Chapter Text
Jackson is uncomfortably aware that he isn’t exactly real. Not that he thinks he’s a character in a story or any shit like that – that’s Lydia’s gig, not his – but he knows that the face he lets people see isn’t real. He’s not even sure why he does it, wears this hateful mask, except that he’s done it for so long now that he doesn’t know how to stop. He thinks it’s like when you take off a watch at the end of the summer, and the skin underneath is untouched, pale beside the tan of the rest of your arm, and unbearably tender to touch. Underneath his mask, he’s like that, raw and unformed and unbearably sensitive. He thinks taking off his mask, letting someone see the self underneath, would hurt. Sometimes just thinking of it makes him want to scream.
The first time it happens is in his first year of high school. Jackson’s been wearing his mask for two years (adopted, his mind whispers, unwanted, unknown) and it’s hard sometimes. He thinks it’s like wearing old pads that haven’t got enough padding. They protect you from blows, but they rub the skin underneath raw at the same time.
He’s sitting on the benches beside the school swimming pool, staring at the water without seeing it, when he feels the unstable bench tilt slightly under the weight of another body.
“You need a hobby,” a voice says.
Jackson looks at him, sees the Stilinski kid staring at him, his gaze a little too intense to be comfortable.
“I play Lacrosse,” Jackson says, too tired to be antagonistic, “and I’m trying out for the swim team.”
Stilinski smiles, a superior, condescending smile, and Jackson wonders tiredly if that’s what he looks like all the time. No wonder people hate him. “Those are pretend-Jackson’s hobbies,” he says. “You need something just for you. One thing where you can be completely yourself.”
Jackson’s blood runs cold, and he wonders madly if he’s dreaming. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says stiffly.
Stiliski looks at him pityingly. “You’re pretty good,” Stilinski says, like someone reassuring an upset child, “But I’ve been doing this gig a lot longer than you have. I know how to see the joins in other people, because I see them in myself. And trust me, wearing the mask is easier if you let yourself take it off sometimes.”
Jackson doesn’t know what to say to that, but he doesn’t have to say anything, because a moment later Stilinski gets up and wonders away. Jackson watches his retreating back, hands shoved deep in his pockets, and wonders what’s under Stilinski’s mask.