Runnin through the high school hallways
This is all we've known until now
I don't ever wanna slow down
I'm packed, and I'm ready to go now
All the days we've been traveling together
I won't even look over my shoulder
Til I find a cure for getting older
Stiles stared at the ceiling of his childhood bedroom, waiting for his alarm to blare. He'd been alternating staring and glancing at the clock since a little after four am, when he'd woken from a fitful sleep and hadn't been able to go back to sleep. So there he lay, on his back, hands folded on his chest. His fingers drummed impatiently on his ribcage as his eyes darted to the clock again.
7:28.
He huffed and threw his covers off; he couldn't stand it any longer. He crossed the room to his alarm clock and switched it off before it could even give off its annoying sound. Stiles yawned and rubbed his eyes.
It was going to be one hell of a day. Of course he couldn't sleep the night before he had not only a long drive, but a day filled with manual labor and having to interact with new people (something he wasn't very fond of).
He looked around his mostly-dark bedroom, the bedroom he grew up in. It looked almost the same, save for the fact that he no longer slept on Power Ranger bedsheets and the matching curtains had also come down. His disheveled bed sat in the corner, adjacent to his desk. Beside his bed was a nightstand with a lamp and a framed picture of him and his best friend, Scott McCall, posing in their uniforms for their first lacrosse game in Freshman year of high school.
Scott was scowling in the picture with his arms crossed over his chest, while Stiles was smiling widely and gesturing to the number on his shirt: 24, the number he kept until graduation three months prior. Stiles remembered Scott was pissed that he wasn't starting that game, thus the scowl as his mom snapped a picture with her digital camera. Stiles, on the other hand, was just happy he made the cut, even though he was, as Coach put it, "strictly a substitute" and would "only play if literally everyone else on the team was either dead or injured beyond playing ability." But that didn't phase him. He was on the team, and that's all that mattered. He and Scott had been talking about joining together since first grade, and they'd finally done it.
By senior year Scott was the team captain, and Stiles was playing in at least one quarter a game. He had a sneaking suspicion it was solely because Scott pestered coach to put his best friend in, but Stiles had no way of confirming it.
Lacrosse had kept Stiles and Scott close throughout high school. Stiles was thankful for it. Without it he feared Scott would have slowly edged out of his life. Sure, they said they'd remain friends even if they didn't both make the team, but Stiles knew how it was. Jocks hung out with other jocks. Eventually Scott would have made new friends and have had no use for Stiles. But they did both make the team, and that granted Stiles the credibility to hang out with the jocks and Scott.
Stiles was happy for Scott when he got a Lacrosse scholarship to California State. He just wished he'd been good enough at the sport to get one, too. Or good enough at anything to get one. But, he wasn't. And being the Sheriff of a small police station in a middle-of-nowhere California town didn't exactly have him and his dad swimming in cash. Sure, it put food on the table, kept a roof over their heads, and bought Stiles all the plaid shirts and hair gel he could possibly want, but college was a little more expensive than trivial personal belongings. And that was why Stiles would be working in the library twelve hours a week to significantly bring down the cost of room and board. Plus it would give him a free meal plan.
He just hoped that college wasn't too much like high school, where the jocks stuck together (amongst other social groups). Because Stiles wasn't going to be a jock anymore. He was going to be a regular guy, what's worse, one who had to work on campus because he wasn't blessed with coordination or the ability to kick a field gold or hit a home run.
The college social hierarchy had Scott at the top and Stiles way at the bottom. Stiles felt the same anxiety he felt the night after Lacrosse tryouts in high school, the day before the list was posted. He was genuinely worried for his and Scott's friendship. But at least there was one advantage he had now that he hadn't in high school.
He and Scott were set to be roommates. They were literally going to be living in the same room.
Stiles reminded himself of this as he picked out an outfit from his somewhat empty closet (all his other clothes were packed in bags near his bedroom door). How could he and Scott possibly grow apart when they were going to be closer than ever?
He smiled to himself as his tiredness left his body and was replaced with excitement. There was nothing to worry about. This was going to be great.
Steam fogged up the mirror of the small bathroom attached to Stiles' room. His phone sat on the counter, playing a song by Amber Pacific loudly.
Stiles stood under the stream of water coming from his showerhead, scalding hot, just the way he liked it. His left hand rested on the shower wall, and he leaned on it with his weight. His eyes were closed and his head was dipped, chin resting on his chest. His right hand was firmly attached to his erect penis, which he stroked vigorously as he played out tantalizing images in his head.
Up and down went his hand, his breathing getting heaver with every tug. Finally, he felt a tingling sensation start at the head of his penis.
"Ah, ah, ah…!" Stiles groaned as he shivered, his toes curling and digging into the shower floor.
Squirts of semen hit the shower walls, and Stiles opened his eyes in time to see the last drop of cum dribble out of the tip of his penis.
He continued to hold his dick with his right hand and he leaned all his weight on the left, he chest nearly hitting the shower wall with each big gulp of air he took in as he tried to get his breathing under control.
Eventually the swelling in his cock started to subside, and he let himself go. He washed his hands, followed by the rest of his body, and then his hair. He removed the showerhead from its holder and hosed any last traces of cum off the shower wall.
Stiles walked back into his room still naked as he finished toweling off his mess of brown hair. He threw the towel to the hamper in the corner, missing by barely an inch. He sighed as he bent down to pick it up and meagerly shoved it into the clothes receptacle. This was why he didn't have a scholarship.
He went over to his bed where he'd laid his clothes out. He dressed quickly, anxious to get a start on the day. Just as he was buckling his belt there was a knock on the door.
"Come in," Stiles said.
The door opened, and Sheriff Noah Stilinksi leaned against the frame, gazing upon his son. Stiles noted the look of sadness that showed on his father's face for the briefest moment before the sheriff plastered on a smile.
"Big day," he said and crossed his arms over his chest.
Stiles nodded. "Yeah." He waited for his dad to say something else, and when he didn't Stiles cleared his throat. "Uh, is breakfast ready?"
Noah jutted his thumb over his shoulder. "On the table."
"Thanks, Dad," Stiles said quickly before brushing past his father out of the room and heading for the stairs.
His dad sighed and put his hand on the doorknob, ready to shut the door. Before closing it he gazed once more around the room that his son had inhabited for the past eighteen years. The room still felt lived-in. It had a warm about it that suggested the stirrings of an inhabitant. He knew, though, that once Stiles left that morning the room would start to feel different. Eventually the air would still, the dust would settle, and a cold hollowness would fill the space until Stiles returned home for the weekend again.
He blinked rapidly and swallowed the lump in his throat as he shut the door and turned to join his son downstairs.
Stiles had nearly cleared his plate by the time the sheriff got to the kitchen. He shoveled scrambled eggs and bacon into his mouth in between huge gulps of orange juice.
"Slow down, son," he said, going over to the cabinets and took down a mug to make himself a cup of coffee.
"Can't. Gotta get going." Stiles tossed the last piece of bacon into his mouth and chewed. "Need to pick up Scott."
"Scott can wait for you to finish your breakfast." Noah poured coffee into his mug, steam rising as he did so.
Stiles shook his head and stabbed the last bit of egg with a fork. He ate it and washed it down with a final swig of orange juice then walked his dishes over to the sink.
"There's more," Noah said, gesturing to the full pans on the stove. Stiles usually had second and sometimes third helpings, so his dad knew to make enough to feed a small army.
"Not today, Dad," Stiles said. He started for the kitchen doorway. "Still need to do my hair," he muttered as he left the room.
His father watched him go, an ache in his chest. He hadn't even gotten the chance to make himself a plate yet and sit down with his son for one last breakfast. Every morning they'd had breakfast together since Stiles' mom died. This morning they didn't; and Stiles didn't even seem to notice.
Stiles squeezed out a dime-size drop of hair-gel onto his fingertips then rubbed it into his hair. He meticulously pulled at his bangs until they stuck up perfectly, just the way he liked it. He gave himself a once-over in the mirror and smirked in satisfaction at his appearance.
He walked back into his room and placed his hair-gel in the from pocket of his suitcase. That was it, the last thing he needed to pack. All there was left to do was take his stuff to his Jeep and head out. The moment he'd been waiting for had finally arrived. So why couldn't he bring himself to move a muscle?
He stood there, rooted in the spot as his heart thudded against his ribcage. Holy shit, it was really happening. He was really about to leave home. Leave the comfort and safety that he'd known since birth. He'd lived his entire life in this room, and it finally hit him that he wouldn't be sleeping in his own bed tonight.
A hand grasped his shoulder, and Stiles jerked slightly, surprised at the sudden intrusion into his moment of uncertainty.
"Dad, hey," Stiles said quickly and tried to hide his flustered state.
Noah raised his eyebrows and removed his hand from his son's shoulder. He pointed to Stiles' bags.
"Want help bringing these down to the Jeep?" he asked.
Stiles nodded. "Yeah, thanks," he said.
Five minutes later Stiles and his dad stood in the driveway next to Stiles' baby blue Jeep that was older than he was. Stiles fiddled with the keys in his hands, unsure of what to say. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and stared at his shoes.
"Well…" he started, then stopped, clearing his throat.
"I guess you better get going," Noah said.
Stiles finally looked up to meet his father's gaze, surprised to see his eyes were somewhat glassy, fighting tears. He hadn't seen his father cry since his mother died, and he wasn't sure it was something he could handle seeing today.
"I'll call you when we're settled in," Stiles said.
Noah nodded, and, to Stiles' surprise, reached out and pulled his son into a hug. Stiles wrapped his arms around his father and closed his eyes for a moment, willing himself not to cry. When the sheriff pulled away he held his son at arm's length and looked at his boy. He squeezed his shoulders one last time before letting him go.
"Bye, son," Noah said softly.
"Bye, Dad," Stiles responded, then opened the door to his Jeep and hopped in.
He backed out of the driveway, threw his vehicle into drive, and took off in the direction of Scott's house. In the rearview he saw his dad watching him drive away, getting a little smaller with each second. Finally he turned the corner and his dad and childhood home disappeared from view.
Stiles parked his Jeep in the driveway of the McCall house around ten minutes later. The sun was finally crawling higher in the sky, and the heat was creeping in. Stiles hoped the wind would pick up later to cool off the day, otherwise carrying all of his luggage all the way from the student parking lot to the dorms was going to be a bitch.
Scott's black motorcycle gleamed in the sunlight, his helmet hanging from the handlebars. He envied Scott from the moment he got the bike, a graduation gift from Scott's M-I-A dad in an attempt to win his son's favor. Stiles had been wanting to ride it so badly, but his dad strictly forbade it. Sheriff Stilinski said he'd had to knock on too many doors delivering the news to folks that their loved-ones had been killed in a motorcycle accident. He didn't want his son anywhere near those "death-traps" as he called them. And in their small town if Stiles even thought of riding Scott's bike he could guarantee his father would hear about it from at least seven people.
Stiles continued up the walk and knocked on the front door. A few moments later the door opened, and Scott stood before him. He wore a plain black v-neck and gray skinny jean, black and white checkerd Vans on his feet. His black hair stood straight up, and he had his trademark lopsided grin on his face.
"Dude. We're going to fuckin college!" Scott said enthusiastically as he greeted Stiles with a quick high-five. "Bro, I'm stoked. Let's do this shit."
Stiles couldn't help but smile. Scott's excitement was contagious.
"Well let's get your crap in the Jeep and hit the road."
Scott nodded. "It's all right here."
He stood back to let Stiles in and gestured to the bags sitting by the door.
"Got a pillow?" Stiles asked, recalling the thing he'd had to run back upstairs and grab after being reminded by his father.
"Shit, no. Good looking out, man. Be right back," Scott said and turned and ran up the stairs, disappearing when he got to the landing.
Stiles smiled and picked up a couple of bags. He brought them out to the Jeep and tossed them in the back, on top of his stuff. Scott was at the front door a moment later, his last few bags over each shoulder and a pillow under his arm. He locked the door with his free hand then made his way to the car. Stiles took the bags from him and put them with the others. Scott deposited his pillow on top, and Stiles closed the gate.
"All set," Stiles said. "Are you gonna say goodbye to your mom?"
Scott shook his head. "She had to be at the hospital early this morning, so we said goodbye last night." He pulled his keys from his pocket and smiled. "Let's go, dude."
Stiles returned his smile. "Let's go." He opened the door to his Jeep as Scott went over to his bike.
"Try to keep up," Scott said before slipping on his helmet and starting up his bike.
"I'll try," Stiles said with a laugh and turned the key, his Jeep sputtering to life.
They were on their way.