Work Text:
“No way,” Stiles shook his head fiercely. “Come on, anything but that.”
His dad gave him a pointed look. “You do realize how much trouble you could be in, right? That this is you getting off easy?”
“Just ground me!” Stiles said dramatically.
His father rolled his eyes. “You’re doing it, and that’s final. You understand me?”
Stiles sighed. “Fine, but if one of us ends up dead before finals, you asked for it.”
His father smiled. “Good, your principal already agreed to let you two use the library after school until 4:30 on the days you don’t have lacrosse.”
Of course it wouldn’t interfere with lacrosse. Like Jackson would allow that to happen.
Why he let any of this happen, Stiles wasn’t even sure. There had to be someone else he could have found to tutor him in English, right? Why did it have to be Stiles, when the two of them couldn’t even sit in the same room without wanting to kill each other?
“You start Monday,” his dad added on the way out of his room. “It won’t be that bad.”
Stiles snorted. Since when was his father an optimist?
--
“I don’t like owing people,” was the first thing out of Jackson’s mouth on Monday afternoon.
Stiles raised his eyebrows as Jackson slammed down his binder and slid into the seat across from Stiles.
“And this wasn’t my idea,” he added. “My mom thinks this will be good for us, after that shit you pulled with the police van, and the restraining order. She believes in ‘settling our differences’.”
Stiles snorted. That? Not going to happen. Probably ever.
“And?” Stiles pushed, because Jackson looked like he wasn’t finished talking. “You don’t like owing people. So?”
“So,” Jackson crossed his arms over his chest. “What do you want? Money?”
Stiles’ opened his mouth and then closed it. He hadn’t expected to get anything out of this. It was just a way out of his grounding. But, if Jackson was offering, there might actually be one thing that Jackson could give him that no one else could.
“Lacrosse,” Stiles said quickly. “I want to be good enough to play at every game, not just when the rest of the team is out.”
Jackson raised a single eyebrow, a disbelieving look on his face. “Even I couldn’t make you good enough.”
Stiles just stared at him calmly, silently waiting. Jackson’s eyes narrowed, and he fidgeted in his seat. When Stiles still didn’t say anything, he slammed his hands down on the table. “Fine! I’ll talk to coach to see if we can use the equipment after practices.” He agreed finally. “Can we just get this over with? Unlike you, I actually have a life, and a girlfriend, and I’d like to get out of here.”
Stiles rolled his eyes and tried not to let the Lydia dig bug him. “How are you evening failing English, anyways?’ Stiles asked, opening his books.
Jackson glared at him. “Poetry,” he said shortly.
“Why is that not surprising,” Stiles muttered.
--
Even Stiles could admit that Jackson wasn’t stupid. But when it came to poetry? He was helpless. They spent hours after school for almost a week without making any progress. But, on the plus side, neither of them had strangled the other, and on Friday after lacrosse practice, neither Stiles nor Jackson went back to the locker rooms with the class.
“Do you even know what position you’re best at?” Jackson asked, helmet tucked under his arm.
Stiles shifted on his feet. “Um, not really?”
Jackson sighed and grabbed a stick. “I’ll get in goal, you take a few shots at me, and we’ll see where you’re at.”
They did just that for a few minutes. Stiles didn’t make a single goal, but he thought that maybe that was just because Jackson was actually really good, and not because Stiles was particularly bad. It wasn’t like he was terrible at lacrosse. He hadn’t done bad at all during that single game he’d played. But he knew that he wasn’t exactly at the level of the rest of the team (probably because half of them were supernatural creatures, the assholes).
“Your stance is all wrong,” Jackson said eventually, stepping out of the goal. “When you take a shot, you do it wrong.”
Stiles narrowed his eyes. “Wrong how, exactly?”
Jackson stepped towards him, hands raised, reaching out for Stiles. “Because you--,”
“Don’t touch me,” Stiles snapped, taking a step back.
Jackson gave him a withering look. “Don’t be a bitch,” he said, and reached out for Stiles again. When Stiles back up once again, he crossed his arms over his chest. “Do you want my help or not?”
“Not really,” Stiles ground out, but he stayed put this time when Jackson moved forward.
Jackson touched him as little as possible, tapping his left thigh at the back to indicate that Stiles move it forward, adjusting Stiles’ grip on the stick. When he was done he returned to the goal. “When you throw your left shoulder into it, make sure your right leg is planted on the ground. That’s why you miss. Your whole body moves left, and so does your shot.”
Stiles resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the superior tone in Jackson’s voice and listened to what he said. That was the first goal he made the entire day.
--
So Stiles was officially the worst tutor ever. Or maybe Jackson was just really, really terrible at poetry. But he was good at teaching lacrosse, apparently, because Stiles was making a lot of progress. Jackson, on the other hand, was not any better at poetry than he had been when they started.
“I don’t see why the hell I even need to learn this,” Jackson sighed, throwing his book onto the table.
Stiles rolled his eyes. “Uh, because it’s part of the curriculum?”
Jackson’s eyes narrowed. “Funny.”
“Maybe if you actually tried,” Stiles mused, “you wouldn’t be terrible at it.”
“Of course I wouldn’t,” Jackson agreed. “I’m good at everything. I just don’t want to be good at poetry.”
“Why not?” Stiles asked, stretching his legs out in front of himself. Under the desk, his ankle bumped against Jackson’s and he pulled it back like it burned him. Jackson didn’t react at all.
“Because it’s flowers and rainbows and feelings and bullshit,” Jackson said thinly. “What am I ever going to need to know poetry for?”
“It’s not all like that,” Stiles corrected. “I mean, some of it is, but there’s a lot of it that’s darker.” He ripped open his notebook and quickly scribbled the name of one of his favourite writers down, and then slid it across to Jackson. “Look this guy up tonight, read a bit of it, and then come back to me and say that poetry is all flowers and shit.”
He stood up and Jackson looked after him. “You’re leaving?”
Stiles looked at the clock. Technically he was leaving twenty minutes earlier than usual, but at this point, he figured they wouldn’t make anymore progress that day, anyways. “Yeah. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He watched Jackson fold the piece of paper one, twice, three times, and then pocket it. And for once, he didn’t feel any kind of anger towards the guy. Maybe it was because it was kind of nice, seeing Jackson actually struggle with something, instead of having everything handed to him.
--
“So it wasn’t horrible,” Jackson agreed the next day after school. “I still don’t like it, but it wasn’t ridiculously stupid like the rest of the stuff I’ve been reading.”
Stiles grinned and pointed his pen at Jackson. “Told you.” He said, grinning.
Jackson’s blue eyes didn’t narrow for once as he sat down. “So, now what?”
“Now,” Stiles pulled out his pen. “You’re going to analyse these poems, and tell me what you think they mean.”
Jackson groaned, but his lips were tilted up just the slightest as he took the book from Stiles’ hands. Their fingers brushed together just lightly, and Stiles jerked back. Jackson’s eyes did narrow at that, but he covered it up by looking down at the book. Stiles struggled to figure out why the hell that happened, because the only reason he jerked back was because he kind of liked it. Kind of liked the feeling of Jackson’s smooth, long fingers brushing against his skin. And that? That was weird.
“So, um, we on for lacrosse tomorrow?” he asked, fiddling with his pen as Jackson read over the poem.
“Mhm.” Jackson agreed, not looking up.
“Right, good.” Stiles said tightly.
--
Jackson was doubled over with laughter. Stiles thought that he might have a concussion. He was laying on the ground, facing the sky, head throbbing. He knew he should have been wearing his helmet, but for some stupid reason, he’d decided against it, and Jackson was a really good shot. Good enough to hit him square in the forehead.
“You are--,” Jackson struggled to get out through his laughter, “the worst goalie-- I’ve ever met.”
Stiles struggled to get into a sitting position, leaning on the palms of his hands. “This is really hilarious,” he said dryly. “Really.”
“God, Stilinski,” Jackson gasped, walking towards him. “You should have seen your face right before the ball hit you.”
Stiles glared at him, but Jackson offered him a hand up, and he took it. “Asshole,” he muttered under his breath, but Jackson, of course, heard it.
“I think we should just leave the goalkeeping to Danny,” Jackson said, tossing the lacrosse ball in the air. “Want to try a face off?”
Stiles nodded and grabbed his helmet from the bench. Jackson placed the ball in the middle of the field, and then took his position in front of it. Stiles mirrored him on the other side, and then Jackson raised three fingers. He lowered one, and bent his knees. He lowered the other, and Stiles tried to mimic his stance.
The second the last finger lowered, they both moved forwards, shoulders banging together, sticks fighting for the ball. Jackson had a bit of weight on him, and Stiles felt himself being pushed backwards. He didn’t even think-- he jerked back, and Jackson stumbled forwards, and he took the ball in his net and jogged off a few paces before turning to see Jackson sprawled out on the grass, expression unreadable.
“Not bad, right?” Stiles asked smugly, enjoying the fact that the tables had been turned.
“Not bad,” Jackson agreed, getting himself up. “But it won’t happen again.”
Stiles smirked. “Sure it won’t.”
--
Stiles had no idea how they got where they were. He was once again sprawled out on the grass, but this time his helmet lay beside him, long since discarded. Jackson was straddling him, legs on either side of Stiles’ body, and his lips were soft and slick where they moved against Stiles’.
“What-- what are we doing?” Stiles gasped out, moving his mouth away from Jackson’s for just a second. It wasn’t like he wanted to. Hell, he’d be happy to kiss Jackson all night, and shit, that was a weird thought, but it was totally true.
One minute, they’d been fighting over the ball again, and then that time Jackson had stolen his move, and moved back, but he didn’t dart out of the way fast enough when Stiles tipped over, and Stiles tripped into Jackson. Jackson’s arms had instantly went around him, but they’d both went down, Jackson underneath Stiles’ body. Until he moved, rolling them so that he was on top, and then they had both just laid there, tangled together, gasping, until Stiles reached up and tore off his helmet, and Jackson did the same. And then it was kind of a mutual thing, both of them moving forward, and their lips had crashed together.
That had to of been at least ten minutes ago, and they hadn’t stopped. Stiles’ lips felt raw, and it was a struggle to breath with Jackson’s weight crushing him, but it wasn’t bad. In fact, it was perfect. Jackson smelled good, and he tasted even better, and the small sound he let out when Stiles had lifted his hips was enough to have all of Stiles’ blood rushing downward.
“What does it look like?” Jackson demanded, lifting up just a bit, using his hands to hold himself above Stiles.
“Okay, but--,” it was hard for him to form coherent sentences with Jackson still on top of him. “Why?” He managed to get out.
Jackson shrugged. “Because we can.”
And that? That was a pretty freaking good explanation, by Stiles standards, so he reached up and tugged on Jackson’s perfectly styled hair, pulling them back together. And Jackson let him.
--
Stiles went to slam his locker when a piece of paper was shoved in front of his face. He jerked back, nearly colliding with the body standing behind him.
“B+,” Jackson said, pulling the paper back. He looked smug. “Guess I’m not terrible at poetry after all.”
Stiles raised his eyebrows, trying not to smile too widely. “Awesome,” he said, shutting his locker. “Guess I don’t need to tutor you anymore. And Scott talked coach into putting me into next weeks game and possibly moving me back onto first line.”
Jackson nodded. “Cool.”
“So I guess we’re done.”
Jackson shrugged but he leaned in close enough that no one in the hall could hear them, and his breath played against Stiles’ skin. “You know, I think I might actually be failing math, too.”
Stiles smirked. “I might be able to help with that.”
Jackson pulled back and started off down the hall, walking backwards and keeping eye contact with Stiles. “See you Monday, Stilinski,” he called.
Stiles didn’t hold back the smile at that.