages to repeat it with some degree of accuracy. By this time, Stiles looks like the bottom of his world has dropped out. The rest of the meal goes by in stony silence as Stiles stabs ferociously at his carrots and Scott tries to get him to talk to him again. Then an older kid calls him 'Anemone' (fifth graders were very proud of their underwater topic) and Stiles cracks and tips his water over his head. Scott, being his ever-present brother in arms, adds his water to the mix atop the boy's hair.
They spend recess outside the Principal's office. Back to back on the brightly coloured chairs, each holding the slips which explain why they are there. For the first five minutes, Stiles continues to refuse to speak. Then, finally: "Did you call him plankton?"
Scott bends his slip over, corner to corner with narrowed-eye concentration. "I think so…" he muses, "I can't really remember. I was too busy trying to stop you wrestling him to the floor."
Stiles snorts, then cranes his head back to try and see his friend properly. "Plankton, because he called me Anemone…you kept with the sea…" he comments and when Scott shrugs, he lets out a hoot of mirth. "That was good. You've got style."
"We both do. We've both got…styles…" Scott tries out the plural of the word then lets out a little chuckle at how it sounds. He likes new words- yet another reason why he likes Stiles and his dictionary brain. But Stiles doesn't join in with the chuckling. He is frowning at his behaviour slip with intense concentration, like he is trying to burn it away with his gaze. He is silent for so long that Scott breaks the rules of their punishment and turns round to properly face him, just in time to catch Stiles' lip silently forming the sounds of his name.
"What is it?" Scott asks.
"Styles," Stiles replies, turning to face Scott properly too with eyes as big as planets. "You said it Scott! Styles!"
"I don't get it…"
Sighing his impatience, Stiles slides off his chair and creeps across to the currently vacated desk of the principal's secretary. He tugs a pen free from the carefully ordered pot and then hurries back to his chair. Carefully, eyes still wide and somewhat wild, Stiles crosses out the teacher's writing of his first name. Above it in wobbly letters (correctly formed though; his teacher would be so proud), he writes it out: 'Stiles'. Then he steps back, beaming with the utmost pride.
Scott leans over his chair to examine the writing. "That's not how you spell it, idiot," he huffs, reaching out for the pen. But Stiles holds it out of his reach.
"It's my name, I can spell it how I like!" Admittedly, the fact that it may now be spelt wrong is making him feel incredibly uncomfortable but his stubborn side wins out.
"That's gonna be your name? Stiles?" Scott questions, his nose wrinkling slightly. But one look at his friend's lit-up face (like a starry night) and he knows that he can't argue this point without offending Stiles. An unspeakable action, of course. So he laughs, then shrugs. "It's kinda weird. But I like it…Stiles…" Already it's feeling more comfortable against his tongue. "But how are you going to get everybody to call you that instead of your real name?"
Stiles smiles. It's the sort of smile that Scott hasn't quite yet learned to fear yet; only mildly worry about. He refuses to say anymore on the subject, instead waiting out the rest of lunch and indeed the day in frustrating silence. At the end of the day, he drags his mother off home without even staying to play in the playground for a while, only just about managing a goodbye to Scott before he disappears. Scott doesn't sleep much that night.
The next day, Stiles is late. Ten minutes late, in fact. When he does show up, their teacher Mr Tate is already halfway through the register. Scott thinks this is part of his friend's plan but when Stiles enters the classroom he looks like he might explode with stress. But then Mr Tate says the next name in his dreary voice: "Rita Madley", and Stiles visibly relaxes on his way to his spot on the carpet (most children sit where they want but Stiles has his own red circle to sit on, which Scott is secretly jealous about). It soon becomes clear why he was so worried; when Mr Tate gets to his name, Stiles does not answer straight away but instead stands up with head held high. "Mr Tate, my name is different now."
A smattering of giggles and whispers hops across the group of children, until Mr Tate silences them with one of his stern looks. Then he turns to Stiles, fixing him with that slightly pitying look reserved for children who have their own special spot on their carpet. "Oh? What is it now then?"
"Stiles."
The class erupt into giggles again, but Stiles is unperturbed. Mr Tate on the other hand, grits his teeth and puts his register pen down. "You don't get to decide what your name is, son. That's for your parents to decide." Of course what Mr Tate means is that the name we get is decided by our parents when we're born, but Stiles is clearly banking on his teacher making this somewhat ambiguous comment. With a grin and a flourish, he digs a letter out from his trouser pockets.
"They did," he replies, and carefully navigates his way through the sitting children to hand the letter to his teacher. Mr Tate reads it in silence, and the class watches in equal silence. Finally, the man folds up the letter and places it in the register folder. "Sit down please…Stiles," he says, and shoots the boy a small smile that would take a microscope to properly detect.
Stiles goes back to his spot with a broad grin on his face that does not falter under the gaze of his entire class. After that, the name becomes pretty standard rather quickly. It seems most of the teachers and other staff at the school were dying for the chance to finally be able to say this kid's name (besides there's a rumour going round that the Sheriff has threatened to cancel the police visit day if people don't comply with his son's wishes and nobody wants an extra day of lesson planning). Inevitably, it takes a little longer for the children to get the hang of it, but Claudia carefully embroiders her son's new name onto his backpack and lets him wear a name sticker every day for a few weeks. Eventually, Stiles becomes normal.
Of course, some kids still tease him. One boy pushes him over in the playground and then jumps over his prone form shouting: 'Look, I'm going over the stile!'. It's not particularly funny but that child was so scary that he got a smattering of giggles from those just relieved they weren't his current target. After this incident, Stiles goes to hide in the bathroom. When Scott follows him in, he finds his best friend sitting under the sinks with a forlorn expression on his face.
"What's the point?" he asks when Scott sits down beside him, in a voice that sounds dejected beyond his years. "No matter what name I have, people will still find a way to spoil it."
Scott shakes his head. "Stiles, it's your name. Nobody can spoil it. Not if you like it."
Stiles is silent for a moment, then nods. "The forest," he mumbles, picking at a loose chunk of grout in the sinks above. "When I go with my mom. There's a stile there, and she says I can't go over it until I've given her a kiss…" His cheeks redden for a moment but Scott understands. Nothing quite beats a mother's kiss after all, even when you're a grand old age of eight (especially when you're a grand old age of eight). "I think that's why I like it…"
Scott watches his friend's eyes getting steadily damper, and struggles to remember the best thing to do in such a situation. "Is she getting more ill?" he asks finally, still not certain whether that is the best option.
Stiles nods slowly. "That time when I brought the note in about my name. I was late because she forgot how to drive the car for a few minutes." He glances over at Scott, rubbing furiously at the hollows under his eyes to get rid of any possible stray tears. "She doesn't remember much and before she couldn't remember how to say my name. But now she always gets it right because she says it's like the forest. So, yeah, it's my name…" He lets out a long sigh, shuddering and scared.
Scott squeezes his best friend's arm, then nods. "Alright then, it's your name. Don't let anyone have it then," he says firmly, and pulls his friend out from under the sink.
They do the mature thing then (for eight year olds). They block the sinks with toilet roll and frame the kid who had pushed him over in the playground, watch him being taken away to the principal's office with identical grins upon their faces. After that, Stiles stops caring about his name. He wears it with a certain amount of pride, enjoys the moment when his parents introduce him to a new face with the stock phrase: 'he likes to be called Stiles'.
It becomes part of his armour.
So when a drug-addled Lydia asks all those years later: "What the hell is a Stiles?", he does not feel embarrassed. Instead, he feels the gentle urge to tell her that deep in the woods outside this town there is a fence and on that fence there is a crooked stile and if she were to look closely she would see the imprints of a thousand shoes including one son and his mother out to find mushrooms. And while Stiles doesn't know where his mother went next, doesn't know what awaits you after life, he has a feeling that his mother is somewhere there, sheltering in the shadow of his name.