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Stiles has always been jittery – from twisting in his seat to fiddling with pens, clicking them and tapping them against his desk. This usually earns him glares and annoyed huffs from his peers and teachers, so he’s started to make a habit of sitting in the back of his classrooms. Now, Coach only threatens his life a maximum of twice per class, and Lydia’s shushes during math are mildly less venomous.
The problem, however, presents itself on a Tuesday morning in the form of a frustratingly tall and broad super-sensory teenage boy.
“Lahey!” Stiles yells as he walks into his chemistry classroom, utterly offended because hello? That is definitely Stiles’ seat that the blonde boy is occupying.
Isaac glances up from his notebook, quirking an eyebrow at the flailing, flustered boy now standing next to him. “What?” he deadpans, brow wrinkling as he sets his pencil down on the desk.
Stiles’ mouth is hanging open, and he throws his hands up in the air in dismay. “That’s my seat,” he retorts like it’s the most obvious concept in the world. “And you,” he points accusingly, making Isaac raise his other eyebrow, “are sitting in it. Go. Get. Shoo.” Reaching down, the brunette picks up Isaac’s pencil and tosses it to the other side of the classroom (earning a horrified shriek from Lydia). “Fetch.”
The hard features of Isaac’s face twist into annoyance, his jaw set and his eyes rolling back into oblivion. “You know, it’s actually pretty astounding –fascinating, really–,” he gives Stiles a pointed look, “that you’ve managed to stumble through life this far without natural selection weeding you ou –“
He’s interrupted by Mr. Harris calling from the front of the classroom, “Mr. Stilinski! Class has begun. But since you think lollygagging is appropriate in my classroom, you can stay for detention today and clean out all of the dirty beakers to make up for wasting some of my time.” Stiles’ mouth falls open again, and he makes some sort of half-complaint in the back of his throat. “Sit down, Mr. Stilinski.”
As he scrambles for the closest available seat, Stiles shoots Isaac the dirtiest glare he can muster. In response, Isaac curls the corner of his mouth in a defiant smirk. Innocently, he shrugs his shoulders before glancing back down at his notebook.
“Asshole,” Stiles mutters, fully aware that the werewolf a few seats away can hear him.
A couple of days later, the incident is still hanging around in the back of Stiles’ mind. Nevertheless, he makes his way to the library, where he’s supposed to meet with Scott and Isaac to study during their free period. When he walks into the room, he immediately spots the other two boys a few tables away. Nose wrinkling in mild irritation, he scoffs as he glances Isaac over. A scarf? Inside? And a long-sleeved shirt that’s definitely too tight, judging by the way it’s stretched over his shoulder blades –
Stiles grins something wicked, finally noticing that, while Scott is already sitting down in one of the chairs at the table, Isaac is standing as he speaks. He’s got a book clutched in his right hand and he’s waving it around as he speaks to Scott, his left hand settling on the back of an empty chair.
Stiles quickly strolls on over, nodding a greeting at Scott and raising an eyebrow at Isaac. Without saying a word, he sinks into the seat that Isaac was clearly about to take; Isaac’s backpack is even hanging off the back of it.
The blonde boy makes a choked noise. “Stiles,” he starts, voice dipping into dangerous whining territory. “That was mine. I was literally about to sit there!” Isaac huffs loudly, fixing Stiles with the hardest scowl he can manage. He reaches out, thumping the back of Stiles’ head with his free hand.
“Sorry, totally didn’t realize,” Stiles offers nonchalantly, managing to only flinch a little when he’s thumped. He unzips his backpack, pulling out a couple of notebooks and obviously not planning on moving seats any time soon.
For a minute, Isaac considers lifting the cocky, smirking bastard right out of the chair because, really, Stiles weighs basically nothing. But Stiles is human and very, very fragile, and Isaac can’t bring himself to risk hurting the boy. Instead, he grumbles loudly, taking the seat directly across from him.
It’s high noon on Friday, and the entire pack has decided to eat outside during lunch because it feels wonderful in the courtyard (that, and Allison kept complaining about the obnoxious freshmen in the cafeteria). Lydia, Scott, Allison, and the twins are already seated at one of the picnic tables under the trees.
Both Stiles and Isaac are running late (having come from the same class), and usually this wouldn’t be a problem. Because the universe hates them, though, there’s only one seat left, and it’s right on the end next to Lydia.
Stiles turns and locks eyes with Isaac, who’s standing beside him. The taller boy narrows his eyes, and Stiles feels his skin heat up a bit when he catches the blue irises flicker gold. “No way, Lahey,” he warns.
But Isaac is tearing away from him in a matter of nanoseconds, sprinting directly towards their group of friends. “Not fair!” Stiles yells from behind him, starting to run to the table as well. Isaac is totally using his wolfy powers and nothing about this is fair. By the time he reaches the table, Stiles is panting, huffing and puffing; he doubles over, standing next to a smirking –and seated– Isaac. “Such,” he breathes out heavily, “a cheater.”
It’s in the next few seconds that Stiles makes the strangest, least-thought-out decision he’s made in his entire life. Rolling his eyes, he plops down onto Isaac’s lap, sighing heavily. He stills when Isaac makes an indignant sound of shock, afraid that he’s crossed some unspoken line. Sitting on your friends isn’t weird, right? Can he sit on Allison instead? Should he sit on Allison instead?
And wait – are those fingertips splaying across his hips? Stiles swallows the knot in his throat, glances back at Isaac; he doesn’t dare shift on Isaac’s lap, afraid that he’s one movement away from being slashed to death.
But Isaac’s harboring a tiny smile, and his fingers are uncertain and gentle. He holds Stiles in place with his hands, holding eye contact with the smaller boy sitting on his thigh. He shrugs, apparently not bothered by the spontaneous action (much to Stiles’ relief), and neither of them mentions what might be happening between them.
Around them, their friends are still chattering and laughing. Lydia’s got a small smirk, though, and Scott’s watching the pair in his peripheral vision. For some reason, Stiles and Isaac don’t notice.
Saturday evening, the pack is having game night at Scott’s house, and everyone is sitting in the living room. Maybe, just maybe, the group notices Stiles curled up in Isaac’s lap during the second round of truth-or-dare. Maybe they’re holding hands, but nobody points it out.
On Monday, they don’t fight over seats again.