"You are going to be amazing," John said, a smile firmly planted on his strained face.
His hands gripped Stiles shoulders as if he was trying to use the words to convince himself.
They stood next to the battered sheriff's car parked haphazardly at the side of the long gravel drive, in a clearing in the trees, south of Beacon Hills by a few hundred miles.
"Sure," Stiles snorted, frowning at the ground in an effort to ignore the sprawling grounds laid out ahead. "I'll be just fine in an asylum specifically for crazy teens, sounds perfect." He mutters sourly, feeling guilty as his father wilts in front of him. Stepping back, he lets John's hand slip off of his shoulder and hefts his bag onto his shoulder.
"I want you to be safe." John sighs, taking the bag from his son as he turns to frown at him. The fight seeps out of Stiles as he sees the lines of worry etched into John's weathered face. He hated the realisation that he had become an addition to his worry, especially after his Mom. He wasn't being fair.
"I'll come back good as new." Stiles joked, but it came out flat. They walked in silence up the remainder of the driveway, the big, regal house and the surrounding smaller buildings coming into view.
Squinting, Stiles saw the sign embossed on a plague on the front door.
Rosedale Academy For Struggling Youth.
He grimaced, the words sounding strange and irregular as they rattled around his head. Wrapping his shirt further round his lean frame, he tried to escape the non-existent breeze twisting around him. He wasn't struggling, at least not enough to need this place. He wasn't crazy. He wasn't.
If only he hadn't done it again. He thought, berating himself for leaving a mark that could be seen so easily, because it was so, so easy for his dad to see and explode, and dump him with the nearest loony bin he could find. He felt the twinge of sharp pain against his side as he pressed his arm against his side, a nervous tick he couldn't seem to shake.
"It looks nice," He mumbled, the words so opposite to the thoughts churning through his brain. His stomach began to flutter, and he felt his jaw begin to chatter, a sure sign of his nerves.
"Yeah! Yeah." John said, eager to reply to his practically nonverbal son. "They have a library, and a pool-" Stiles shuddered at the thought. "-and courts out back, and a gym." He reeled off the words like he'd been relishing them for a while, and the sick feeling in Stiles' stomach only deepened.
"Sounds, fun," Stiles replied lamely, slowing to a halt at the front door that seemed to loom up before him. John smiles encouragingly, and after seeing Stiles refused to go first, simply sighed and opened the door, stepping inside, followed slowly by his son.
The room was brightly lit and clinical, yet the walls were covered in posters with smiling people and witty slogans, all promising help to the "struggling teens". A woman sat perched against a desk, leafing through a pile of paperwork before looking up at their entrance, and smiling.
"Oh, hey!" She smiled welcomingly and stood up to shake both their hands. "You must be John and-" Her eyebrows furrowed.
"Stiles," John and Stiles said in unison, used to the confusion regarding his name. The woman looked confused, before seeming to accept the name, an amused smile on her face.
Stiles felt a prickle of nerves spike up through his stomach, making his fingers tremble and his teeth clack together in his mouth. Melissa looked at him, her smile softening.
"I'm Melissa, and I'm in charge around here, I'm kind of a big thing." She joked, a sarcastic jut to her eyebrows. "You'll see me around teaching groups, and you're in a few of my sessions."
Stiles smiled, his mouth frozen shut as he heard his heart hammering in his ribcage. Melissa seemed to understand though, simply inclining her head at him in a simple nod, content to simply introduce herself for now.
"I'll send you through to the changing rooms in a minute, if you could just get dressed into the clothes in there for now so we're sure you're not carrying any weapons or contraband, or anything we don't allow in your person. Don't worry, It's nothing too hideous!" She smiles encouragingly, and Stiles' stomach drops.
The pencil sharpener blade had been tucked neatly into the seam of his back pocket, a constant reminder as he felt the unmistakable shape whenever he moved.
"Okay," He mumbled, wide eyes on John, who shrugged helplessly, his small smile straining as he saw his sons evident distress.
Melissa gestured to a door, and he slowly walked over to it, eyes on the ground as he tried to formulate a plan to hide the blade. Jumping to the side in shock, his eyes widened as a lanky boy with mussed curly blond hair darted out of the door, his gaunt face harbouring a large yellowing bruise along his jaw, Stiles caught his breath, and stood to the side as the boy passed him with a pile of clothing held limply in his hands.
He heard the dregs of a conversation drift out from behind him as the door swung shut.
"Isaac! See, the clothes are pretty good, huh?" He heard Melissas lightly cajoling voice before the rest of the conversation turned to a dull hum behind the thick door.
Turning to face the rest of the room, Stiles let out a shaky breath, scanning the shelves with different white short-sleeved shirts in piles along them. Looking at the other side of the room, he saw piles of grey jeans, the sizes going up the further along the shelf he looked. Gingerly opening a box under the shelf, he groaned as he saw balled-up pairs of socks and even fresh pairs of underwear. They really were thorough.
Gulping, he shakily reached for a t-shirt, fingers tracing the short sleeves in horror. Shit. Pulling up his own longer sleeves, he hissed through his teeth at the scars and fresher cuts peeking out from under the bandage.
Standing silently in the centre of the dim room, he tried to filter out the hum of the people in the other room, only a few metres away from him. Thoughts raced through his head as he tried to think of ways to hide the blade and stop the bandage from looking so obvious next to the stark white of the shirt.
Stepping out of his jeans, he sighed, staring at the scars lining the skin that usually lay hidden under multiple layers of fabric. Pulling another pair off the shelf, he held them against himself experimentally, before pulling them on. They fit loosely against his hips, and he did them up before nervously turning to the shelf containing the shirts. Why did they have to be short sleeved? He lamented their design, an internal storm brewing as quickly as the thoughts formulated.
Tugging one out of the pile, he shakily took his own plaid shirt, then stripping off the iron man t-shirt under it, the colder air hitting him in a rush. Quickly putting the new shirt on, he squirmed, the itchy fabric an uncomfortable feeling after the soft, worn feeling of his own shirt. Tugging it down, as low as it could go, he huffed out a displeased breath and tried in vain to still his nerves.
Turning to the pile of his old discarded clothes, he fished the blade out of the back pocket of his jeans, debating where to hide it on his self. The new pair of jeans had no pockets, most likely to make it harder to do what he was doing. A sudden thought struck him, and he slipped the cool metal into his sock, hoping against hope that they wouldn't search there.
Taking a few seconds to steady his breath and scoop up the pile of clothes, Stiles opened the door. Stepping back out into the reception, his eyes widened as he watched his dad pass Melissa his Adderall and other meds, but as he appeared around the corner, Melissa smiled warmly.
"Hey! The clothes look good." She said, obviously trying to make him feel less mortified at the invasive start to his visit.
"Thanks," He mumbled, handing over the piles of clothes, painfully aware of how both Melissa and his dad had a full view of the bandage on his arm. He pulled his arms behind him as Melissa took his bag and clothes into another room, where she told him they'd be taken to his room.
John pulled him into a hug, and Stiles sagged weakly against him, shuddering as he felt the air hit his arm. He tried to hide them at all costs, but now the choice had been forced away from him, he felt stripped down to the bone.
"I love you," John said as he fixed serious eyes on Stiles' wary ones.
"I love you too, pops," Stiles said quietly, squirming now in his touch.
Melissa reappeared, the ever-present smile still on her face."I'm afraid you two will have to say goodbye for now, until visiting time next Saturday."
Stiles sighed, his nerves back in full force as the realisation he truly was leaving his dad to stay in a stark, strange house of strange children. They exchanged a long hug, John recounting all the things he wanted Stiles to remember, and with one final promise to return on the next Saturday, he left, Stiles turned to Melissa, dread in his eyes as the two were left alone in the reception.
"I'll take you to meet your roommates, and settle in!" She said, guiding him towards another larger set of doors. "Welcome to Rosedale Academy, Stiles."
