Hehehehehehehhe sad one ahead.
Don't own anything
***
Stiles woke up like usual, in pain. Both emotionally and physically. He reached out for his phone, pulling it off the charger, checking the time. 6:34 am.
He yawned. He slowly sat up and groaned in pain. He reached out for his wheelchair.
Slowly he got up and wobbled a bit on his weak legs. He collapsed into the wheelchair.
Stupid atrophy, he thought. For the past five years he's had atrophy in his legs and arms. (Thank you very much, WICKED) He isn't allowed to walk, nor should he be able to. But you know how stubborn he is. So every morning he uses his wheelchair until it's time to go to school, time to put up the act.
The 'genius' act of pretending to be able to walk without any pain. His dad always asks him what his pain rate is, usually it's an eight because at home he uses the wheelchair, which lessens the pain a bit since he doesn't have to use his legs. His dad thinks he's being a good boy and gets to school in his wheelchair, because whenever he sees his son, it's in his wheelchair.
Noah leaves every morning early and comes home late, trying to work enough to get Stiles better equipment to help him cope with the atrophy and not properly healed bones. Having the doctors give him braces to help him make his bones stable enough. Giving him metal pins in his body.
He can't remember the exact number of surgeries he's had. He knows his dad is trying to help, but he doesn't need it. He needs to bite through the pain, because he isn't weak. He groans again as he realises that his first period is PE. That'll be a hell.
***
Slowly Stiles gets out of the Jeep. He walks towards the locker room, thankful for his many strong braces which help him walk steadily and look like a normal guy when he's wearing jeans. It's part of why he always wears baggy clothing, the braces are made pretty much invisible by them.
He walks to the locker room, carefully watching his breathing. Like always, he's in excruciating pain. But he's sort of used to it by now. He knows not to let Scott —or any wolf for that matter— touch him, but you can never know who's a wolf and who's not. So he doesn't let anyone touch him. Not even the non-wolves. Always said he has a phobia of touching.
Everything goes as always, coach screaming at him to get in shape, kids laughing at him, telling him he's worthless and can't do anything right. He's used to it. That's why he knows how to ignore the urge to snap at them, yelling about how much it hurts to even move the slightest, like moving his toe hurts more than a gunshot. He knows exactly how to ignore it.
The day goes as usual, until it's the period before lunch. His father knocks on the door, Stiles has his back to him and is still standing, trying to find a spot to sit, everywhere is taken. You'd expect at least one seat to be available, but apparently not.
Noah enters with a smile and it falls the moment he sees Stiles stand.
"Stiles?" Stiles' eyes widen and slowly turns around.
"Stiles? Stiles, why are you standing? Are you crazy?"
Stiles has a terrified expression on his face, "dad, I'm fine. Really, nothing's wrong." He starts rambling.
"Stiles, what's your pain rate on a scale from one to ten right now?" Noah asks softly.
"Really, I'm fine, dad. Everything is fine.."
"Stiles. Your pain rate?" Noah asks a bit more sternly.
Stiles just keeps rambling about how he's fine.
