Chapter 04 – La Fou
Jackson lie in his bed, tossing a lacrosse ball back and forth, music smothering the air he breathed, as he thought of the past. His time spent with Stiles Stilinski had surpassed every piece of his life including happiness in two diagonal sweeps. His thoughts turned and the professional and serious white paint of his ceiling began to morph and mix with the posters on his walls, creating the image of a new memory.
The memory of Stiles and himself standing in an empty as the snow gently fell. His arms tightly wrapped around Stiles' waist; Stiles' wrapped just as tightly around his neck; the February air blush mixing with their own heated versions. Their breath was so heavy they thought it had fallen as it was exhaled. Their smiles were wide and borderline Cheshire. They had only just begun, yet they were engulfed in years of each other.
Time seemed to cease its expanse when they were like this. The slow tick in Stiles' heartbeat let Jackson know he was comfortable yet happy. The surrounding air was eaten alive by his boys scent. He shuttered; not because he was cold, but because Stiles had licked his nose. Playful; that's the word that would go onto his list; Stiles was playful.
A smirked played its way across Jackson's lips, and a few seconds later pulled back to reveal a full blown grin at the positive recollection. What had Stiles done to him? More so, how had Stiles undone him? Undone; that word would also make is list; as that is what happened. He hadn't always been this way.
The ceiling began to morph again, mixing and remixing until it held the frame of the Beacon Hills High School locker room. The lacrosse team had just been let out of practice. There was Scott leaning changing at his locker, Stiles next to him. Jackson was glaring at the team's newest co captain. Spite, hatred, and a need to expose filled his eyes before they shifted to the hyper active sidekick. That's all this kid was; a sidekick; an annoying nuisance, who would never get anywhere. Not because he was daft; because he was literally a bumbling fool. He probably didn't even notice Scott was using him.
All Stiles would be through high school was the ADHD kid who had a thing for Lydia Martin. After high school, he'd be just another picture in the yearbook. The differences between him and Stiles were vast and unwavering. Success, promise, wealth, courage, all the things Jackson held that Stiles didn't. All the things Stiles could never hold. All the things that made Jackson stronger were vast and unwavering.
The music waved. His eye faltered. He was a wreck. He never paused to think about how things used to be between he and Stiles. Before they bedded each other, before they knew each other, he couldn't stand the slight thought that they would share the same room at some point during the day.
Stiles had made him transparent. His emotions were on display for anyone to view, and Stiles was the curator. He had grown accustomed to it, but suddenly the fear hit him and the thought of them possibly being wrong hovered in front of him. Teasing him; not too far, not too close; never letting Jackson know if he was right or wrong. With each increasing heartbeat, his room pulsed and expanded until all he saw was Black.
Had Stiles also done this? Was he truly in Black? No. He Stiles couldn't have; he could be. His thoughts remained on Stiles, but Derek started intruding. That's whose fault this was. Derek was the reason for his depression. After every promise of protection and growth, Derek was dragging him into Black.
That condescending smirk; relaxed body language; amused tone of voice; Derek had been playing them for fools. They were his Pawns, his pack, why was he so willing to throw them away for a small laugh?
Jackson refused this title of Pawn. The pawns always moved first and that's what Derek had done. Derek had started this game, and when it came down to moves and strategy, Jackson had more than he knew how to hold. That and he had Stiles. Stiles was a war calculator, that's how Jackson knew Stiles had been letting him win. Jackson may have been the stud, but Stiles was the brains. The one who made no moves until absolutely necessary, the one who could command everyone while staying silent; Stiles was the strongest; Stiles was the Queen. Yes, Stiles was the Queen, Derek was the Pawn, and Jackson thought this made him the King.
Who cared what game Derek the Alpha Pawn was playing, he and Stiles would win. It would take a lot more than Alpha status to tear them apart.
Every fear Jackson hid away from childhood flooded his body with convulsions, his voice with wrecks, and his eyes with rain. His fear of not being good enough, granted to him by being adopted into wealth. His fear of being alone for his eternity, granted to him by his isolation so that he may focus on concurring the previous. His fear of rejection, granted to him from being put up for adoption at the age of three.
His heart clenched tightly with its supposed safe walls, causing his body to curl violently into a ball. His emotions had officially gotten away from him. They ran from him like everything else had. His birth parents, the friends he used to have, his spot as captain, and soon Stiles would run too. He would run right into Derek's arms, glad to be rid of the infantile weakling that was Jackson.
How hadn't he seen it? He was simply the tool of Derek's choice; the priming coat for his new wall. All he was meant to do was train Stiles to be ready for the Alpha. Derek had been calling all the shot by leading as the pawn. His body quaked harder with each new revelation. It was painful, physically, he was aching. His chest lost and gained weight under the struggle. His legs over stretched and cramped before shooting back to the unconsciously self destroying heart.
He had fallen for it all. Stiles really was the Queen, but Derek played the King. Derek was commander and leader. He had always been King.
Jackson realized his place as he fell onto his hardwood floor, the icy cold of it trapping him, holding him down. He was, what three years of French had taught him, la fou.
"La fou? La fou? What's wrong La Fou?"
The voice mocked him from behind his back, even more; it mocked him from his door. He felt the floor move and a hand touch his bare bicep.
"La fou, la fou," he chanted over and over. "La fou, la fou, la fou, la fou, la fou, la fou, la fou, la fou, la fou…"
I didn't think I'd have to point this out, but Jackson's use of la fou instead of le fou is intentional. I'm playing even more, and slightly comically (to myself) on just how much of a fool he is right now. Iapologize to anyone who may have fouind this offensive or ignorant.