Whoever said that fresh air calms down the senses and makes a human body feel better, thus relaxing the brain and helping control stressful thoughts, was undeniably, positively and absolutely wrong. Because the only thing that Lydia Martin felt as she walked on the irritable gravel on the roads of Beacon Hills was anger. Pure seething rage. She could feel the blood boiling in her veins and if Stiles Stilinski so much as stepped foot within her radius of vision she would murder him. With her bare hands. No claws or sacrifices required. She would scratch his eyes out and hang him to a tree and watch the sarcasm pour out of his veins. For Lydia, had long ago formed the belief that Stiles' heart pumped out sarcasm instead of blood, and if she would look up in the beastiary she'll probably find some creature who used sarcasm as it's super power. Scott had claws, Allison had knives, she can scream and Stiles Stilinski was sarcastic. The Fantastic Four that they were.
The version of Lydia that was just a girl in her Senior year, ditching her date on the Winter Formal and not the Banshee who predicted deaths, felt like screaming. But she convinced herself that there was no point in wasting so much energy over the male specimen of the human race in a world this patriarchal, especially if said male was a sarcastic tool-head who never did anything right. Walking in her heels on the uneven gray surface was not exactly the epitome of comfort but damn Lydia Martin if she turned around and walked back to the night that was supposed to be the most memorable of her school-life. Because it wasn't. Because Stiles Stilinski ruined it. Because Stiles Stilinski always ruined everything.
Lydia huffed and kept walking, maiming Stiles in her head. The breeze was cold and her sleeveless dress didn't help keeping her warm and she missed the times when Stiles would let her wear his hoodie when they worked together into peculiar hours of the night acting Sherlock to the Pack. And then she maimed Stiles Stilinski in her head some more. Logic told Lydia that she was walking alone on the roads of Beacon Hills during the night and she shouldn't be surprised if something bounced in front of her, tore her to pieces and exhibit her remains for the whole town tomorrow. Which is why, Lydia should probably go back to the party and wait for someone to give her a ride home. But the part of Lydia that did not want to see Stiles Stilinski would die sooner than go back.
Because she will not go in a three feet distance of that ball of wit and sarcasm, lest she kills herself or someone else. She closed her eyes and kicked the pebble in front of her. Her feet hurt. She felt cold. And the walk had not helped her frustration. Not one bit. She let out a sob of annoyance. She was so excited for tonight. She had gone shopping. Bought herself the perfect purple dress. The perfect jewelry. Played out two hundred different scenarios in her head that were supposed to happen tonight. And then she had waited. And then waited some more. Waited till one day before the Winter Formal. And Stiles Stilinski didn't ask her out. No, Fred Murphy did. And so she had said yes. Because Lydia Martin wouldn't be caught dead pining over a boy. Tonight was supposed to be the night when she wouldn't have to worry about werewolves or packs or sacrifices or deaths. Scott had even promised them that he will try to make everything as normal as possible. And he had.
So with the perfect purple dress. The perfect night. A perfectly good-looking and charming date. Lydia Martin was power walking on the roads, cold, frustrated and hurting.
Lydia Martin did not pine over boys. Boys worshiped the grounds that Lydia Martin walked on. So Lydia had secretly declared all of it "Stiles' loss" and decided to have a good night. And she had tried. So when Fred told her she looked "pretty", she remembered how Stiles had used "beautiful" instead. And when Fred asked her to dance, and she said no, he didn't insist. And when he decided to talk to her, she noticed how the striking blue of his eyes wasn't the warm brown of Stiles'. But she had ignored all of that and talked to him. Fred was really smart, she gave him that. And two years ago, she might have enjoyed his company. But two years later, all she noticed was the lack of sarcasm and wit. He hadn't even bothered to ask for her opinions; maybe he didn't believe she had any. And all of it had started to get on Lydia's nerves. Because Stiles Stilinski was ruining her night.
