I Was Meant To Die In Your Arms (Steter)

Chapter One

17 years later...

Stiles was used to the sympathetic looks he would get for having a soul brand on his wrist. How teachers would always refer to his future in flexible terms, nothing definite, nothing permeant. He became a loner the day they taught soulmate studies in eighth grade, but he became alone the day his mother died.

Today is the one-year anniversary of her death; which is why Stiles is currently sitting in the back of the class silent with dark bags under his eyes of lack of sleep and smelling like a liquor store. It's also why the teachers are casting him sympathetic looks, because all of them know small portions of the disaster that is Stiles' home life. Never enough to actually present a case to CPS, but enough to know that Stiles isn't the reason why he smells like a liquor shop on New Year's Eve. Everyone is just thankful he doesn't carry bruises.

Everyone but Stiles that is, because at least bruises would show that he's being noticed. It would certainly take way more energy to show anger than to just cast a blank stare hallowed out by the closest Jack Daniels. Because frankly, or at least to Stiles, a violent parent is still more of a parent than one that isn't there.

His therapist Melinda says that isn't healthy thinking. He says that he never thought it was.

"Stiles," a low voice called out next to him, breaking him out of his trance, "Your name really Stiles?"

When he looks over to the owner of the voice, he's met with brown eyes and a raised brow, it only takes a few moments for him to remember that this was the new girl that everyone had been talking about only days prior. He wonders why she moved to Beacon Hills of all places, why her family would move her to the one place on Earth where things go to die.

"No," he finally replies his voice raspy- he hadn't talked to anyone is three months- but strong with finality. Because he used to go by a different name- a special name- and he used to loudly say it all the time in hopes a special boy, a boy named Peter, would hear it. But then his mother got sick, and then she died, and the last sober thing his father said to him was to change his name. To never say it again as long as John lived because his father can only handle losing one person he loves in his life, he can't do it again.

But then his dad picked up the bottle and never put it back down. Still though, Stiles became Stiles and hasn't said his birth name since, even when he feels the name Peter Hale burn on his skin late at night.

"No?" the girl parrots back with a grin, "fucking called it, Derek owes me twenty."

Stiles tries to figure out if he knows anyone named Derek but can't seem to recall, so he shrugs before turning back to the front of the classroom. The equations on the board blurring slightly together as he starts to slip back into daydreaming again. He wonders if he'll think about his Mother when she was happy and healthy or when she was screaming about him being a murder?

"Name's Cora by the way," the girl continued on her voice casual, "Cora Hale."

Stiles' heart stopped beating for a brief moment and the lights hanging from the ceiling shattered.