Title: i fell in love and i needed a road map
Summary: And she opens her mouth wider, and wider, and wider until Stiles feels the red hood at the back of his neck. StilesLydia
Author's Note: This piece is old, because I've long stopped watching Teen Wolf and it's been ages since I was on the road trip that inspired this, but I thought I'd share it because I hear Stydia is still not a thing?! Y'all gotta get some StilesLydia fluffy angst somewhere, so here's a sappy go at it.
Also, sorry for being the lamest and only mentioning top universities but I'm pretty sure this whole franchise has led us to believe that these characters are on track to these types of institutions. (Though, let's be honest — how the hell do you fight monsters, keep up your GPA, stay best friends with people, and apply to colleges? Much less get in? I don't know how I managed to get into college (much less how I'm still here) and I don't have a heap of dead friends to mourn. Fictional worlds are so much easier.)
Also, title comes from "Sleepwalking" by Modest Mouse. Enjoy, guys.
/
She cuts her hair to her chin with a razor blade after graduation. He's there when she does it, sitting on the sticky counter of the public restroom they've just stopped at, feeling the pink industrial soap, that has oozed out of a container that's barely hanging on the wall, clamp his palms to the countertop. She's sitting on the toilet seat, door wide open to let him see, with about a million rolls of toilet paper between her skin and the plastic. There are still echoes in the room of the quiet apology she whispered to the Earth and impoverished children and everyone wishing they could use toilet paper that chafes before putting the paper down. Stiles almost laughed when he saw her head bowed, almost held in a breath, almost told her something.
Now, the floor around her is covered in strands of her red locks, hiding the black of the tiles that crack where each meets. Her head is not used to the lightness, the burden that gravity constantly reminds her of, and it bobbles cartoonishly in the moment she pulls the blade away from what's left of her hair.
"That was surprisingly painless," she says, reaching up and threading her fingers into her hair. She twirls a strand between her fingers and looks up at Stiles, "Not terrible, right?"
Stiles holds his breath in his belly and softly exhales, smiles faintly, "Beautiful."
She says nothing, but gets up from her perch and takes two long strides to reach him on the sink. Her heels click on the tile, but when they meet her hair, the noise dulls. She leans into him, nestles herself between his legs, and places her hands on either side of him. She turns her head to his ear.
"You know," she starts (— her voice is low, only for him, and he leans forward without even thinking about it, because that's his role now, or something), "There's water leaking into your pants."
He rolls his eyes at her and attempts to hop off the counter. She stops him and looks into his eyes. Hers are dark and screaming and he does not dare move a muscle, not now, not after a look like that. She pulls the collar of his shirt and brings his mouth closer to hers, keeping their lips too close, too far away for him to tolerate.
"Let's do something about that, shall we?" she mumbles, and then he is tumbling forward in all of his awkward, teenage glory, desperate to taste her. And she opens her mouth wider, and wider, and wider until Stiles feels the red hood at the back of his neck before he sheds the garment on the floor with her hair.
/
The pay phone is still hot when Stiles puts it against his ear and, briefly, he wonders who was there before him. He opens his conversation with Scott with this — who was there? Scott thinks Stiles has been enjoying the full experience of being in Seattle.
"I'm appalled you don't think I can philosophize without the aid of drugs. Shame on you, Scott. You underestimate me."
"So, you didn't use your medical card?"
Stiles scoffs, "Why would I waste the benefits my insomnia? That would be absolutely… It would be morally unsound, is what it would be."
Lydia has enjoyed Stiles' little stash he keeps in his Altoids container. She said the green box was (— pause for the audience of this story to imagine her taking the smoke in a deep, disappointed inhale) despicably trendy. Stiles rubbed the secret space between her ribs to make her ticklish and exhale all over the place like a rogue fire hose, and then, she kissed him, open mouthed, with the smoke that still remained.
But Stiles does not tell Scott this little anecdote because it's all too new. Lydia and him (— Lydia and him, him being Stiles, him being Stiles Stiliniski featured on the Stilinski family tree, him being once of the nerdiest ilk) were too new. And unofficial. And apparently on a "friendly" road trip, to visit some places they had never seen before, before they had to buckle down, work their, respective, restaurant jobs, and then go and learn for four more years at their, respective, top universities halfway across the country.
It was enough that Stiles wouldn't be with his best friend of forever — Scott had the pack and the Berkeley acceptance that was sitting on his desk, unanswered, while Stiles was free to apply to East Coast schools. Cold weather universities with promises of girls cupping hot coffee between mittened hands, scrunching their red noses at his bad jokes, and blushing under rosy cheeks. Stiles landed a few acceptances, some rejections, and became very accustomed to being put on a waiting list. It was Brown that accepted him — the last letter he checked. A place he had never considered would accept him. Lydia, the super genius, cried when got deferred early admission at MIT. Stiles made figure eights into her spine and bought her a cake when they accepted her regular decision. (Stiles sent them several recommendations from other teachers Lydia had never considered the value of, but never tells her this.) Malia smiled and smiled, clutching her skinny envelopes with white knuckled fists — and then, one day, she just wasn't there anymore. A note on his pillow saying, you don't need my luck, and shreds of denial after denial in his trashcan.
Scott tells him about everything going on. Kira's constantly talking about college but trying not to. Scott now knows every type of pattern possible for a twin sized comforter. Stiles knows that Scott's bed has been clothed with reincarnations of the same navy comforter since the third grade.
The phone call ends when Lydia blows in Stiles' ear and curls her arms around his neck, a trick she learned by mistake, by playing too many games in a motel bed. Stiles says bye to Scott much too quickly — mid conversation, really but did Stiles really want to hear about paisley versus gingham for Kira's bed? — and turns to wrap Lydia in his arms.
"Smoke?" Lydia asks, tracing her fingers on Stiles' arm.
"Later," he mumbles, leaning down to kiss her. "Now it's about you."
/
In Portland, when they're getting Thai food, a tear rolls down Lydia's face into her soup. It's harder to cover up sadness now, without her trusty hair to act as her curtain — yet Stiles doesn't notice. Instead, he takes long swigs from his beer bottles, makes his usual jokes, and kisses her hand occasionally. Lydia finds it both comforting and aggravating, both hating him for not noticing and loving him more for it.
When they pay the bill, Stiles swings his arm around her and whispers in her ear, "I'm sorry."
Lydia thinks she understands, thinks she gets why he can't actively acknowledge her sadness right now, at this particular moment. Her thoughts bring her to graveyards with all their loved ones and then catapult her right back to him.
She shrugs off his arm, watches his face drop for a minute, and then laughs before wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him. It's still light enough that the people driving can see a reason to honk at them, but the sun is setting and Stiles can see how the last remains of sun are clutching to her hair, how her eyes are light even with the purples getting in there.
"Bring me home," she says between licking into his mouth. "I want to be happy in a bed with you."
Stiles nods ecstatically and keeps his eyes open when they kiss once more, hoping he'll be able to memorize this exact moment.
/
They end up in a quiet seaside town in Oregon. Bandon is almost a non-destination, but Stiles heard of the most spectacular view that would change your perspective. Lydia rolls her eyes for days when she pushes the accelerator down, rolling her shoulders back. Stiles loves the way she drives. One minute, it'll be fierce determination — both hands on the wheel, taut mouth, narrowed eyes, and the next minute, it's different — all casual lightness, shoulders resting against the seat, one hand lazily at the top of the wheel, other reaching for a snack or out the window, hair whipping slightly in the wind.
When they pull into Bandon, she's speeding, eyes narrowed — clearly in her concentrated state. Her slim, freckled arms lock and Stiles can't stop looking at her and thinking this is the view that changes your life. She turns to him for a split second after slowing down and smiles at him and it warms him in the air conditioning.
"Where are we staying?" she asks, voice laced with something seductive and quiet.
His fingers go to the space where her exposed skin ends and her shorts begin and mumbles the address. Her skin is warm and the little hairs she missed while shaving send shivers from his fingertips up his spine. He's always loved her — that's obvious. But knowing she is welcome to his touch, this kind of intimate touch, for the first time in years only heightens his love to a darker degree. He can't keep his hands off of her, nor can she help but touch him everywhere they go. They find themselves turned on by the very prospect of finally being able to think about each other, about themselves, rather than the pack, their families, what will this mean. In a grocery store they stopped in for supplies, Lydia managed to get Stiles to whine in her ear purely by her picking up two packages of crackers, some goat cheese, and a knife. By the segregated chip section, they kissed soundly, hands all over, until someone from the other side of the tortilla chip row saw them through the empty space they had made when they had knocked a row of chips down.
But this new exploration of touch had quickly replaced the words they had been exchanging for years now. It seemed, for them, at this moment, that passion dominated everything. Perhaps it was the long denial that there was such a tension that hummed between their bodies, but there was something else in the silence that settled between them. It was true that neither of them truly had another partner who was on the same intellectual level as them. Neither had raised moans from the mouths of their best friend before, fucked the person who knew how their brain looked in the backseat of their car, or knew the spots that would make the eyes of the person who held their darkest secrets dilate. Previously, those actions were saved for safe people.
For both Lydia and Stiles, their most significant relationships started with sex and then, slowly, the underneath of themselves was revealed. But did Jackson know that Lydia, as a child, considered her mother to be Marie Curie? Did he know that those moments when she would get unusually quiet, she would be shuffling through her family tree, trying to figure out who else could've had the scream? Did Malia know that Stiles entertained the concept of love to a ridiculous degree to fill the vacancy of his home? That Stiles aspired to be needed for more than just a human sidekick to the mystical superhero — that he wanted to educate the masses, turn them away from superstition and stubbornness to anything not substantiated in tradition?
The truth was though, despite the fact Lydia and Stiles could now gloat they had it all — a collective consciousness shared between them, a mystical tether, a sex life that had directly caused a number of public embarrassments across the country — they could not deny that there was a definite shift in their relationship from friends, intellectual soulmates, anchors, to lovers, alone.
When they get to their hotel, this become evident as Lydia leaves her bags on her side of the bed and crawls over to his side. Her eyes are lowered and, suddenly, it comes to her mind that she doesn't know Stiles' name. His hands drop his bags and immediately move to her soft skin, pushing up her shirt, his mouth going to her neck. The smooth bone of his teeth on her veins make her knees quake, but she can't help but let her brain focus on what seems lit up in neon lights — WHAT'S HIS NAME, WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU REMEMBER SAYING ANYTHING THAT WASN'T DELIVERED IN A COME HITHER TONE, WHAT'S HAPPENING.
Her shorts are coming off and everything is loud in her ears. There are questions galore flooding her nervous system. She feels bound to shut off — sensory overload, error, error, failure to operate. But her body is moving against Stiles like it's already second nature. Her mouth is on his earlobe, her nails scraping his shoulders, her legs stretching to push his shorts off his — all while pulling him in closer, closer, closer.
"Stiles," she whispers in his ear.
He mumbles back, gravely, that I can't believe I get to be here with you, like this voice, "Lydia."
But he doesn't understand, doesn't recognize the tremor in her voice as fear. Their lives aren't in danger here — not in little Bandon, Oregon with the golf courses and the beautiful natural views they haven't seen just yet. There's no need to be scared here, so he doesn't hear the gasp full of questions that escapes her mouth when he enters her. But she feels a scream rise from her belly that lacks magic — in fact, it's all too human. It lodges in her throat, gets stuck because it knows it won't escape from her mouth unless it gets deluded by the adrenaline Stiles' body fills hers with. Lydia is too afraid to even let out a sigh, so she comes silently, just shudders, digging her nails into Stiles' flesh, while Stiles kisses her breasts and finishes with a muffled growl. He kisses her hair and looks at her as her breath levels out.
"Stiles," she says again.
"I know," he smirks, twirling the ends of her short hair.
She turns to him and his eyes are so loving, so full of joy that he's finally experiencing everything he's wanted for so long. Is it worth breaking the silence? she wonders. Could I ruin this for him and live with myself? But then, Lydia realizes that this isn't just about Stiles. This is about her, too. This is about them — something she never would've allowed just a few short years ago. She deserves everything she's wanted too and it's possible to have everything with Stiles. It just needs to be said.
"Let's see those views I've been hearing about," Lydia says, smile faint.
He rolls out of bed clumsily (it's possible to have everything with him), throws his sweatshirt at her (it's possible), and watches her pull it over her head with soft eyes (everything, everything, everything with him). When they're dressed, he pulls her into his armpit. She gets a whiff of him — that mixture of wood, pepper, and coffee — and her head turns while she stands in the open air.
They walk together, footsteps supplementing talk, to the end of the road where the infamous view lies. Lydia can't deny it — it's beautiful. Simple, yet holding just as much weight as a god might. If she believed in religion, she might've thought that a god had placed each and every thing right where it was. But it would be too easy to believe that — to believe that everything was in it's place because of a master plan. Lydia didn't believe in destiny or fate. She knew the rocks were there because they were tossed by the waves and they were in the shape they were because of erosion. Beautiful landscapes often commander the viewer to forget reason for a few moments, Lydia couldn't deny what she knew to be true: everything has a reason to it.
Stiles might've disagreed with her if she opened her mouth to say these things a few weeks ago. But now, it's different. There's heat between them that singes anything that is not tangible. It scares her. She must make that fear known before it sours everything she's tried so hard not to want for a long time.
Her head is still in the clouds when Stiles twines their hands together. He's still looking into the view, but Lydia looks up at him and still sees that overwhelming love he gets in his eyes when he looks at her. That look in his eye that is a promise — I'm going to do everything for you.
Right now, it's sex. In a few weeks, it'll die down. Lydia knows it will. Honeymoons don't last forever. They're just exploring one another in the newest way they get to. She doesn't have to seduce — she's never had to with Stiles. Right now, it's sex, but it's a time to be real about it.
Stiles looks down at her, happily taking in the view of him and smiles at her. Lydia smiles back and pulls his face to hers with each of her hands and kisses him. It's long but not desperate. A kiss to say words that have been unsaid.
"It's beautiful," Stiles says, leaning his forehead against hers. I get it.
Lydia rolls her eyes, "Soon you're going to start talking about fate."
Instead of bickering, he moves to look out at the scene before them. Their hands feel stuck together with summer sweat, and despite all of her best efforts, she can't help but feel like it's something telling her not to worry, that this was how it was supposed to be.
Stiles looks down at her, noting her thoughtful expression, "Lydia?"
She looks up at him, smiles, and squeezes their hands, "Later. Right now, let's just be silent together."
/
Later that night, Lydia sits propped up against the pillows, while Stiles lays on his side at the footboard, reading a book.
"Do you think it's possible?" Lydia asks.
Stiles peers at her over the top of his glasses with narrowed eyebrows, "What?"
She bites her lip, not wanting to ask the question, "That we can be like this. That we get to have each other like this?"
Stiles looks confused for a second, but then smiles, pushing his book aside, crawling up to her.
"Lydia," he says, pushing her hair behind her ear, "Don't you know by now?"
Lydia shakes her head, looks at her fingers threading through the tassels at the edge of the blanket under her.
Stiles picks up her chin, looks her right in the eye, "When it's you and I, we can have whatever we want."
Her toes tingle under his gaze, yet she still presents the question in her mouth like a challenge, "And what is it that you want?"
Stiles pretends to think for a moment, then lowers his eyes to her mouth, "You, of course. You, forever."
She laughs, but when he kisses her, it's like all the statistics about high school sweethearts and the myth of "eternal love" go racing out the door. It's just them, two practical people, two very, very abnormal people, finally coming together.