|Stiles Stilinski (runswithwolves) wrote in wariscoming,|
@ 2013-12-12 20:03:00
|Entry tags:||jesse hauptman, stiles stilinski|
Who: Stiles and open to fellow high school students
What: Stiles is not having a good day.
When: Thursday afternoon.
Warnings: Angst. Spoilers for the 3B trailers.
Status: Ongoing/Incomplete. Or works as a narrative. I'm easy. Not like that. :p
He wasn't sure when it began. It had been a long day before it even hit noon, and he'd fallen asleep at lunch, facedown on the cafeteria table alone in the corner of the room. He'd fallen asleep eating a freakin' apple. He was probably lucky he hadn't choked. Then he'd been late to class because he hadn't even heard the damn bell ring. He was that tired, apparently. His new -- okay he'd been in classes here for a few weeks now but it still felt like all the teachers were new -- teacher, Mr. Summers, hadn't been impressed with his lateness and had promptly issued him a detention. Second one of the week and it was only Thursday. Awesome. He hoped that the others were fairing better than he was with this whole lack of sleep thing.
Rubbing a hand over his face, he slumped down farther in his chair, tapping his pencil on his desk as Mr. Summers began the lecture.
He blinked a couple of times, looking up at the teacher uncertainly. "Yes?"
The man repeated a question that sounded a lot to Stiles like gibberish. He straightened in his seat, glancing around warily to see if anyone else had understood what the man actually said. All eyes in the classroom were on him, expectant. Impatient.
"I don't understand the question."
Mr. Summers narrowed his eyes. But this time, instead of repeating his nonsensical question, he gestured with his hands in rapid movements. What was even going on?
"I...don't actually know sign language," Stiles said slowly.
The teacher simply re-signed whatever he was trying to say. Feeling really uneasy, Stiles shifted his gaze to his classmates once more, his heart lurching as he realized they were all doing it. He blinked rapidly, rising to his feet and heading toward the door without picking up his things. He turned to look one more time. Sure enough, everyone's gazes had followed him as they continued their mysterious sign language. Was he being punk'd? Was this the thing that was going to replace the whole flash mob concept? He rubbed his hands over his face, backing out of the open door and heading down the hall, wincing when the bell rang loudly.
Blinking once more, he found himself in his seat in Mr. Summers class, sucking in a shaky breath and looking around. Nothing was happening. Everyone was working quietly at their desks. No one was paying any attention to him at all. His heart began to pound hard in his chest. What the hell had just happened? Had he fallen asleep? Because that was the weirdest nightmare ever.
Looking down at his desk, he grew still as he saw a piece of paper. Written in blue pen, in his own handwriting, the words Wake up were scrawled.
On every visible inch of the paper.
He quickly stuffed the paper into his notebook and rose to his feet without warning, heading out of the classroom and not even hearing Mr. Summer's attempts to call him back.
Was he losing his mind?