seasons may come and go

but the wind will always blow

so you've always been my wind.

sand and water always meet

when they brush across my feet

so you've always been my water.

seasons may come and go

but the wind will always blow

so you've always been my wind.

sand and water always meet

when they brush across my feet

so you've always been my water.

when i'm cold you light a match

and a fire starts to catch

so you've always been my fire.

if there's an earthquake underground

i'd never hear a sound

so you've always been my earth.

through the dark around us

you've helped me find the light

held my hand in one and my heart in another

you've always been my everything.

-laura falb

Stiles Stilinski is five years old and he's never seen a girl prettier than the one in the desk across from him.

This girl might even be prettier than his mom, and that's a wonder, because he never thought anyone could be prettier than his mom.

But this girl's red hair is swept up in a French braid and she's wearing a blue dress with flowers, and her nails are painted red. He's never seen nail color ("Nail polish," His mom would correct him later when he describes the girl to her later as she serves him an after-school snack of cheese and crackers) on anyone his age before, and it makes her even more mesmerizing.

Even though he can't really read yet (he's only in kindergarten), he tries his best to sound out the name on the sticker their teacher handed out as they walked into class.

He soon gives up, though, and resorts to simply asking her. "What's your name?" He questions, eyes wide with curiosity.

The girl seems startled, not paying attention to him beforehand. "Lydia," She responds. "What's yours?"

Stiles glances down at his name tag; Mrs. Hawkin put his real first name, which he knows no one besides himself his age can really pronounce. "Stiles," He tells her. "That's not my real name, but that's my mickname." Scott, his new friend, had given him the name only days before at kindergarten orientation.

"I think you mean 'nickname'." Lydia corrects him, and Stiles shrugs.

"Your hair is really pretty." He starts to raise his hand to gesture to the top of her head, but quickly drops it, remembering how his mom told him it's rude to point.

"Thanks," She tugs on her braid, bringing it over her shoulder. "I know you probably think it's red, but it's not; it's strawberry blonde."

"Lydia," Mrs. Hawkin calls, and both her and Stiles turn their heads. "Do you think you could switch places with Matt?"

Lydia nods, picking up the paper and crayons she was drawing with, and makes her way across the classroom.

"That's a very nice picture," His father comments at the drawing he's making with markers later before bedtime. "I like her red hair." He points at the girl in a blue dress, her fingers drawn with red instead of orange like the rest of her body.

"It's not red, it's strawberry blonde!" He insists, continuing to draw in the sun, adding a smiley face for good measure.

A month later, Lydia moves to Paris because of her father's work, and Stiles may forget her name, but he doesn't forget the girl with the strawberry blonde hair.

Stiles Stilinski is eight years old and he thinks he may be in love.

"Nine times nine is eighty-one," Lydia grins up at their teacher and he nods in approval.

"Correct," Lydia purses her lips in a tight smile, cocking her head and eying Danny, who told her that morning that "girls can't be as smart as boys".

"She's so smart." Stiles mumbles dreamily to Scott, who sits beside him. Scott rolls his eyes.

"Girls are gross," He replies, tapping his pen on his desk.

"Scott!" Mr. Porter, their teacher, interrupts Stiles mid-thought. "Since you have so much to tell Stiles here, can you tell us what six times seven is?"

"Uh..." Scott winces. "Forty-seven?"

"It's forty-two," Stiles answers easily, and Mr. Porter seems slightly displeased.

"Next time, let's not have your friend answer for you." He eyes Scott and he sinks into his chair sheepishly, diverting his gaze to his desk.

"I can't believe she lived in Paris for, like, three years!" Stiles continues. "That's so cool! She knows French!"

"Do you want to come over after school?" Scott tries his best to change the subject.

"I can't, my mom had her surgery yesterday so I'm going to see her." Stiles turns his attention back to Lydia, who's now writing something down in her workbook. "I'm gonna get her to be my girlfriend." He announces, a determined look on his face.

"Good luck with that," Scott raises his eyebrow, doodling on his paper. "I heard Jackson likes her."

Stiles seems concerned at first, but his face lights up after a moment of pondering. "I'm gonna have a ten-year plan."

"A ten-year plan?"

"Yeah, it's a plan that takes ten years to finish." He informs him. "My neighbor had one, I think."

"Ten years is a long time." Scott mutters in disbelief. "You'll be, like, eighteen."

Stiles shrugs. "Yeah, but by then, my neighbor told me it's time to get married." He peers over his best friend's shoulder, looking at his drawing. "I like that. Is it a wolf?"

Scott grins, but shakes his head. "No, a werewolf. I read a story about them last night."

Stiles Stilinski is sixteen years old, and he thought he had a chance.

Months ago, things were different. He was a loser. He never saw a lacrosse game from anywhere but the bench. He and his best friend skimmed through high school under the radar, living in the lower class of the popularity scale together. He would try to talk to the girl he's been pining over for as long as he can remember, and be brutally rejected.

But then the bite happened, and things changed. Scott got a girlfriend that started to take priority over Stiles himself. The fantasy of werewolves became a reality.

And then there was the thing where he could talk to Lydia without her brushing him off her shoulder. He could have actual conversations with her, which is awesome, because his ten-year plan is finally working.

And then Jackson died, which sucked a little, but there was a part of him that thought, as selfish at it is, that this was his chance. As this damaged girl stands in front of him with shaking hands and wide eyes as he tells her that he'd have no freaking clue what to do if she died, he thought that hey, maybe this is his chance.

But then Jackson was resurrected and that was weird on its own, but Lydia saved him with her love or whatever, and he realizes his chance was fleeting, if there at all.

He feels kind of dumb for thinking that this could have been it. That the girl that sort of means a whole freaking lot to him could finally be with him.

That night, he goes home, and punches his bedroom wall.

He thought he would break through the plaster like they do in the movies, but it ended up just bruising his knuckles and hurting a lot and he doesn't do that again.

Stiles Stilinski is twenty-seven years old and has never been happier.

Melissa, his motherly figure after his own passed, gives him a wink from her seat in the front row, her smirk going along with it. From beside her, his father nods at him, giving him a look that he knows is saying, "Mom would have been proud. I'm proud" He laughs as his eyes catch on Derek in the back row, looking stifled in a suit Cora probably made him wear. Behind him, Scott claps his shoulder.

"She looks great, by the way." He whispers into his ear, and Stiles feels knots of excitement and anxiety form even stronger in the pit of his stomach.

"You excited?" His friend asks. Stiles doesn't turn to face him, instead smiling at his great aunt who's excitedly waves back at him.

"Of course I am," He replies, hurriedly tapping his thumb in his folded hands. "She's my everything, man." He adds, a little quieter, so only Scott can hear. "Always has been."

And she has.

And if he cries a little when he sees Lydia walking down the aisle then, dammit, he deserves it.

a/n: my dear friend, laura (somesilvereply, check her out), wrote the poem you see at the top, "my everything", and i decided to write a companion to it. there's also an 8tracks playlist by the same name as the poem and also this.