Be Nice To Me - standinginanicedress (2024)

Chapter 1: The Ransom

Chapter Text

Stiles has a very vivid memory of thinking that college would be fun. Growing up with a cop for a dad, one can imagine that the rules and structure of his life got old, that he started wanting to go insane and do sh*t like light off bottle rockets in his backyard and set the entire thing on fire like other fourteen year old boys did. In his mind, he imagined college was all drinking and all smoking weed and going insane in his dorm room and making tons of friends and being a normal kid, for once, instead of the sheltered, lame high schooler he was. He thought he’d have tons of sex. And meet lots of people. And, like, open his mind or some sh*t.

Instead, he’s puking outside of a frat house directly onto his skateboard and getting laughed at by Lydia Martin from her perch on the porch. f*cking bitch. She was a heinous bitch in high school too, but at least back then, Stiles could see her with rose colored glasses because he was like, well, one day we could sleep together. Maybe she was a bitch. But that would probably make for some good sex.

Turns out, she likes girls. Which is great. For her.

“Was that your first beer, Stilinski?!” She calls out to him, cupping one hand around her mouth so her voice carries farther.

Stiles gazes at his skateboard. It’s covered in chunks, beer, some liquor too, and it’s turning green. “This is a f*cking nightmare,” he says this to himself. Worst part is, this is his ride home. He has no other way to get back – he could Uber, but he has approximately two dollars and sixty nine cents in his bank account and he thinks it’s at least five dollars to get back to the dorms from here, and this is f*cking abysmal.

Lydia is smoking a skinny cigarette, drinking out of a red party cup. Watching. She knows he has to ride this thing home, and bitch she may be, deep down, she does sorta care about him, in this distant way, being that they’re from the same hometown school and they’ve known one another since kindergarten. She takes pity. “There’s a hose on the side of the house,” she points, one long finger, and Stiles palms his face.

Looks at his pukey skateboard. Oh, hell.

With one foot, he begins rolling his board off the sidewalk and onto the grass, where it bumbles along shedding puke chunks as it goes. He goes to the side of the house where it’s dark, where he can peek in through the living room windows and see other kids who learned to drink in high school and are not apocalyptic failures at being cool or interesting at parties, having fun and laughing and talking. He finds the hose, coiled up like a dark green snake in the night, and then he finds the twisty knob to turn it on.

He bends down, starts the water all bleary and drunk, and leans against the house as he wields it and aims it in the general direction of his board. Standing there listening to The Weeknd all muted, washing puke off his skateboard just so he can get home from this place, has got to be the worst two minutes of his entire f*cking life. Worse still, the water is ice cold in the autumn chill. At least the feel of it sobers him a bit, like a shock to his system. He rinses his pukey fingers off and shakes his head at himself. Can’t get worse than this.

But it does. Against all odds. The night takes yet another turn, when he hears a throat clearing to his left, faces the direction from whence it came, and sees Derek Hale standing there.

Derek smirks at him. “What the f*ck are you doing?”

Stiles is just drunk enough to be a loose canon. He says, point blank, “not speaking to you, that’s for sure.”

Derek observes him. In the near dark, he looks particularly stupid. His hair is dark and spiky, his body big, his shoulders a broad line, and his face is illuminated only by the light from the window next to them. He’s tan and idiotic looking. He’s got on a dark jacket and he just looks so annoying, Stiles nearly wants to spray him with the hose.

“You had your first beer, I take it.”

“That’s so funny. Oh, boy.”

“You get hostile when you drink.”

“I’m about to spray you. Swear to god. I’ll unleash it. I will f*cking wash you.”

Derek laughs. He has this distinct f*cking frat boy laugh that’s all, like, raspy and high at the same time, like he’s laughing at something sh*tty and mean that someone just said. “What are you seriously doing?”

“Washing puke off my ride home,” he gestures to his board, and Derek looks at it. It’s almost totally washed off, but Stiles is having a hard time aiming it in the dark, so there are still some chunks left, and really, Stiles is mostly watering the lawn at this point.

“I could drive you home.”

Stiles laughs. “No thanks.”

“Why is getting a ride home from me hilarious?”

Well. Because he’s Derek Hale, and Stiles is Stiles Stilinski, and those are two names synonymous with oil and water.

In high school, they were on opposite ends of a vast cliff. On one side, Derek presided over a big empire of nameless and faceless idiots that all blurred into each other. He was the guy that showed up to history class stoned and raised his hand, leaned back in his seat with this smug little look on his face, and corrected the teacher on some obscure piece of trivia about the French Revolution. Argued with teachers. Believed he was better than everyone else because his family owns half the town and that makes him like a Prince in a small city, ruling this f*cking sh*thole. He came to the fireman’s spaghetti dinners, where Stiles was of course a frequent attendee as well, and made an asshole out of himself by drinking the wine underage and finding some girl to dupe into dancing with him. Stiles would sit there eating his spaghetti, glaring at him from the table where he sat with his dad, cursing the day he was born. Because Derek was cool.

Effortlessly, too. He knew how to talk to girls. He knew how to have fun and make it look easy. He could ask any girl out and she’d say yes and Stiles resented that, because Stiles can’t talk to girls, or boys, never learned how, still can’t, to this day. Stiles was the kid who sat alone at lunch with a book watching other kids socialize and plan events and go to parties, and Derek was always the ring leader of the events of the parties that Stiles never got invited to.

They weren’t even really enemies. Because they never spoke. They existed on opposite ends of a broad spectrum. One end was cool. The other was a miserable life of straight A’s and no friends. You know. It surprises Stiles that Derek is even aware of his existence, truth be told. Maybe Stiles nearly had Derek’s yearbook picture up in his bedroom to throw knives at, but Derek couldn’t place Stiles out of a f*cking lineup.

So he thought. Yet, here he is.

“I am in the process of going home, now, thanks.”

Derek looks at Stiles’ board. “You’re spraying puke off your skateboard with a hose.”

Stiles mimes a microphone in front of his face like he’s a newscaster, and in his best Joe Buck voice he says, “ladies and gentlemen, I give you, Derek Hale, stating the f*cking obvious.”

Derek laughs, again. “I’ll seriously drive you home.”

“I’ll seriously spray you.”

“For doing what?” He holds his hands out, as if gesturing at all the things he has never, not even once, said or done to Stiles. Stiles doesn’t exist to him. Stiles doesn’t exist to much of anybody.

“For being you.”

“Ouch. You know, most people find me likable.”

“I’m sure,” Stiles hiccups a little, leaning against the house. The spray from the hose is just sorta trickling into the grass, now, his board dripping and mostly clean. “Being Derek Hale gets you lots of automatic brownie points. But your bullsh*t is of no interest to me. Matter of fact, I dislike almost everything about you.”

This gives Derek some pause. He co*cks his head to the side.

“You know. Being good looking and arrogant might have gotten you far in high school. But now we’re in college. So. Yeah.”

Derek says, “and yet you seem to be just about the same.”

“Oh, me? I’m the same? Look at you,” he gestures with the hose and some of the water spritzes at Derek’s feet, making him jerk back with a surprised laugh. “You are still walking around campus like the co*ck of the f*cking walk.”

“The co*ck of the f*cking walk?” He repeats this all incredulous. “Stilinski. Let me drive you home. You’re delirious. You cannot skate home like this.”

“Oh, but I can,” he turns off the hose, tossing it down on the ground all haughty. He bends down and picks up his board by a wheel, giving Derek one last glare, before turning and sort of sideways struggling his way to the sidewalk from where he came from in the first place. He goes right over to the remnants of his puke, where Lydia Martin is still standing on the porch finishing her smoke because this encounter with Derek has been far shorter than it’s felt, sets his board down, and gets one foot on it.

He pushes once, off and away, and then for some reason it just takes off without him, and he winds up on his back, blinking at the night sky and the stars and the branches of the maple tree overhead. His board has gone off to the side, into the grass, and he’s just lying there. Just f*cking lying there.

Derek’s face comes into his vision, all lit up by a street light, looking all stubbled and f*cking irritating. “Nice job.”

Stiles has had the wind knocked out of him.

“I’ll drive you home.”

“Oh, f*ck it,” he groans, sitting up and rubbing at his shoulder where he fell the hardest. “The night can’t get worse. f*ck it. Into Derek Hale’s car I go. Lowest f*cking point.”

“You talking to me, or yourself?”

Stiles gets up, slow and drunk and all f*cked up, and he says, “to myself. Thanks. I got it,” he barks this all mad when Derek tries to help him up, “I got it. Just – f*ck off.”

He goes and picks up his skateboard, all wet and reeking to high heavens.

“Why is my car your lowest point?”

Stiles glares at him. “It’s the car of a f*cking imbecile.”

“You know, you weren’t the only kid in AP classes. I had a 4.0 just like you. We got into the same school. This is why people find you so off putting,” Derek informs him, raising an eyebrow. “You think you’re smarter than everybody else.”

“I’m not off putting, you f*ck.”

Derek grins at him. His eyes crinkle at the corners. “You are f*cking prickly. Cactus. Big time.”

“Oh, because I know a f*cking dick when I see one?”

“I know, I’m a horrible bully. Driving your drunk ass home and all,” he grips Stiles by his upper arm and begins leading him like a prisoner to his big black truck parked right outside this frat house, shaking his head. “I never ever understood why you hated me so much.”

He opens the passenger door for Stiles, and Stiles stops on the sidewalk to look right at him, in the eyes, as best as he can in this state. He’s sort of blurry. “You’re one of those people who has f*cking everything, and to the rest of us peasants, that seems really f*cking unfair.”

Derek blinks. He perhaps wasn’t expecting this honest of a response. “I do not have everything.”

“Here I go, into your sixty-thousand-dollar truck.”

“All right,” he snorts a little, guiding Stiles inside and then closing the door once he’s settled. Stiles sits there clutching his skateboard in one hand, in Derek’s truck, feeling like he’s entered the Twilight Zone. Just totally crossed over into some weirdo dimension, opposite world or something.

Derek gets in, slamming the door behind himself. As he starts the truck up with a growl, the lights on the dash all illuminated and orange in the dark, he gives Stiles a look. “Put your seatbelt on.”

Stiles does as he’s told. Click. Then they’re in there, together, and Derek is waiting for his truck to warm up, so they’re sitting close and it sorta smells like puke in here because it’s all over Stiles’ shirt and his shoes and his board and on his breath.

“You’re just an ass. I dunno. You have money and everyone wants to sleep with you.”

Derek laughs. He shakes his head in this weird way, and then gives Stiles an even weirder little f*cking look. He says, “Stiles, believe me. Not everyone I want to sleep with wants to sleep with me.”

“Like who?”

“Oh, Jesus.”

“I mean it. Name one person you have ever wanted to stick your f*cking co*ck into who wasn’t absolutely dying for it. Seriously.”

Derek looks at him.

And he’s the most arrogant son of the bitch in the world. He has no reservations. He has been handed everything in life, was born into money and good looks and the kick in the pants is that he’s also really smart and he really does have f*cking everything, every single thing people would kill for. He doesn’t know what it is to hide his feelings out of fear of rejection, or what it is to be shy, or nervous, or anxious, or any of that sh*t.

He just says precisely what he would like to. So, he does.

“You, for starters.”

Stiles is all drunk and taken aback. He can’t help but to let loose a really unattractive little cackle, rearing back and hollering at the ceiling in laughter, because, uh, what? “Shut the f*ck up.”

Derek shrugs. He pulls away from the curb and hits the gas and they’re driving from the party and Stiles’ puke pile. “You only prove my point.”

“Derek. You don’t f*ck boys.”

“I do, actually. You wouldn’t know that. You’ve been too busy pretending I don’t exist for most of your life to know that. I’ll sleep with anything.”

Stiles is stunned into silence. No way. He’s too drunk for this. Derek Hale is bisexual? Pansexual? Who f*cking knew that?

“You’re f*cking with me,” he writes it off immediately, waving his hand. “Ha ha, funny joke.”

“It’s not a joke, but okay.”

Stiles stares at the side of his face. This man is an escaped mental patient, he must be, because he just point blank told Stiles he wouldn’t mind f*cking him, and he’s just sat there driving along, like, la la la, nothing to see here. The absolute f*cking nut case. “…you like boys.”

“Why is that so absurd to you?”

“Well. You read as straight.”

“I don’t read as anything. I’m just a person. People are complex. Haven’t you read enough pretentious little books to know that by now?”

“f*ck off.”

“Believe it, or don’t.”

“Name a boy you’ve slept with, for real.”

Derek side eyes him. They’re driving down the main road that’ll take them back to campus, and in five minutes they’ll be close enough that Stiles will demand to be let out of this f*cking fun house masquerading as a car, and this will all be over. Stiles will be sober, and Derek won’t be stoned to f*cking hell and back anymore, and this conversation will have never happened, and they will never speak again. “…Steven Meyers.”

Stiles laughs so hard it’s like a scream, and Derek’s eyes go all big and amused. “You did not –“

“We dated.”

Stiles blinks. He doesn’t remember this. He is aware of Steven Meyers, because he’s – well, he’s a kid they went to high school with, as a matter of fact. He was on the lacrosse team. He was not gay. Or?

“You’re f*cking with me.”

“To what end?”

“Because it’s funny to you for some f*cking reason.”

“I’m not laughing,” he says this all emphatically. “You know, I’m offended. I’ve decided I’m offended.”

“You’re offended?” Stiles presses his palms to his chest as Derek takes the turn onto college street, the student union building coming into view. “You’re the one making a joke out of me, like, it’s so funny, the idea of sleeping with me!”

“The idea of sleeping with you is not funny to me. I told you I’d like to do exactly that. You’re the one making it a joke.”

Stiles leans back. He looks around. He’s close enough to his dorm he should demand to be let out so he can walk the rest of the way and wash his hands of this entire thing. But, he doesn’t. You know. He sorta can’t. He feels sort of stuck, buckled into the seat and the conversation both, because this is insanity.

“…I never got what you disliked so much about me,” Derek goes on. “Never in my life would’ve made a move on you in high school. Because you clearly despised me.”

“Despised is a strong word,” he mutters this to the window, because he’s suddenly having a hard time looking directly at Derek.

“You definitely weren’t in my fan club. You called me a stupid oaf, once.”

Stiles’ laugh is abrupt. Yeah, he sure did. Because – well. In his head Stiles is gesturing with his hands at all the Derekness of him, the stupid leather jackets and the stupid sunglasses and the really, truly idiotic way he seems to be permafried, stoned more than he is not. “Well. I stand by it.”

“For what? I was always nice to you. Because you’re good looking.”

“Sooo good looking,” Stiles mocks, fanning himself with his hand. “They were lining up. I had to beat them off with a stick.”

“It’s not your looks that drive people away, you know that?”

“I have a great personality. Ass.”

“You’re mean.”

“I am not –“

“You sat alone with your books and turned your nose up at everybody else because you’re a genius and everyone else is just a stupid idiot and not worth your time.”

Well. Stiles covers his mouth with his hand. That is sort of true. Stiles doesn’t genuinely believe he’s smarter than everyone, not really, but he just – everyone else is just a f*cking idiot. They’re all annoying. Especially in high school. It was torture in that place. It was a cesspool of sucking and f*cking. Really.

So, Stiles thought he was better than all that stuff. And?

If he’s being honest with the audience, he can admit that it wasn’t necessarily that. It was that, he didn’t quite fit in, and he knew it, and he felt all awkward and weird and that made him lash out as a defense mechanism from the teasing he endured in middle school. He shut the door on everyone else. It was his only way to protect himself from the barbs.

“I’m not mean,” he insists this very seriously. “I’m just suspicious of other people.”

Derek slows to a stop on the curb outside of – well, Stiles’ dorm. He blinks at the big brick building all incredulous, and he turns to Derek.

“How do you know which dorm I live in?”

Derek is leaning back in his seat. He shrugs. “I’ve seen you walking around.”

So he has. He’s noticed where Stiles goes on campus and where he lives and all that sh*t – and Stiles has seen Derek out and about, as well, but mostly Stiles has just spotted him, frowned, and looked away with his nose in the air to ignore him. Stiles couldn’t tell you where Derek lives even though he just came from exactly there, for f*ck’s sake. Maybe that’s because he’s drunk.

“Well.” He grips his board. “This was illuminating. Derek Hale f*cks boys. Whoa.”

Derek gets this weird little smile on his face. It’s a bit self-effacing. “Just not you, I guess.”

Stiles doesn’t know what to do with that other than laugh. “Yeah, not me. I don’t know. Well. I don’t know.”

Derek drums his fingers on his steering wheel. Stiles should really get out.

“Well.”

“Yup,” Derek says, observing him. He’s wondering why Stiles isn’t getting out. Stiles is wondering that, too.

“I mean. We could f*ck.”

“What did you just say?” Derek asks him, leaning over the center console and cupping his hand over his ear.

Stiles shrugs. He’s feeling a bit psychotic. “I guess I don’t see the issue in it all of the sudden.”

Derek laughs his big belly laugh, and he shoves Stiles on his shoulder. “Get out of my car. Go on. You’re drunk. Go home.”

“One second you’re begging to f*ck me, the next, you want me out!”

“At no point did I beg,” he laughs some more and shakes his head. “Out. Now you’re messing with me.”

“Well. I’ll give you my phone number. So maybe we could hook up.”

Derek rolls his eyes. He clearly finds this entire thing insane, but Stiles is opening the glove compartment and digging out a pen and an old McDonald’s napkin, because every human person on earth has those two things in their glove compartment, even dumb idiots like Derek Hale. Hell, maybe especially dumb idiots like Derek Hale. He probably gets stoned and goes to McDonald’s three times a week doing the can I get uhhhh..

He clicks the pen. And Derek watches him with this incredulous little smirk as Stiles scribbles his phone number messily and drunkily on the napkin next to the McDonald’s logo. Then, to be an ass, he kisses the napkin like leaving a lipstick mark on it, and hands it to Derek with a wink.

“Great,” Derek takes the napkin in two fingers with a grimace. “A puke kiss. Just what I wanted.”

“You’re such an annoying person. You know that?”

“So are you.”

“I’m leaving,” Stiles tells him imperiously, popping the door open, stepping out, and then slamming it closed behind him. He’s all nuts so he just ambles over to the doors and doesn’t even look back once at Derek, who seems to be idling there watching, maybe to make sure Stiles actually makes it inside instead of just passing out in the bushes.

He uses his student ID to get in with a click of the door unlocking. Then he’s inside and he has to go up to the guy that’s manning the front desk and sign in, because it’s after midnight. He presents his ID. Gets eyeballed. “I should technically report you for storming in here f*cking wasted.”

“Report away.” He waves his hand.

Another long look. Then he hands the ID back after making sure Stiles is actually a resident of this building, and shakes his head. Off Stiles goes. Up the stairs like an utter mess. To his dorm room where he collapses on the bed, Scott snoring in bed because he has to open at his job in the morning and couldn’t afford to join Stiles at the party, and he passes clean the f*ck out.

When he wakes up in the morning, Scott is already gone. Sun high. Birds sing. Head hurts. He frowns at his ceiling, turning over, facing Scott’s empty unmade lofted bed and the desk underneath it with Scott’s books and his laptop. He feels like sh*t.

He gets up. First step to feeling like a human being after drinking, he’s learned, is brushing one’s teeth and getting clean. He brushes in a daze, thankful to get the stale puke taste out of his mouth, and then he goes down the hall to the shared bathrooms, and gets into the shower like a zombie.

It’s in there, the tiny cramped space where he can hear some asshole playing Post Malone like an inconsiderate f*ckbag, that he remembers.

He freezes in the middle of washing his hair.

He told Derek Hale he’d f*ck him, last night.

Derek Hale told Stiles he’d f*ck him, last night, too. Stiles stands there under the spray totally frozen, realization settling over him.

What. The. f*ck. What the f*ck. What the f*ck. Who the f*ck. What the f*ck. What was he thinking? What the f*ck was he thinking? What the f*ck. What the f*ck.

He is thankful that in the college showers, he never runs out of hot water. Because he stays in there for a very, very f*cking long time. Just standing there, soap rinsing out of his hair, staring at the beige tiles. Holy sh*t, he thinks.

He goes over it all in his head. He puked. He was rinsing his board off with the hose, and Derek materialized as though he were a specter, and then he was in Derek’s truck, and Derek said – he said –

Stiles believes that Derek f*cks anything that moves, because let’s be honest, Stiles would f*ck anyone and anything with a pulse if he looked like Derek. It’s surprising, still, in the harsh light of day, but he buys it. Maybe he does dimly remember Steven and Derek the summer after senior year at the same restaurant as Stiles, but Stiles was operating under the assumption that Derek was straight, so he thought nothing of it. And he ignored Derek’s existence all the time anyways, so sure. They f*cked. Why not?

But, hey, now here’s the real revelation. Stiles had said he wanted to f*ck Derek back. Or no, that’s not quite the way that it went.

Stiles had said, oh sure. Fine. Whatever. We could f*ck. Like it barely mattered to him.

He’s insane. No, really. He’s insane. Why did he do that? Why would he have f*cking said that?

Well. Because. That’s why. Just because.

After a very long time, he shuts the water off and gets in his f*cking towel and returns to his dorm room in a daze. As he goes, he’s thinking to himself, you know, none of this ultimately matters, because Stiles will never f*cking speak to Derek again. Humiliation alone will keep them apart, and even if they run into one another, Stiles will run away, in the opposite direction, because come on. There’s no recovering from that sh*t. He made a dick out of himself.

They can’t f*ck. Come on. They’re Derek you-wanna-smoke-a-little Hale and Stiles leave-me-the-f*ck-alone Stilinski. They cannot f*ck each other.

But then Stiles returns to his dorm room, and he notices. He f*cking notices.

He brings both hands up to his face, and his towel drops to the ground as he does so, so he’s there all naked as it occurs to him.

He left his f*cking skateboard in Derek Hale’s car.

Unknown, 1:35 PM : I have your board.
Me, 1:36 PM : Return it. Immediately. Post f*cking haste.
Unknown, 1:38 PM : nah. Holding it ransom. Come get it.
Me, 1:41 PM : How much is the ransom?
Unknown, 1:45 PM : Come here and find out.
Me, 1:49 PM : Derek. Give me my f*cking board. You know it’s my one (1) method of transportation.
Unknown, 1:55 PM : I know that. That’s why it’s such a good ransom. Come. And. Get it. If you want it so bad.
Me, 2:00 PM : I don’t remember where your house is.
Unknown, 2:03 PM : 103 Snapdragon. It’s like barely a mile from campus. You were extremely drunk last night it’s no surprise you don’t remember that.
Unknown, 2:04 PM : you remember anything else? Just wondering.
Me, 2:06 PM : I presume you’re referring to us talking about f*cking.
Unknown, 2:10 PM : Oh, yeah. That. Hadn’t thought! But since you brought it up. Come get your board.

Stiles has no choice.

He needs his skateboard. It’s how he gets literally everywhere, and some of his classes are all the f*cking way across campus and he doesn’t want to walk all the way across campus, he likes to ride all the way across campus, thanks. Even now, walking the one mile to Derek’s stupid frat house, he’s mad as hell over it. He can’t believe this sh*t. Derek is just as annoying as he ever was, and Stiles does not know what drunk him was thinking, agreeing to f*ck him in any capacity.

Yeah right. Stiles has no interest. He was just drunk and horny as men are prone to do. He has no interest in Derek or his co*ck. Thanks, though.

He approaches the house. He finds what’s left of his puke pile and he stares at it, putting his hands on his hips and shaking his head at it. Go to college, they said. It’ll be fun, they said. Well, now here he f*cking is.

He gets up onto the porch where Lydia Martin heckled him, and he knocks on the door like a ghoul. Can’t believe he’s doing this. Squints up at the sun all hungover and mad.

Derek Hale opens the door embarrassingly fast, like he had been on the other side just waiting for Stiles to come slopping up his porch steps. He looks even weirder in broad daylight, like a ghost of Christmas past. The same, and different.

Stiles says, “I notice you’re not holding my skateboard.”

“It’s up in my bedroom.”

Stiles looks somewhere at an imaginary camera. Of course it’s in his f*cking bedroom. Derek gestures with two fingers and steps aside, making room for Stiles to come inside the house, and Stiles nearly refuses. Coming inside seems like he’d be opening up Pandora’s f*cking box on this entire situation, and he’s not so sure he wants that box even cracked, doesn’t even want to stick the key in the lock, because it’s all mystery and darkness on the other side of that door.

But, in he goes. For his precious board. Nothing more.

Inside, he looks around. The sight of the living room reminds him of the Jell-O shots he did and he grimaces, because that makes him want to puke all over again. They were lime. That’s why his puke was so f*cking green last night. As far as frat houses go, it’s not so bad - there’s no giant wall of pictures of girls they’ve all hooked up with, for example, and attempts have been made to clean up the mess from the night before, trash bags full of empty liquor bottles and white claw cans, the ping pong table no longer covered in beer spills from aggressive games of flip cup.

Derek’s long time best friend in the entire world and annoying gnat person Isaac Lahey is there, sweeping the living room floor. He looks up at Stiles’ approach, and he blinks in surprise. “Stilinski,” he greets, sliding his eyes to Derek. “Seriously?”

“He left his skateboard,” Derek says by way of explanation.

“He stole it and is keeping it hostage is more accurate,” Stiles corrects, and Isaac presses his lips down.

For some reason, he rolls his eyes. “I’m sure he did,” he mutters, returning to sweeping with aggressive jerks of his arms, and Stiles is not being let in on the f*cking joke, here, so he just stands there and waits to be led to where his board is. That’s what this is all about.

His f*cking skateboard. Nothing more. He swears to god.

Derek goes up the creaky old steps, and Stiles follows him, and neither of them say anything. Truth be told, they have absolutely nothing in common and absolutely nothing to f*cking talk about. Two more different people have never existed on this planet. See, sober him knows that.

Drunk him needs a refresher.

Down the hall, where it smells horrendously like stale weed, and then Derek is opening up the door at the end, and stepping inside. It’s his bedroom. The walls are covered in posters and Stiles sweeps his eyes over them quickly without really looking, and then he sees it. Leaning up against Derek’s dresser, the wheels just as blue as he had remembered. There should be a choir of angels singing and a harp and a spotlight on it, Stiles is so relieved to see his skateboard, and he moves forward to grab it and be done with this entire thing, but Derek stops him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey, you want that thing, you have to pay the ransom.”

Stiles gives him a dirty look. “Which is what?”

Derek points to the bed and for one horrifying moment Stiles is certain that Derek is going to coerce him into sex in exchange for his skateboard, but Derek says, “sit down. Talk to me. Five minutes.”

Stiles considers this. He gauges how much faster than Derek he could leap at his board and run out of this house, but he remembers Derek is athletic and fit and fast and Stiles is hungover and none of those things at all, and he figures he’d never make it before getting caught.

He glowers, but sits down on the edge of Derek’s bed, and Derek sits next to him. They meet eyes. Then Stiles looks away, rubbing at his arm all awkward and nervous. He has no f*cking idea how this conversation is going to go.

“You know, I was not f*cking with you last night. But I got the distinct sense you were f*cking with me.”

“Hey, I was drunk. Like, really.”

“I know.”

“I can’t be held responsible for whatever I said or did, you know.”

“Yes, you can. You said a lot.”

Stiles blushes. He looks away.

“What’s the matter? Shy? You said you’d sleep with me last night.”

“I really just came here for my skateboard, and it’s like, uncool that you’re here forcing me to talk to you to get it. Really.”

Derek ignores that entirely, like Stiles had not spoken at all. “You wanna sleep with me or not?”

Stiles goes beet red and he rubs the back of his neck. “Man, I was so drunk.”

“That’s not what I asked you.”

This f*cking guy. Stiles covers his face with both hands and through the cracks in his fingers he says, “you know I’m bisexual.”

“I do know that. It’s why I’ve always wanted to f*ck you.”

“Can you stop saying that?” He removes his hands and gets bold enough to look directly at Derek, right in the face, even though it pains him to do so, because Derek is just smirking at him like the arrogant co*ck he really is, and will always be. “You’re messing with me. Derek. Come on. I’m me, you’re you, we don’t get along.”

“What you mean is, you’ve never liked me,” he shrugs his shoulders. “I’ve never disliked you. You’re attractive.”

“Jesus Christ….”

“Look. You can say you were drunk all you like. But you were just being honest. For once.”

Stiles is offended. “The f*ck does that mean?” He demands, furrowing his brow.

Derek does not back down. And it’s funny, because he has always struck Stiles as someone who stands their ground, but Stiles finds himself still surprised by it. That Derek just – is who he is. Unapologetically, at that. “I mean, you spend a lot of time putting up walls and hiding.”

“Because you know me so f*cking well.”

“I grew up with you,” he shrugs. “Maybe I do. I’d be one of few.”

“You know, I really don’t need a psychological analysis from Derek Hale, so I’m just gonna –“ he stands, moving toward his skateboard, but Derek grabs his wrist, pulls him back down on the bed, so it bounces a bit, startling Stiles.

“Look. I’ll cut you a deal.”

Stiles looks at him dubiously.

Nothing good can come from a pact between himself and Derek Hale. Not a single good thing at all. Men and lions, and all that. Though, then Stiles has to wonder which one of the two of them is the lion and which is just a man, and if Stiles were being honest, he’d say that he knows that Derek is certainly the lion and Stiles is just a piddly and silly little fella. Really.

“…you f*ck me once, and if you really hate it, we can just wash our hands of the entire thing. Like it never even happened,” he mimes washing his hands, rubbing them together likes he’s sudsing them up and then holding them in the air all clean.

“What is this all really about?” Stiles demands, raising an eyebrow. “You trying to get a bigger body count, or…?”

Derek shrugs his shoulders, slow and languid, as though none of this is of any true consequence to him. Also, he’s stoned. Par for the course. “I would just really like to. And I think if you did, you’d like me more.”

“In order to get me to like you more, you’d have to have the hugest, fattest co*ck ever and make me come so hard I see Nirvana. And I doubt that all very much.”

Derek tosses that around in his head for a moment, considering it with a little smile on his face, because he seems to find Stiles funny. Which is offensive, because Stiles really isn’t trying to be f*cking funny. “It may not be the hugest or fattest, but it’s not bad. And I can make you come.”

Stiles can’t help himself or control his body. His eyes dart down to Derek’s lap, all covered in jeans, and then go right back up to his face in the span of a millisecond.

But, Derek notices. He smiles. “Curious?”

Stiles blushes hard, crosses his arms protectively over his stomach and averts his eyes to the floor. Derek’s dirty clothes and his well worn down blue rug. “Well, we’re sitting here discussing it, so excuse me for looking.”

“I just think it’d be fun,” Derek goes on, leaning back on the palms of his hands on the bed, so Stiles is left tracing the veins of his tan arms with his eyes, swallowing a lump in his throat.

He is sexy. Always has been. Why lie?

But he also is annoying, and always has been that, too, and Stiles doesn’t really know if he can f*ck someone who he finds so terribly irritating.

“…and maybe you could lighten up.”

“Lighten up?” Stiles repeats this all indignant, eyebrows going up into his hairline. “I’m chill, I’m cool, and f*cking you won’t prove that.”

Derek looks at him. And he smiles. His stupid little know-it-all f*cking smile that’s all stoned and like he couldn’t give less of a sh*t. “I just think you could use a good f*ck, but what do I know.”

Stiles makes a truly incredible face – a deep frown, his brows deep into his eyes that are narrowed so small it’s a wonder he can see Derek at all – and scoffs. “I could use a good f*ck? That’s it. I’m outta here. I’m taking my board and f*cking clean the hell outta here,” he moves to do just that, again, but again, Derek grips him and tugs him back down onto the bed.

Stiles’ indignant squawk is overtaken by Derek saying, “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“Yes, you did. You did. You’ve been meaning to offend me since last night,” he points his finger out the window as though they’ll look out there and it’ll be last night again, and they’ll be standing outside with Stiles’ pukey skateboard just like they were. “Because you think it’s funny. Like it’s all funny. If you really want to sleep with me, let me tell you something! Insulting me isn’t the way to do it!”

“Then, what is?”

Stiles blinks. He puts his arm down. It flops like jelly on top of Derek’s mussed bed spread. “What do you mean?”

Derek leans forward, and they’re close. Their faces are especially close. Like this, Stiles can see all the colors in Derek’s eyes and that makes him really nervous, to be so f*cking close to him and so intimate, with this certifiable stranger who has somehow managed to be on the outskirts of Stiles’ life for his entire life.

They have never been this close.

“…what is the way to sleep with you?”

Stiles looks away because he’s all embarrassed and warm, shakes his head and scoffs again to try and seem all disaffected and annoyed, instead of what he really is. Which is nervous.

Derek Hale, or not. A good-looking boy is sitting too close to him. Of course he’s f*cking nervous. This is kissing close, and being kissing close means, well. Kissing.

“…you’d have to ask my ex-boyfriend.”

Derek pulls away with a frown. “Oh, I’m dying to speak to that f*cker. Sure.” Sarcasm drips from his tone. Stiles raises his eyebrows; frankly, he was unaware that Derek would know precisely who Stiles’ ex was, let alone enough to dislike him so strongly like this.

Stiles doesn’t want to poke the subject any further. Because you know. That’s his ex-boyfriend and they only just broke up six months ago after being together two long years, and it’s still sort of fresh.

He changes trajectories and shakes it off, gesturing a bit widely at the room as a whole. “What, you wanna just…you wanna just have sex? Like, now?”

Derek does his languid shrugging thing again, all give-a-f*ck and annoying. “Whenever.”

“Well.” Stiles rests his hands on his knees and looks down at the floor again. “I don’t want to have sex right now. So. I don’t know. I think I should leave. Get myself out of this f*cked up Twilight Zone episode.”

“But you would want to f*ck on another day…?”

Oh, hell. Stiles doesn’t know. “I have never done casual sex, and I know it’s half of what you do, but I’m not so experienced.”

“It’s college.” He says this like it’s the be-all end-all, and f*ck it, maybe he’s right. After all, it is college, and enough articles have been written about the ever-present hook-up culture to be found on college campuses that Stiles is well aware that it’s just what the kids are doing these days.

Like Stiles said. He was not cool in high school. He was lame and he sat by himself and read books and watched everyone else have fun while he pretty much just wilted away with his straight A’s. Yes, he got a good-looking boyfriend when he was seventeen, but that seemed more like a weird fluke in the matrix than it ever did something that was really meant to happen to him. Like, it fell into his lap, because they were both the only boys at school who were out, and Stiles has felt, ever since they broke up, that he was only ever interested in Stiles to begin with just because of their sexualities. And it just working out that way.

He hasn’t done very much of what the “cool kids” have been doing. And it’s college. And he’s been trying to reinvent himself as someone who’s if not necessarily cool, then as someone who’s just not a f*cking lameass.

f*cking Derek Hale is definitely a step in that direction.

And he’s hot. Very hot. And f*cking infuriating and f*cking annoying and very very dumb and very stoned. But they’re not going to be f*cking soulmates.

They’re just going to hook up. Hook up. Even the words in Stiles’ mind feel foreign, like they don’t belong there.

All the same. He says, “well, fine.”

Derek smiles at him. He leans back on his hands again and looks at Stiles all smug. “Fine.”

“Just don’t go falling in love with me, Derek Hale,” he mocks this in a breathy voice, putting his palm against his forehead and smirking. “I’ll ruin you for everyone else.”

“Sure, you will. Take your skateboard and get out of here, then,” he jerks his head at the board in question, and Stiles is, frankly, relieved to finally see a light at the end of this truly bizarre conversation and situation. He wants to go home to his dorm room and drink a pedialyte right out of the bottle and sit and think about his choices and decisions. He wants to wrap his head around it, and it’s hard to do that with Derek looking at him so close like that.

Stiles has got to get out of here. So, he goes. Ducks his head and gives Derek, who is perhaps his new f*ck buddy or will be once or whatever the hell is going on here, a little half-hearted awkward wave. “Well, see you.”

“See you later,” he agrees. Stiles leaves the bedroom and goes out into the hall, shutting it softly behind himself and standing out there for a moment just hovering in disbelief.

He said he would f*ck him. And he wasn’t drunk, this time, and can’t hide behind that anymore.

Downstairs, he encounters more familiar faces, and not just from the party the night before – but because these are more people Stiles has actively avoided for most of his life. Isaac is there still sweeping up, and Lydia Martin is watching him from the kitchen table, not offering any help whatsoever, and then there’s Derek’s sister.

Stiles has never appropriately met her. But she apparently knows him, because at the sight of him standing there, her eyes widen and she laughs out loud. “Stilinski?”

Isaac snorts. “I know.”

“Holy sh*t,” she leans back in her chair, beside where Lydia is dutifully filing her nails down into shape, and she looks at him, up and down. “Well, well, well.”

Stiles blinks at her. “I’m just going.”

“Uh huh,” she deadpans. She seems incredibly amused by this, for some reason, and that must be a shared trait of all the Hale children, to just be f*cking smirking and laughing at everyone all the time.

This is another joke Stiles isn’t being let in on. And it’s a joke he doesn’t really want anything to do with. He does his classic awkward wave and says, “okay, well. See you guys.”

“See you later, Stiles Stilinski,” Cora says to him in a weird tone of voice as he turns his back and goes for the door, still smiling her little smile, and as Stiles opens it and begins to close it out on the porch, he hears Cora’s muffled voice ask, “was he upstairs with my f*cking brother?” And then the door is closed, and Stiles can’t hear the rest of it.

He goes down the porch and down the walkway, onto the sidewalk where he sets his board down and gets on it, off and away. As he rides down the block, he thinks to himself that he’s gotten himself into quite the pickle, this time.

Or, maybe he hasn’t. Maybe he could just avoid Derek forever and block his number and forget this entire thing ever happened in the first place. And maybe that would be for the absolute best. Stiles has never really been a casual person.

He isn’t sure he can have sex with someone, even someone as truly odious to him as Derek Hale, and just go about his life like it didn’t happen. And then he gets nervous, thinking that, because what if Stiles ends up liking him? And Derek still just thinks of him as a nerdy nobody like he was in high school, and wants nothing to do with him like that?

Stiles has already had his f*cking heart stomped all over by one boy who was always too good for Stiles, anyway. And he doesn’t want to do that again.

He really doesn’t want to f*cking do that sh*t again. He barely made it last time.

Not that it matters. Not that any of it ultimately matters. Because Stiles ends up laughing to himself and shaking his head as he cruises through an intersection, ignoring the indignant honking from the car that almost strikes him, because yeah f*cking right.

Stiles will never become attached to Derek Hale. Sorry, he just won’t. Can’t, actually. They could f*ck a thousand times and Stiles will never get feelings for him on a personal level. It isn’t possible.

Derek is an idiot. And Stiles is just better than that. So fine. They’ll f*ck. And Stiles will get what he wants out of it, and Derek will, too. And there doesn’t have to be any sh*tty little feelings involved.

Stiles doesn’t want them, neither does Derek.

End of.

Stiles is hovering in a deep and dark corner of the library with a book shoved into his face and a pen hanging out of his mouth. There hadn’t been any available seats on the main floor, but he desperately needed to get his reading done for this sh*tty psychology class he has to take for the credits, so here he stands, like a ghoul in the dark and near total silence, reading. It’s actually a pretty good snapshot to what most of his days have been looking like ever since he got to college, honestly. He doesn’t normally go to parties, hence his puking session, and last weekend had been some weird fluke.

But speak of the devil. Stiles is interrupted by the swish of footsteps coming down the aisles towards him. Stiles thinks nothing of it, focusing on his reading. People usually leave others alone in the library, after all. They’ll probably walk right past him.

They don’t. The footsteps stop in front of his aisle and hover there. “Stiles.”

Stiles looks up, startled. And is startled a second time, to see Derek Hale standing there all ensconced in shadows at the end of the aisle of books, head co*cked to the side.

“Nose in a book, as usual.”

Stiles closes his book. Takes the pen out of his mouth. “I didn’t know you could read. What are you doing in the library?”

“Stiles. We go to the same school. I, also, do readings for classes I have,” he presses his palms against his chest, moving a couple of steps deeper into the aisle, closer to Stiles. “Not nearly as much as you likely do. You major in lit, don’t you?”

Stiles does. It’s a wonder Derek f*cking knows that, because Stiles couldn’t begin to wonder or guess what Derek f*cking majors in. “And what’s yours? Glass blowing? To make bongs. Of course.”

Derek laughs. “It’s History. Actually.”

Oh. Stiles is surprised. Taken aback, too. History is a very, very strange major for someone like Derek Hale. He had no idea that Derek took such an interest. He has no retort as a result, and Derek grins at him like he knows he’s bested Stiles on this one, and Stiles looks away and clears his throat. “Well. I’m just – studying.”

“You hang around in the dimly lit part of the library often?”

“Actually,” Stiles tucks his book under his arm, “I do. I like it back here. It’s quiet. People don’t typically come to annoy me, today an exception.”

“I’m annoying you?”

“Yes.”

“I just thought I’d say hey,” he comes closer, so they’re standing an arm’s reach apart. Derek has got on a backpack, and he’s wearing a long-sleeved shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and Stiles swallows. He has got way too much arm hair for a nineteen-year-old boy. “Since we’re friends now.”

“Oh, we’re not friends.”

“We’re not?” He plays all dumb and innocent, smiling his big dumb smile.

“Nope. Not even close. Maybe the thought of your dick going inside me doesn’t make me want to vomit, but the thought of any kind of lengthy conversation with you certainly does.”

“Because I’m stupid.”

“Very,” he puts his nose in the air. “And you steal skateboards.”

“You left that thing in my truck.”

“Then you held it for ransom.”

“Well, sure,” he leans against the bookshelf nearest to himself and Stiles watches the movement, his mouth going a bit dry. He is tall and long and this position really emphasizes that. “Seems like the only way to get you to talk to me is to coerce you in some way. Or corner you. Like now.”

Stiles blinks. And he realizes, he sort of is cornered – because Derek has got Stiles trapped between two huge book shelves, a wall behind him, and Derek in front of him. Nowhere to go.

“You could try being less annoying,” Stiles raises his eyebrow. “Maybe you wouldn’t have to entrap me to get me to talk to you. Aside, I thought you and I weren’t going to be doing much talking.”

Derek smiles with all his teeth. “Is that how you’d prefer it?”

“Well.” Stiles wishes he could put his nose back in his book, honestly. Books are a lot safer and easier than traversing conversations with Derek Hale. “…I told you. I’ve never done casual relationships, so. I don’t know. Are we supposed to talk?”

“Can I ask you something sort of personal?”

Stiles huffs and rolls his eyes heavenward. “I guess we’re talking, so, sure.”

Derek drops his eyes and looks almost bashful for a moment, which would be out of his character, before he lifts them back up and meets Stiles’ head on. “Raeken was not the only person you’ve ever slept with. Was he?”

The mention of his ex-boyfriend is still, even after all this time, sort of a knife in the heart, but it’s a stabbing sensation he is growing used to. So he takes it like a seasoned professional and only flinches a bit, before he straightens and shakes his head. “Uh, no. I had a brief thing with a girl from another school.”

“Ah, the old she doesn’t go to this school trick.”

Stiles has to resist smiling. “She was real, but. I don’t know, yeah. Just those two. Must be nothing compared to you.”

“I don’t know where you get this idea that I just f*ck people constantly.”

“Hey, your exact words were,” he does air quotes here, “I’ll f*ck anything that moves.”

“I said I would. Not that I actually had. I’ve slept with four people. Believe it or not.”

“Oh.” Stiles is surprised. Here, he thought Derek was some Casanova who was constantly bedding women and apparently men as well. Taking random people home from parties and hooking up only to never see them again, and whatnot. Bragging to his sh*tty frat boy friends about all the puss* he’s getting. That sort of sh*t.

“I’m just as inexperienced at being casual as you are.”

Stiles meets his eyes. “Then, why this sudden interest in doing a casual thing? With me, of all people on earth. I’m not exactly – well.” He rubs the back of his neck and feels embarrassed, in this moment, like he’s admitting something personal to a certifiable stranger. “Surely there are sexier people on campus to f*ck.”

Instead of answering that, Derek does an odd smile, that creeps across his face slow and deliberate. It’s as though he knows something about Stiles that Stiles doesn’t even know about himself. Derek says, “are you going to any parties this weekend?”

Stiles snorts, before he can stop himself. “Oh, I go to parties all the time, yeah.”

Derek is adept at reading the sarcasm, to the point where he doesn’t even blink at it. “Since you have no plans, why don’t you come to my sister’s sorority house on Friday night. It’ll be fun.”

“Is that code for, come to this party and we’ll sleep together?”

“Why be coy?”

“Why, indeed,” Stiles mutters. His hands have gone clammy. He’s finding it hard to look Derek directly in the eyes, all of the sudden. “I’m not down on f*cking you in your sister’s sorority house –“

Derek laughs out loud, far too rowdy for this particular section of the library, so he stifles himself with a hand over his mouth. When he lowers it, he says, “nobody said we were having sex there. Where would we even do it? In my sister’s room? Holy sh*t, Stiles. I just meant come and have a couple of beers to get the stick out of your ass in order to make room for –“

“Oh, you’re such a f*cking annoying person,” Stiles grouses, rolling his eyes to high heavens.

“I’ll pick you up, even.”

“No, thanks. Let’s not pretend like this is anything more than it is.”

Derek’s jaw twitches. It’s as though Stiles has just said something he doesn’t very much like. But he makes no comment on it. “Then ride your dumb little skateboard. Infantile.”

“It’s my spare limb. It goes where I go,” he gestures to it down at their feet, leaning up against the bookshelf they’re standing beside.

“Are you coming, then?”

Stiles purses his lips. He should say no to this. Problem is, he already said yes to it in Derek Hale’s bedroom this past weekend, and he can’t exactly put it off forever, and why should he want to? It’s called, meaningless sex with a hot guy that he hated in high school. Dare he call it, hate sex? It should be fun. It should even be hot.

It’s college. He should lean in.

“All right. I’ll come.”

Derek looks satisfied with this, giving Stiles one last lingering little look before he just smiles, co*cking his head to the side, saying, “great.”

Stiles does not know what kind of f*cking lunatic just smirks and says great to a sexual rendezvous, but apparently Derek Hale does, and it’s whatever. The whole thing is whatever. Whatever forever and all that. Derek turns and he leaves, just goes, out of the corner, out of the aisle, out of the library altogether for all Stiles knows. Stiles stands there with his closed book in his hands for what feels like a long while, just looking at his feet, or the cover, or his own hands holding it, and he presses his lips down.

The thought occurs to him that he’s going to sleep with someone whose name he used to write down in his bad thoughts journal. He is going to sleep with someone who he barely knows and knows all too well at the same time. He tries to talk himself out of it. Just never show up. Just ghost. Block Derek’s number and ignore him and wash his hands and skip off into the sunset, back to reality, back to normal, back to his safe little corner of the library.

He can’t do it. Derek has really hairy arms. Sue him.

And another thing he truly cannot do is tell any of his friends that this is even going on to begin with. He goes to the dining hall with Scott and they talk about classes and homework and Stiles throwing up all over his skateboard and how funny is that, and Stiles just can’t admit it to his best friend, that he’s got sex plans with Derek Hale for later. He sits in his designated spot next to his new friend Erica Reyes in their shared statistics class, and even though she sort of lives for juicy sh*t like this, Stiles can’t tell her, either.

He keeps it to himself.

Chapter 2: Calling Cards

Chapter Text

Derek Hale’s sister’s sorority house is farther away than Derek’s own place. It’s on the farthest end of the suburban neighborhood the college resides in, on a dark block, surrounded by trees. There’s a blue pool in the back yard that’s too cold to actually go swimming in this time of the year, so it’s been sitting and collecting dead leaves and bugs for weeks, now. The hot tub is popular, however, situated underneath string lights and filled with as many people can possibly fit inside of it, water sloshing out along with the sound of laughter. Stiles stands alone under some paper lanterns hanging from the porch, drinking a beer.

He didn’t tell any of his friends he was coming here. Why would he? They’d ask questions. Questions demand answers. As of right now, Stiles doesn’t have any of those. But alone is something that Stiles is intimately familiar with, so he just hovers and drinks. He wonders if maybe he should be doing shots to try and get himself drunker so that when Derek comes calling like he certainly will, Stiles won’t feel so awkward about the entire thing.

But then, he doesn’t want to get drunk. Part of him wants to be as aware of what’s going on as he possibly can be. He doesn’t look too closely at that. It’s been a little while since he’s had sex, so excuse the f*ck out of him for wanting to enjoy it. Even if it is Derek Hale.

Unfortunately, the person who does come calling for him is not Derek Hale. Almost, though.

“Stilinski,” this is not said like a question – even though Stiles does not know Cora Hale barely at all. In passing. She’s standing to the side, having just emerged from the sliding glass door from inside, and she’s assessing him, head to toe. Stiles can’t see her face all the way in the dim lighting, but he thinks her gaze is critical. “Hi.”

“Hi.” He has no idea how to talk to her.

She comes closer to him. She looks like a female Derek, shorter with a more angular face, prettier hair, better clothes. “Are you here to see my brother?” There’s something in her tone that Stiles can’t quite identify.

“He invited me,” he says evasively. Then, he looks away, frowning out at the party at large. He is angling for nonchalant and disaffected.

“I’m sure he did,” she is very hard to read. Stiles doesn’t know what to do with this statement. “Here, I thought you couldn’t stand to be in the same room as him.”

Stiles turns back to her. “Who said that?”

“Nobody had to say it,” she’s very close, now, in his personal space bubble, and Stiles takes a step back, which she doesn’t seem to even notice. “Are you guys hanging out?”

“Um,” he fumbles. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that. Whatever. It’s college.”

“And that means…?”

“Things that seemed of massive importance in high school don’t seem so important anymore.”

“Like?”

Stiles never knew this about her – she is f*cking annoying. Or, she’s a dog with a bone, and Stiles can relate to that a little too much, so to see himself mirrored in her is infuriating. “Like, f*ck it, I don’t know,” he thrusts his free hand out, to the party. “Social circles and the like. Derek and I never ran in the same ones.”

She does a sort of mean little exhalation of breath that might be a laugh. “I wasn’t aware you had a social circle.”

“Oh, for f*ck’s sake,” he rolls his eyes heavenward – what is it with the god damn Hales and their proclivity to being quick witted and irritating? “Precisely what I meant. Derek had friends and I didn’t, so I wasn’t one of them. I don’t know. sh*t like that doesn’t mean anything anymore in college, or, it’s not supposed to. I’m branching out. I’m trying to, uh,” he’s had two beers, so he’s more honest than he would normally be, “…not be like I was in high school.”

She nods, all sage. “You’re trying to not be such a holier-than-thou asshole,” she clarifies, and Stiles pinches the bridge of his nose but he nods, like yeah, sure, that’s it. “You guys aren’t, like, sleeping together, are you?”

Stiles nearly gets beer up his nose. “Who said that? Nobody said that.”

“Doing the math,” she taps her temple. “You come out of his bedroom and then a week later here you are at my house looking like a lost puppy waiting for someone to come find you.”

Stiles sees no way out of the truth. She’s read him, and the situation, like a f*cking book. “…so what if we were?”

She does this big long sigh, her eyes going up, her mouth in a grim line. She looks so unhappy, it’s like someone just told her that her dog has been run over. “I see this going poorly.”

He has no idea what she means by that, or even why she would say it, but it doesn’t matter either way, because both of them are interrupted by Cora’s girlfriend materializing out of the darkness like a specter. Stiles immediately straightens up to his full height instead of slouching at the sight of her, because she does tend to sort of command respect everywhere she goes.

Lydia taps her nails on her wine glass rhythmically, approaching the two of them, her mouth twisted into a forced smile. “What are you two talking about?” She asks, and her tone suggests that she finds it bizarre these particular two people are talking at all.

“Oh, just,” Stiles waves his hand in the air, non-committal.

Cora says, point blank, “I think he and my brother are sleeping together.”

“Egads,” she says, slow, her eyes going wide. Then, she sort of shrugs it off, sipping her wine. “I guess I saw that one coming.”

Stiles just stands there. Lets the humiliation wash over him like a warm blanket. His cheeks feel warm and pink but whatever.

“Are you going to puke all over your skateboard again, tonight?” Lydia asks him, and her and Cora share a little laugh together.

“For the record,” he turns and faces them both more directly, and they stand with their shoulders pressed together, both smirking, not a care in the world. “…we’re not actively sleeping together, at the moment. And for more of the record, he asked me. Not the other way around. So.” He sips his beer like check and mate. They blink at him. When neither of them say anything, he goes on. “Whatever. The whole thing is dumb anyway, I shouldn’t even be – you know, I should go.”

He turns to do just that, just turn around and flee with his tail between his legs because the entire idea was a massive mistake, and being here at all was a massive mistake, and perhaps being born in the first place was a massive mistake, but Cora latches onto him in a vice. She grips his arm hard with her blunt fingernails, her bony little hands, and she gives him a very direct, very serious glare. “Don’t be a dick. Derek is expecting you to be here. We weren’t trying to make fun of you.”

Lydia takes a drink if only to keep herself from saying that she, for one, was very much making fun of him. But she keeps it to herself and swallows it down, saying not a word. Stiles looks between the two of them, and he frowns, and he shrugs out of her grip.

“It’s nothing, anyway,” he says, because it’s true. He and Derek really are nothing. It was a weird decision they made, to f*ck in the first place, and mostly they just decided to do it because it was something to f*cking do. “No use getting worked up over it.”

“Right,” Cora agrees, though she narrows her eyes like she feels differently, somehow. “Uh, hey, I think I saw your ex-boyfriend wandering the premises earlier.”

“What?” Stiles demands, eyes going huge in his head as he scans his immediate surroundings, as though the man himself will emerge out of the shadows and present himself. “And you’re only just telling me this now?”

“I didn’t know you guys ended on bad terms,” she says defensively. “I don’t even know who invited him.”

The devil did. They have an open text thread with one another, Stiles is sure of it. It would honestly explain a lot.

“Where was he?” Stiles asks, a note of desperation in his voice. “Is he downstairs?”

“Why?” Cora asks, tilting her head to the side. She’s doing her judgmental stare thing again. “Are you trying to get back together with him?”

Stiles laughs out loud, throwing his head back, so hard it echoes against the trees and some people turn to look and see what all the commotion is about. “I would sooner take a bath in broken glass than put myself in a situation where he could f*ck with me again.”

Lydia sips away like she’s enjoying the show, a smirk on her lips.

“f*ck with you,” Cora repeats slowly, as though trying to understand the words themselves.

“f*ck with me,” he reiterates it. “He’s a master manipulator. I can’t be around him. It took me a long time to unfurl myself from the cobwebs of his f*cking bullsh*t.” And frankly, Stiles worries sometimes that even just ten minutes alone with him again would undo all of his hard work, and he’d find himself trapped in the relationship again. They broke up and got back together at least three times over the course of their tumultuous relationship.

It was hell. Stiles wouldn’t wish it on his worst enemy.

“Everything you say sounds like a bad pop punk song,” Lydia says with a twist to her face. Sometimes that’s how his very life feels. So, she’s not that wrong.

“I gotta get out of here,” he says, putting his half-finished beer down on the porch railing and looking around for an escape route. He sees that if he jumps off the porch and makes a left, he can run around the side of the house without barely being seen by anyone, least of all Satan incarnate, and make it out to the street and hop on his board and be gone from this entire situation. He figures he will text Derek and explain that it was a matter of his own mental sanity that he flee, as he grips the rail and jumps on top of it.

“Um,” Cora exclaims, “ever heard of the f*cking stairs?”

Stiles is already leaping over the railing and landing on the ground, board in tow, and as he rights himself to his full height, he turns, and nearly barrels into Derek Hale’s broad chest.

He’s clueless. He says, “whoa, where’s the fire?”

Not only is he clueless, but he looks a bit white knightish. He’s in dark jeans and a jacket and he has his car keys in his hands, jingling, and Stiles zeros in on those in specific, and grips him by one of his lapels to pull him in close. Derek goes along with it, an amused smirk on his face as he bends his neck to get his ear closer to Stiles’ mouth. “We need to get the hell out of here.”

“Am I that enticing to you?”

“Shut. Up. This isn’t a game.”

“Theo Raeken is inside,” Cora calls from the porch, and Derek trails his eyes over to her. His eyebrows go up. “I guess he’s Beelzebub in the flesh. Can’t look directly at him.”

Derek meets Stiles’ eyes. He smiles. It reaches his eyes and everything, crinkling them at the corners, and Stiles thinks, Jesus, how did he never ever notice in high school just how endearing Derek Hale’s smile is? “You need me to save you from your ex-boyfriend?”

“Can we please just go?” Stiles shoves on his shoulders to begin herding him away, toward the tree line, and Derek goes with it, just like he seems to go along with just about everything. “Tell me you left the engine running.”

“I didn’t know I was the getaway driver tonight, so no, I didn’t.”

“Just walk, fast,” Stiles ducks his head as they pass by windows of the house, loud voices and laughter and cigarette smoke. “Why are the lesbians so f*cking mean?”

Derek guffaws, walking straight and tall even as Stiles shields his face from everyone they pass on their walk to the front lawn. “Cora is prickly on the outside and soft on the inside. Lydia is just mean for sport, you know this. I figured you could hold your own with the lesbians.”

“Not even close. They picked me apart like taking pepperoni off of pizza.”

“Odd analogy.”

“Because you can’t take the pepperoni off without ruining the entire slice.”

“Ah,” Derek watches Stiles bend over all the way as they get to the front porch, using his skateboard to completely hide his face from everyone there. “I think anyone who knew you would recognize that skateboard. You’ve only had it since you were thirteen.”

Stiles finds it odd that Derek would know that. This exact board was his thirteenth birthday present, as a matter of fact, and maybe he’s tweaked it and duct taped it and changed the wheels, added some stickers and taken others off, but it is his calling card. He’s gotten other decks, and he has a few that he’ll use when the mood strikes him, but this is his third arm. It’s a wonder the thing is still in one piece. Stiles thinks it’s probably because he mothers it like a child.

And Derek has noticed. Stiles wonders what that means.

“What did they even say to you?”

“I guess Cora thinks it’s a bad idea for us to hook up. She’s one to talk. She sleeps with Dracula’s third wife.”

“Sometimes you say the most insane sh*t.”

“Am I wrong?”

“No, that’s why it’s funny. Come here,” he tugs on Stiles, who can’t see very well with all the sneaking around he’s doing, and drags him to the sidewalk, heading left. “You can stand up straight, now.”

Stiles does. He looks over his shoulder to see the party fading away behind them, all the voices disappearing the farther they walk, and he breathes out a sigh of relief. Derek notices, sort of side-eying him as they walk side by side.

Before he speaks, he stuffs his hands into his pockets and looks at his feet. It seems like an odd mannerism for someone like Derek to have, but there he is doing it. “What’s the deal with you and him, anyways?”

“The deal?”

“Well, we just ran out of there like the place was on fire because he was there. So. I’m wondering. What’s the deal?”

Stiles looks away, and he keeps his eyes dead ahead. He grips his skateboard in one hand and he isn’t sure how to answer that question. “Well. It was kind of a first love thing. The first cut is the deepest. Also, he’s a sad*stic maniac.”

“A sad*stic maniac,” Derek repeats. Everyone tonight has been repeating everything Stiles says back to him as though they think he can’t hear himself speak. The words seem to have struck Derek into pure disbelief and awe. “I mean, he’s a f*ck, but that feels a little –“

“Hey, dude, sleep with him, and then come back and give me your two cents. The relationship was one giant mind f*ck. Felt like I was living in some weird chess game.”

Derek looks at him. Then, quickly looks away, like he does not want Stiles to see the look on his face, or doesn’t want Stiles to read his thoughts, as though Stiles could. “You guys dated for a long time.”

“My stint in the seventh circle of Dante’s Inferno.”

“I love the sh*t you say,” he laughs, shaking his head. “Like, what?”

“He was just very –“ he searches for the right words. Sometimes, they escape him. “…he was very jealous and controlling and my dad hated him. Let’s put it that way. I fought with Theo, then I’d fight with my dad about how miserable I was. Ugh. Puke. What a life I lead. It washed the taste of love right out of my f*cking mouth. I can’t believe I spent so long putting up with all that sh*t. So whenever I think of it, it’s like, holy hell, I had to have been under a curse, or a hex or something. Self esteem at an abysmal low. See, that’s why I wanted to come to college and like, turn over the leaf. A new leaf. Just spit him the f*ck out along with everything else. Hence, going home with you. Even your sister was like, what? I guess it is pretty weird. Oh, Jesus, sorry, I’m talking too much,” he rubs the back of his head with his free hand, ruffling his hair bashfully.

“You’re okay,” Derek says honestly, shrugging his shoulders. “Here’s me.” He’s pointing to his truck, the big black one that Stiles can only vaguely remember from last week. The sight of it kinda makes him taste green Jell-O shots again and that’s bad thought territory, so he shoves it down.

Derek does this insane thing, where he unlocks the truck and then opens the passenger side door for Stiles. Stiles glares at him. “Thanks, Prince Charming.”

“Just being friendly.”

“Huh,” Stiles grunts, climbing into the truck and thumping his board into the footwell. There’s this suspended moment in time after Derek closes the door for him, where he’s walking around the front of the truck, and Stiles is watching him, that Stiles realizes what’s going on.

He has a full melt down in under ten seconds. He realizes he is in Derek Hale’s truck going back to Derek Hale’s house where he will go to Derek Hale’s bedroom and then to Derek Hale’s bed and they’re going to f*ck. A lot of thoughts go through his mind before Derek has even opened the driver’s side door, vivid imaginings of what is to come, the knowledge that he is behaving in a way that is uncharacteristic, the fact that Cora looked right at him and said it was a bad idea, and why?

Then, Derek is inside, and Stiles is normal again. He just sits back, buckled in, and watches Derek start the truck.

“For what it’s worth, I always knew that guy was a f*ckbag.”

“Ah, and you couldn’t have shared this with me before I entered the belly of the beast?” He’s teasing and trying to be funny, but as Derek pulls away from the curb, his mouth sort of turns down.

“No, I couldn’t have,” he says very frankly. “You wouldn’t even look at me in school. I’m sure if I walked right up to you and said, hey, your boyfriend is a douche, you’d have thrown soda in my face for being a jock.”

Stiles sputters. “I wouldn’t have done that.”

“The point stands. You weren’t fuzzy towards me.”

“Well,” he rubs the back of his head again. “I wasn’t very fuzzy to anybody. This is my new leaf. We don’t have to talk about all that stuff.”

“Right, your new leaf,” Derek agrees, nodding his head. They’re at a stop sign, and Derek is looking both ways before driving ahead. “Just, I’ve never seen someone run from their ex like that.”

He wants to beat this dead horse. He’s fishing for information. It’s as though he’d liked to have been there, to see it all for himself, these catastrophic fights that would last weeks, Stiles and his dad not speaking over some asshole who never called when he said he would. Stiles doesn’t even like to visit the memories. It’s a wonder Derek wants to take a tour through them.

“The dude was like King f*cking Midas. Everything he touched turned solid and his, frozen and stuck. I felt like that.”

Derek turns from the road for just a second to look at Stiles directly, and then he looks back. His expression is open and surprised. “You really are a lit major. I’d never think to say something like that.”

“Oh, I love a good metaphor.”

“Right,” he agrees. He seems a little stiff. “Uh, anyway. I’m sorry the girls were mean to you, but, it’s their favorite pastime.”

“Bah,” he waves his hand. “I’m used to the cutting barbs of smart women. I just found it bizarro, your sister was, like, probing me. What’s up with that?”

Derek looks straight ahead. “She’s kind of a wolf.”

“A wolf,” Stiles repeats, eyebrows up. “Like, she’s protective?”

“Yes. It’s the same with all my siblings. They think everyone is sh*t until proven otherwise.”

“It’s funny, I don’t see that same bone in you very much.”

Derek shrugs. “I’m not that pessimistic. My family is strange.”

The Hales are quite strange, all things said. Derek’s older sister was very popular and pretty, on the cheerleading squad and everything, and now she’s some big shot lawyer in LA with tons of cars and money and she’s already been divorced, like, two times. She’s only five years older than Derek. Being twice divorced before you’re thirty is some mental illness sh*t, but Stiles does not judge. And then there’s his twin sister Cora, who we’ve seen is just mean and judgmental and conniving, to a point. Derek’s brother is only a year older and he had no interest in higher education, and he makes, like, frog figurines and sh*t. Stiles doesn’t even barely know. He’s just seen the frogs on Instagram. They sell. Good for him.

Then there’s Derek. History major. Can’t function without a bong hit. Famously irritating. Big dumb face. None of them fit together very well. It’s like they were all raised by different parents at different times. Stiles can’t really judge it – he is, after all, an only child.

“Well, what’s she got to be all protective about me for? I’m harmless,” he puts his hands on his chest. “Plus, we’re not even really doing much of anything. We’re just supposed to be having fun and all that.”

Derek is doing his blank faced thing again. “Who knows?”

The drive to Derek’s frat house is a lot shorter than Stiles’ ride to the sorority house was. They’re there in less than five minutes, both of them climbing out and slamming their doors shut behind them. It looks all different without the drunken haze over it, the string lights less blurry, the Greek symbols out front actually legible. They go up the stairs together, and Derek fumbles with his keys to unlock the door, and in they go.

Inside, it’s quiet. Like, dead quiet. Not a soul here.

It occurs to Stiles that there is a reason Derek chose this night of all nights to take Stiles home with him. It’s because there is a party, and all his friends and roommates are at that party, and are as such, not here. The house is empty and theirs. Derek saw to it that it was. The idea makes him blush, and he doesn’t want Derek to see his cheeks going pink, so he ducks his head and holds his board like his comfort object.

In Derek’s room, Derek shuts the door behind them and locks it. Holy sh*t. He’s not even subtle about it, either. Stiles guesses he’s thankful, because he does not think he’d survive having Isaac Lahey bursting in and seeing his bare ass. Stiles puts his skateboard up against the wall, and he has this brief second of all consuming, terrifying unsurety, because he does not know what to say or do or how to act, but luckily, Derek saves the day, yet again.

He sits down on the edge of his bed and he says, “want to smoke a little?”

Ah. But it is Derek’s calling card. Of course this is what he says. Stiles sits down right next to him and folds his hands in between his lap so he won’t fidget too much and give away his nerves. “Yeah, okay.”

“Do you, very much?” Stiles is watching him reach onto the desk right next to the bed, picking up his bong, perching it in between his legs.

“What?”

“Do you smoke very much?”

“Oh, um, no. I mean, I have before. I’ve done it a few times. But it’s not something I’m like, doing all the time.” The word vomit is embarrassing and he feels childish, the same way he did the very first time he smoked anything, like a fumbling idiot who doesn’t know his lines.

“That’s okay.”

Stiles nods. He watches Derek’s fingers work, packing everything into the bong neatly, because he does this all the time. This is his entire life, Stiles thinks, looking around Derek’s bedroom, his messy hamper, his desk scattered with school papers, all the posters on the walls. There’s a corkboard over the bed that has pictures of him, and his family, and his friends all over it. Concert tickets. Movie tickets. It feels strange to be in the bedroom of someone Stiles has known, and not known, his entire life. Stiles recognizes the faces in the pictures but some names he cannot come up with.

It’s in his style to just start babbling, so he does. “Isn’t it so weird to think about how, like, we’ve known each other our whole lives? Do you remember in Kindergarten when your mom forgot to pack your lunch so I shared half my peanut butter and jelly with you?”

Derek’s fingers still. And he looks Stiles right in the eye. “You remember that?”

Stiles shrugs. “Sure, I do. I was pissed. Nothing was more sacred to me as a child than my peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. The fact I gave you even a bite was so Mother Theresa of me.”

“It was,” he agrees. He shakes his head and leans down, clicking a lighter, taking a great big hit. Stiles watches him and for some reason, because he’s psychotic or mentally ill, or because he’s just eighteen and hormonal, he finds the entire thing immensely sexual. Like, hottest thing ever levels. It gets really bad when Derek leans back, and holds it, and then releases it all slow. The smoke pools over their heads and Stiles’ mouth is dry, cotton mouth already before even having taken a hit, and then before he knows it the thing is being handed to him and Derek is pushing the lighter into his palm. “…really it was very Hunger Games of you.”

Stiles hesitates before doing anything. “Hunger Games?”

“Well, I’m making a literary reference. Since you study literature.”

“The Hunger Games is advanced lit now?”

“I’m just being funny,” he waves his hand. “I meant, because, in The Hunger Games, Peeta gives Katniss bread. And it like, puts a soft spot in her heart for him even though she’s this like, total hardened person.”

“Huh.” Stiles thinks about that. “Astute. Maybe you should study literature.”

“Quite astute.”

Stiles does his own thing, and he’s a little awkward because it’s been like a solid year since the last time he smoked much of anything, but he remembers the basic mechanics. It’s harsh on his throat and he coughs a lot, eyes filling with tears, but Derek isn’t rude about it. He pats Stiles on the back a bit and Stiles waves him off with half a laugh.

“I would never be Peeta Mellark,” Stiles says after taking a good breath.

“Well, you were,” Derek insists, taking the bong back. “You gave me your PB&J.”

“It wasn’t as though you were starving to death in the rain trying to feed your family,” Stiles goes on, watching Derek go at it again, the smoke rising, Derek’s eyes red.

“No,” he shrugs. “But I think you see yourself as this totally fatalistic, selfish person who totally shuts himself off to the world. In reality, you’re not really like that.” He goes to hand Stiles the bong. Stiles refuses it.

“No, I haven’t smoked in forever, one is good. And, uh, what? Who said I was fatalistic?”

Derek gives him a look. “You described your ex-boyfriend to me as Beelzebub.”

“Those were Cora’s words,” Stiles corrects. “Though, she was not wrong. And, anyway, lest we forget, we have barely even known each other, Derek Hale. We passed each other in hallways and saw one another in the cafeteria. But you never knew me. I was always, such an outskirts person. I don’t know.”

Derek snaps his fingers. “That’s what I mean. You see yourself way differently.”

“Than what? Than how you see me?”

“Well, yeah.” He says it like it’s so obvious.

“Then how do you see me?”

Derek goes quiet. He looks at the bong in his hands and then he puts it back down on his desk, settling it down with a bit of a clatter. He runs a hand through his hair and he thinks, very long, and very hard, about what to say to that. Stiles just sits and watches him, honestly, because one hit really did do just enough. Derek smokes good weed. Clearly.

And then, Derek does a big smile, leaning back on his hands and appraising Stiles all the way, head to toe. “As someone I’d really like to f*ck,” is what he settles on saying, and it’s just shocking enough, and Stiles is just stoned enough, to find that very flattering and very funny both, so he laughs. It derails the entire conversation.

“You didn’t think that about me in high school.”

“I did, that’s the totally crazy thing.”

“f*ck off.”

“Come on,” Derek nudges him, with his shoulder, and then he turns and faces Stiles more directly. And he does something that totally blows Stiles’ mind, which is to take Stiles by his face, just two fingers on his chin gently, and he looks Stiles right in the eyes. He is stoned, but he is honest. His fingers are warm. “Looked in the mirror lately?”

Stiles goes red from the top of his forehead down to the tips of his toes, and he looks away. No one has ever said something like that to him. It’s almost embarrassing, and Stiles immediately reads it as a very calculated statement, just to get into Stiles’ pants.

“Haven’t you ever had someone call you attractive before?” Derek asks him, because he can see it plain as day all over Stiles, that no, no one ever really has. At least, not like that.

Stiles pulls his face away from Derek’s hand. “Coming from you?”

“Coming from me.”

“Meanwhile, you look like someone chiseled you out of marble, or something.”

Derek touches Stiles again. He puts his hand on Stiles’ neck, cups it all gentle, and this touch, Stiles does not shy away from. “You look like a Caravaggio painting come to life.”

“You are so f*cking high,” Stiles laughs, shaking his head. “You have got to be kidding me. You need to get laid this bad?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Fine. We can skip all the weird flattery,” Stiles pulls his hoody up and over his head, tossing it aside onto Derek’s floor. Derek watches it hit the ground, as though mystified by the fact that Stiles’ clothes are on his bedroom floor right now, and then he looks at Stiles. He analyzes the t-shirt, and he grins.

“I love the shirt.”

It’s Stiles’ My Chemical Romance shirt from eleventh grade. It’s a classic. He won’t retire it. “I’m sure you do,” Stiles rolls his eyes.

“As if I couldn’t possibly know a My Chemical Romance song. So niche. So alternative.”

“Can I just get undressed without the peanut gallery commentary?”

“Oh, sure, don’t let me stop you,” he puts his hands up in surrender. “Don’t be shy. Here, look, I’ll do it, too,” he shrugs out of his jacket, and then he takes his shirt off with no hesitation, and Stiles pointedly looks away for as long as he can before he is forced to look anyway.

Well. He’d say that he’s surprised. But it would be a lie. Of course he looks like that. Stiles was not kidding about the carved out of marble thing, earlier – dude looks distinctly Grecian. He’s all tan skin and hard lines and firm, and big, and very…square. You know. A perfect shape. It’s of course very easy for him to take his shirt off, but Stiles is hesitating, you know? Stiles has watched p*rn and he’s seen idealized bodies and he knows he doesn’t really look like any of that stuff. He’s just sort of thin and bony and awkward angles, and he is no Caravaggio.

Derek can read him like he’s got his thoughts written on his face. “Haven’t I been clear that I find you attractive?”

“In the abstract. Uh, whatever,” he quickly takes his shirt off and throws it aside. Then he’s there, in Derek’s bedroom, his nipples pebbling in the open air. There’s this urge inside of him to fold his arms over his chest but that would just be pathetic, so there he sits. No shirt on. With another boy who also has no shirt on. This is the part where something should happen, but nothing does, and they sit. And sit.

Derek is looking at him. Stiles swallows a lump in his throat.

The babbling returns.

“I know you’ve told me you’ve like, barely slept with as many people as I imagined that you have, but I keep feeling like I’m in a bed that many others have been in before me. In that, I feel sort of – well.” He has no idea where he was going with that.

Derek co*cks his head to the side. “You’ve been imagining my bed, have you?”

Stiles rolls his eyes so hard he’s surprised they don’t pop out of his skull and roll away. “You are so f*cking annoying.”

“I never pictured you as skittish.”

“Who said skittish? Skittish isn’t the word. Just – um. The last time I had sex was with my ex-boyfriend.”

“Beelzebub.”

“Yes, that one. And it’s sort of, like, been a while. So. I don’t know, this is insane, it’s like, let’s just f*cking do it.”

“That is so sexy of you to say,” Derek laughs, moving close to Stiles, with all his abs and everything, and Stiles hears a red alert going off in his head. He’s so hot and so close, and his skin is warm, Stiles can literally feel the heat coming off of him. They are kissing close again, only this time, it’s pretty much a given that they are going to kiss, and Stiles’ eyes dart to Derek’s lips before he can help himself.

Derek notices. He notices everything. Who knew he was so observant?

He is also someone who takes advantage of invitations. And Stiles staring at Derek’s lips like that is a big invitation, and Derek isn’t about to say no – for Christ’s sake, they have their shirts off in bed together. Why hesitate?

Derek leans in and kisses Stiles on the mouth. It lingers. Stiles is open eyed, so he’s staring right at Derek’s closed eyes and his forehead and he blinks and feels outside of himself.

He is kissing Derek Hale. This is bananas.

They pull apart, or Derek at least pulls away, and they meet one another’s eyes. Derek smiles at him and he says, “did you just kiss me with your eyes open?”

“Um, yeah,” he laughs, high and tight. “I’m nuts.”

It doesn’t seem to matter very much to Derek, because he goes at it again, a bit more eager. They kiss, and Stiles closes his eyes this time, and at first it’s just their lips. Then it’s a bit of tongue, Derek’s pressing against Stiles’ lips first, Stiles letting him in, and then the face eating begins. Derek is apparently a very passionate person, or he’s just really, really f*cking horny, because he kisses Stiles like his very life depends upon it, and in seconds, it’s all hands and touching and gasping for air between kisses and then going back in for more, and Derek touches his face again and Stiles likes it, likes all of this, actually.

He has never been kissed like this before. It feels intimate in a way no one has ever been with him. Derek has an innate knowledge of the human body or something, the way he knows just where to touch and how to kiss and how to move his body to insure maximum turn-on.

They don’t say anything else to each other. Derek maneuvers him, without words, so they’re turned on the bed lengthwise, and then Derek is climbing on top of him. He gets in between Stiles’ legs, and presses in close. From this vantage point, Stiles thinks the best thing he could possibly do is touch Derek’s chest, because, like, come the f*ck on. What else is he going to do? Not touching it just isn’t an option. He puts both hands directly on it, and feels it, and feels psychotic doing it, as though Derek is going to slap his hands away at any second.

He doesn’t. He likes it. He leans in closer to the touch, bearing over Stiles on his hands, kissing him all open mouthed again. Stiles moves his hands up and down on Derek, tan skin, big arms, broad shoulders. Derek goes after Stiles’ neck with his mouth, kissing a trail down to his collarbones, and Stiles can’t help himself. It’s a sensitive spot.

He cants his hips up into Derek. And it feels really good, all of that friction, even though they’re both still in jeans and their underwear. Through all those layers it still feels f*cking amazing, so he does it again, and breathes out a tiny little moan that can barely count as a moan, but is received in Derek’s brain as a moan nonetheless. Because he goes sorta nuts.

He pulls off of Stiles’ neck and sits up, undoing his belt all frantic. Stiles can see the bulge in it. It looks, um, big. So. There’s that. As he’s pushing his zipper down and beginning to shove it all down his hips, he looks Stiles dead in the eyeballs and asks, breathy and low, “can I get inside of you?”

Stiles laughs. It’s an inappropriate response, but it’s the one he has. “Uh, yeah. Just –“ Derek’s pants and underwear are off his hips and halfway down his thighs, and his co*ck is out. It just pops right out and Stiles sees it with his own eyes and it catches him off guard. He knew it would be big.

But it’s not even that it’s big. Lengthwise. It’s sort of average lengthwise, maybe seven or eight inches, Stiles doesn’t have a ruler on him. It’s just…thick. And veiny. And Stiles has this bizarre thought that there is no way that thing is going inside of him. It’s not even a matter of he doesn’t want it inside him, it’s more a matter of, if he knew this is what he’d be working with, he’d have prepared himself, gotten a plug, something, you know? He can’t feasibly take that without a lot of prep.

He voices these concerns out loud. “So, uh, ha,” he nervously swallows. “Listen. I would love to get an anal tear, truly, but –“

Derek laughs. “I wouldn’t hurt you.”

“I’m saying, well, here’s what I’m saying,” he puts his hands on Derek’s chest again, looks him in the eyes from under him, and it feels insane to have this conversation while Derek’s naked co*ck is just there between them being all red and veiny and thick, but here they are. “I do not think that is entering me tonight. I’m sorry. You didn’t send me a picture. I’d have…um. Prepared. And I didn’t. Can I be like, really blunt?”

Derek shrugs. “Okay.”

“…Theo did not have a very big –“

Derek laughs out loud, his head thrown back and everything, so Stiles is stuck staring at the column of his throat and his adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he just laughs, and laughs.

“And I’m only saying that because I need you to know I’ve just never taken anything like that and am feeling nervous and – just – we can do it next time, but, I’m too nervous to –“

“Okay. Okay. It’s okay,” he’s still laughing, but he’s trying to stifle it. “Okay. Yes. It’s fine, you don’t have to explain. Jesus.”

“I’m sorry. I know it’s super lame to –“

“It isn’t. Jesus. It’s not. That is just so f*cking funny,” he looks at the wall, his eyes going far away, as though he’s just thinking about it and getting the biggest kick of his life out of it. “It was that small?”

“I did not say small.”

“You took one look at this,” he fists his own co*ck and sort of jerks it, “and ran for the hills. It must’ve been pretty small.”

“I did not say small,” he repeats, with finality.

“Now, what are you doing defending his manhood? I thought he was your jailer in Dante’s Inferno. We can’t make fun of his tiny co*ck, now?”

Stiles laughs. He slaps his hand over his mouth and shakes his head, but he laughs all the same, and Derek sees it. He likes it. It makes him smile, too, taking Stiles’ wrist to pull his hand off of his face, leaning down to kiss him like he just can’t help it.

“You didn’t send me a picture,” Stiles says this again, and Derek laughs at him. “Um. Next time I’ll – just so I can take it better. I mean, it looks great,” he gestures to it there again. “Like, ten out of ten.”

“You keep saying next time,” Derek does his annoying head co*cking thing, and he smirks. “I thought you were all, this is a one and done thing, and I’ll wash my hands of it and never look at you on campus again. Huh? What happened to that?”

Stiles puts his chin in the air, indignant. “Well, that was before I saw your f*cking monster of the week co*ck. Now, I have no choice. I couldn’t live with myself knowing I walked away from that. So, fine. You get one more.”

“That’s very generous of you.” The chit chat is over, it clearly is, because Derek’s fingers are on Stiles’ jeans. He’s undoing the button, the zipper, digging his fingers around the waist of it and tugging down. Stiles’ earlier reticence at being seen by Derek’s eyes is pretty much gone, because Derek has seen most of him and still has that erect of a dick, so he must not hate what he sees too much. And, anyway, Stiles is too turned on to bother with being shy, anymore. The situation has gotten more comfortable, their bodies close, no room for shyness anymore.

Derek bares Stiles’ entire body and throws the clothes away like they bother him, putting his hands on Stiles’ hips and squeezing a bit. “Yours is nice,” Derek says.

Stiles gives him a look. “It’s passable.”

“No, it’s more than passable. You even shaved and everything.”

Stiles did. Meanwhile, Derek’s is hairy as his arms are, which, uh, is kinda the entire appeal of Derek, Stiles is starting to learn. Hair.

“Um, how do you wanna…?” Stiles trails off, licking his lips. “You want me to – or we could like jerk each other off, or…?”

“I have an idea,” Derek says. He leans back on his haunches and then sits down all the way, on the side of the bed, so it jiggles and rustles. Stiles sits up onto his elbows and watches, as Derek reaches for his desk and pulls open one of the top drawers. Inside, Stiles notices a treasure trove.

“Um, hello,” Stiles says, leaning over to get a better look at its contents. He has condoms by the f*cking dozen, different kinds, ribbed, flavored, colored, lube and lube and lube, tiny bottles and big bottles and more flavors and more colors, and there are some toys, too, but Stiles doesn’t get a good enough look before Derek slams it shut. “What’s all that?”

“You don’t have sex toys?”

“I don’t have an entire drawer in my bedroom dedicated to sex toys, no.”

“Stilinski. I can’t keep hearing about how bad sex was with Beelzebub. I just can’t take it anymore,” he has a bottle of lube, and is sitting back down on the bed, on the edge. “Small dick, no toys, why bother?”

Stiles licks his lips. He glances at the drawer again because he’s curious. He’s only used toys on himself, never played with them with somebody else.

It doesn’t matter either way, because Derek is horny and he wants to come, duh, and he’s busy over there slicking himself up nice and good. He turns over his shoulder to look at where Stiles is still half laid out on his bed and he jerks his head and says, “come over here.”

Stiles does not need to be asked twice. He pushes himself up and crawls over to Derek, thinking he’ll just sit down right next to him and jerk him off or what have you, but Derek takes him by his wrist and pulls him to stand up.

“Here. Like this,” he takes Stiles by his hips, backing him up, settling Stiles down on his lap. “Open your – like this –“ he spreads Stiles’ legs, and Stiles is mostly just along for the ride at this point. He and Theo never did anything like this, so for a moment, he’s got no clue where all this is going – he gets the idea when Derek shoves himself between Stiles’ thighs. He pushes Stiles’ legs closed, so Derek is pressed firm in between all of Stiles’ skin, and sort of shudders a bit. He had made himself so slick that it doesn’t take barely any effort on either of their parts; Derek moves his hips just enough that it just glides, in between Stiles’ thighs, and he swears under his breath.

“I can’t –“ he mutters, and then he stands up, and Stiles has no choice but to go along with him. “Can I bend you over the desk or is that too –“

“No, it’s fine,” Stiles says, breathy, hasty. He’s very turned on. He wants to be f*cked even if its just a mimicry of it. “I’ll – here –“ he puts his hands on the edge of the desk and grips, leaning over it, looking over his shoulder. It’s already all wet with lube between his thighs, and he keeps them pressed tight, as Derek angles himself and pushes forward.

“Jesus, that feels way better than it should,” he says this maybe mostly to himself, moving with his hands on Stiles’ hips. One dips lower, clasping Stiles’ left ass cheek firmly, massaging it almost. The slick sound of Derek in between his legs is a little gross, but he doesn’t really mind. He looks down at his front, and he sees the head of Derek’s dick poking out between his thighs and then disappearing, and he can’t stand how sexy it is to him that Derek is so big, and it only gets worse when Derek reaches his hand around and strokes Stiles.

Stiles’ eyes roll back in his head. “Ah, that’s good,” he closes his eyes and breathes.

“You have such nice legs,” Derek says out of nowhere. It gives Stiles some pause, lifting an eyebrow and opening his eyes. Derek forgoes stroking Stiles off in favor of taking him by his hips again and pulling Stiles’ body back and forth on his co*ck with the leverage, over and over, panting and swearing the entire f*cking time. Stiles bites his lip, and he looks at Derek’s wall, pictures of his friends and family, and has to look away quickly. This is some obscene sh*t. His mother does not need to be involved in all this.

Derek comes. It’s a big f*cking mess. It squirts out between Stiles’ thighs and goes on top of his desk, all over Stiles’ legs, dripping down, and Derek puts his forehead on Stiles’ shoulderblade. He breathes. In and out. In and out. Stiles shifts a little and Derek is still in between his thighs, so he makes a tiny little surprised sound, too much stimulation for him, and Stiles laughs.

With one hand, Derek reaches in and pushes Stiles’ legs apart, freeing himself. “I can’t believe I just came all over you,” his voice is low, scratchy. “You, of all people.”

“Uh, yeah, and your mom watched.”

“Don’t f*cking say sh*t like that,” he booms, but there’s no real venom in it – more humor, than anything else. He turns Stiles around by his shoulders and looks him in the eyes.

They stare at one another. Something goes in between them, like shared knowledge that this is weird, this is so strange, that it’s them, and they’re here, but they don’t let it stop them. Why would they? At this point?

It’s gone beyond stopping.

Derek pushes Stiles back, so the backs of his legs hit the desk. He uses both hands to heft Stiles up on top of it, pushing books and papers and an empty can of co*ke aside in a clatter onto the floor. Stiles is feeling like he weighs nothing, is a feather, light as at least, and he laughs. It feels good to be close to someone again, to be touched, to laugh at sex because it’s funny.

Theo never found it funny. He’d get all weird when Stiles would laugh. Like Stiles was pointing and laughing at his tiny dick. Stiles never actually did, but f*ck it, maybe he should have.

“I can’t believe I have Stiles f*ck-off Stilinski here in my bedroom,” Derek says, his eyes on Stiles’ face like they’re magnetized and glued, can’t look anywhere else. “And I’m about to jerk him off.”

“How about we stop talking about it and start doing it,” Stiles insists, pulling Derek closer in between his legs.

Derek smiles, but he does it. He grips Stiles in his hand, still wet from lubing himself up earlier, and strokes him up and down. It’s slow, easy, like Derek is taking the time to learn Stiles’ entire body inside and out instead of just jerking him off for the sake of it. Stiles likes it, of course he does, it’s a hand on his dick, and there hasn’t been a hand on his dick in quite some time. He just enjoys it, curling his toes and pushing his hips up to meet Derek’s strokes.

Derek’s spare hand reaches up, to Stiles’ face again. He presses his palm against Stiles’ cheek, and makes direct eye contact with him, his thumb tracing over Stiles’ parted lips again and again. He is looking at Stiles so f*cking intently, gazing into him, and Stiles does, just for this moment, feel sort of like a Caravaggio painting.

It’s in the way Derek looks at him. You know, Stiles can picture Derek at a museum looking at a piece of art like that. The serious furrow to his brow. The open amazement in his eyes.

He really can’t believe it. He can’t believe Stiles is here. It shows all over his face.

Stiles comes on a high whine and then quickly hides his face in Derek’s neck. It’s so instantaneous he doesn’t even realize how intimate of a gesture it is, to bury himself in Derek’s body like that, but Derek doesn’t mind. He might even like it, from the way he doesn’t push Stiles away.

They stay close for maybe ten or so seconds. The high from the org*sm fades. Stiles remembers where he is, again. He feels sort of insane that he thought all that sh*t about Derek Hale, just then.

He takes his face out of Derek’s neck and gives him a look. Derek looks back. Feels weird.

He cannot believe he just hooked up with Derek Hale. It just keeps going around and around in his head.

Derek is an expert, at ice breaking. He says, “I am still thinking about Theo Raeken’s tiny dick.”

It’s the perfect thing to say, because it makes Stiles laugh, cover his face with his hands. “I definitely shouldn’t have told you that. That was petty of me.”

“From what you’ve told me, maybe you deserve to be a bit petty. And after all, you’re supposed to be mean and sh*tty, I thought,” he lifts his eyebrows, like they’re in on something together. “Or so you think of yourself.”

“Well,” he rubs at his bare arm. He’s naked and is starting to feel uncomfortable with that.

“Let me get something to clean up,” Derek says, and then he goes for his bedroom door, unlocks it, and walks out all naked without a care in the world, leaving Stiles alone with himself and his thoughts. Which is perhaps the worst possible thing that Derek could do to him. Because Stiles is about to overthink this sh*t like it’s his very job to do so. Who are we kidding?

He looks at the mess of sh*t Derek had pushed off of his desk in his haste to get Stiles up on top of it. He looks at his clothes all scattered on the floor amongst Derek’s own clothes. The messy bed sheets. The drawer that houses all of Derek’s sex toys. He has never known a certifiable stranger so intimately, and it makes him clam up. What are they meant to say to one another now? Being all, ha ha, and mean to each other, feels totally out of the question.

But that is Stiles’ comfort zone.

Stiles stands up and his legs feel weird. He goes and pecks at the clothes on the floor, picking up what’s his, avoiding what isn’t, and in the time it takes him to gather his things up, Derek comes back. He has a handful of wet paper towels in his hand, and offers a couple to Stiles.

“Thanks,” Stiles says. And then he has to open his legs and swipe in between them to get the lube off of his skin, and feels so stupid doing it, but Derek isn’t even paying attention. He’s busy swiping come off of his desk, and that makes Stiles’ face hot.

Once Stiles is cleaned up, he pulls his underwear and pants on. His My Chemical Romance shirt that Derek liked. Desperate for a segue, he blurts, “do you really like My Chemical Romance?”

Derek nods. “Yes, but I meant that I liked the shirt because you’ve been wearing it for years.”

“Oh, yeah, uh, I have,” he rubs at the back of his neck. “Sorry, I’m feeling awkward.”

“Awkward? With me? I just made you come. Maybe don’t feel so awkward around me anymore.”

He has a point. But then that’s the entire reason he does feel awkward around him. Stiles decides to square his shoulders and power right on through it.

“Hey, you don’t have to go. You can sleep here.”

Absolutely f*cking not. What are they, boyfriends? sh*t no. “Maybe you could drive me home? Or, I can skate. No big deal.”

“Skate home at two in the morning? I’ll drive you.” Stiles does not know why it’s so absurd for Stiles to skate home at two in the morning because he’s done it hundreds of times before in his life, but nevertheless, Derek is offering, and Stiles won’t pass it up. He puts his shoes on and ties them, as Derek does the same, and the silence seems comfortable for him, but is utterly miserable for Stiles. He wants to fill it with incessant chatter about anything other than what just happened, but he keeps his mouth shut.

When they emerge downstairs, Stiles is humiliated to discover that Isaac Lahey is here, home from wherever he had been, sitting on the couch in the living room with a movie on. He’s drinking a beer, leaning back among the pillows, and he blinks at the sight of Stiles coming down his steps this late at night. With Derek right behind him.

It’s obvious what has just happened. Stiles’ hair is tousled. Their clothes are all mussed.

“Hi, Stiles,” Isaac greets. He sounds incredulous.

“Hi,” Stiles says quietly, ducking his head. He’s never this shy. He can’t help it. This is the walk of f*cking shame.

He goes right to the door and goes out onto the porch like he can’t get out of here fast enough, and Derek is hot on his trail. When the door shuts behind them and they’re alone on the front porch, Stiles whisper hisses, “god that was humiliating.”

“Was it?” Derek sounds amused.

“He knows we f*cked.”

“Okay. And? It’s my best friend. He was going to know anyway.”

“What?” Stiles shouts this a little too loud, and then quickly lowers his voice. “But – well, I haven’t told Scott a f*cking thing.”

This gives Derek some pause. It’s hard to see his face in the dark, but Stiles can see the furrowed brow and the frown well enough. He takes Stiles in head to toe, and he shakes his head. “What, is it embarrassing to you?”

“No, I didn’t –“

“You still think I’m an idiot so far below you, is that it?”

“I didn’t say that,” he snaps, and his voice is loud again, but now he doesn’t care. “No. I did not say that. I just – this whole thing is – and I don’t – I’ve never just…sorry. Jesus. I didn’t mean for it to come out that way. Or, like I’m embarrassed. I mean, I am embarrassed, but not because it’s you. Because it’s me. I don’t do sh*t like this.”

Derek regards him. He’s thinking that over. “Stiles, you know, for someone who acts like you could not care less what people think of you, you sure do care a whole f*ck of a lot. Come on, let’s go.”

Derek takes the porch steps two at a time just to get off of it sooner, perhaps to get away from Stiles and his sh*tty attitude sooner, but Stiles lingers there for a moment, watching his back move as he walks toward his truck.

Stiles feels badly. He doesn’t know why.

Chapter 3: Thank You

Chapter Text

Derek and Stiles did not say barely three words to one another on the drive back to Stiles’ dorm that night. It was one of the most horrible car rides that Stiles has ever had, and that is pretty impressive, considering it was barely five minutes. It felt like an eternity, trapped in a tight enclosed space with a man he just had sex with but now could not look directly in the eyes of. Stiles knows that he said, or did, something sh*tty, and he is the reason they’ve been thrown for a loop. He knows that.

He is notorious for being a jackass and pushing people away. It stands to reason that Theo was the only one who could actually hang onto him for any great length of time – Theo had claws, and he gripped on. Trying to escape him hurt too badly.

All that aside, Stiles feels like sh*t over it. What Derek says is nearly true, at least up to a point. He’s not the cold-hearted egotistical asshole that he likes to dress himself up to be. But he can, on occasion, wear the costume, and play the part, and he did that night. It was a defense mechanism. He’s self-aware enough to admit that Derek didn’t necessarily deserve…whatever it was exactly that Stiles said to make him that angry. Angry enough to stew in silence in the driver’s side and toss Stiles out like a sack of potatoes on the side of the road at the earliest possible convenience.

The entire evening is haunting him. In more ways than one. He tries his level best to put his nose up and say, good riddance! This is, after all, going exactly the way he had wanted it to go. He would have sex with Derek, wash his hands, go back to class and the library and his hidden corners, and be through with it. Now, he’s faced with exactly that reality, and he doesn’t like it.

He keeps thinking of the way that Derek had touched Stiles’ face. It was a unique touch he had never experienced before in his life. No one’s touched him so delicately before. Stiles usually has his barbed wire up, and Derek just didn’t seem to mind all that much. And he thinks about the way Derek laughs at everything that Stiles says, because he thinks Stiles is funny and smart and well read, instead of just some kid who had books instead of friends growing up.

And he thinks about what Derek has going on between his legs. Because. Yeah. It’s kind of hard not to. Stiles spaces out in his creative writing class with his chin in his palm, thinking about how it would feel, inside of him, and how it would probably hurt, but then feel good, and how Derek would be gentle and just…Stiles sort of really wants to do it.

He is not supposed to. But he does. He cannot help himself. The touches linger.

It is for all of these reasons that, when Stiles sees Derek by himself at a table at the coffee shop off campus, Stiles does not turn tail and run. Like he should. He should go right out the door and avoid eye contact and skate clean away, like the final nail in the coffin of whatever is going on in between them. Stiles orders his drink, and as he’s standing there waiting for it to come up at the counter, he and Derek make direct eye contact.

Derek is working on something on his laptop, a handful of books around him, a half-eaten muffin, a coffee of his own. They look right at one another, and then Derek looks away, back to his work.

Okay. Ouch.

Stiles collects his drink when it comes up with a great big sigh, and holds it tight, big sip, caffeine now please, and he approaches Derek. This is a bad idea, his mind is telling him, alarm bells, sirens, red alerts, the whole nine yards, but he walks, one foot in front of the other, and sets his skateboard down very pointedly right next to where Derek is sitting. It clatters, and catches Derek’s attention.

He looks up, and they’re looking one another in the eye again. Stiles says, “hi. Can I sit?”

Derek’s jaw works. And who knows what precisely he sees in Stiles’ face? But he searches it, and then he closes his laptop halfway, and gestures to the empty chair right across from him. Stiles clears his throat and sits right there, putting his coffee down in front of him and holding it in both hands to feel the warmth of it against his palms, soothing and relaxing.

This conversation is sure to be anything but. And to make matters worse, Derek is doing that thing that people do, when they’re mad, and refuse to speak first as a result of it. The spotlight is on Stiles and Stiles alone.

He goes for friendly, first. “Um. So. In spite of what I may have said or done in the wake of it, I actually had a – well. I had a good time that night. You know.”

“Really,” Derek’s tone is flat, and he leans back in his seat and crosses his arms over his chest. The big hairy ones, yes. Stiles swallows the lump in his throat. “That explains why you couldn’t get out of there fast enough.”

Stiles takes another big sip of his coffee just to buy him some time to come up with a response, and he burns his tongue in the process, and it feels like he deserves it. “I think you’re taking this entire thing way too seriously –“

“Christ,” Derek huffs, and makes a big show out of opening his laptop back up and putting his fingers back to the keys. “You’re such a god damn difficult person to deal with, and I’m in the middle of a massive project, so, maybe let’s just not.”

“Well, whoa, why does saying that make me a dick? It was supposed to be,” he leans forward and lowers his voice, so no one in the café will hear him when he says, “casual sex. And, and, I told you I don’t know how to do that, so I’m sorry if I was all awkward and weird after the fact. Okay?”

Derek eyeballs him. “Awkward and weird is fine. You made it seem like anyone knowing that you and I had sex would be the end of the entire world. Made me feel like it was high school all over again. You’re supposed to be turning over a new leaf. I thought.”

He palms his face, and he feels bad. Because that is sort of exactly how he acted, and it was sort of exactly like high school. And he is supposed to be avoiding behaving that way anymore, because he’s an adult, now. “Okay, yeah. All right. But, um, the thing is, that, anyone knowing that you and I had sex would not be the end of the world. And I kinda tried to say that, that night?”

Derek blinks at him.

“When – I told you, it’s not that I think you’re, like, embarrassing to be seen with. It’s just that, I am very…private. I’m not big on being seen like that, you know, walking out of your bedroom with my clothes all messed up and my hair ruined because we obviously had sex. I don’t know, I’m a big freak. I’m not socialized properly. Or something,” he rubs at the back of his neck and averts his eyes. “…I was just reacting. I didn’t mean to make you feel that way. Because, again. I actually really liked it. So. Yeah. Sorry. I was a jerk.”

It takes a few seconds of Derek considering this, and analyzing him. It’s as though he is wondering if he should trust this apology, or Stiles at all, taking him in and deciding whether or not he seems very sincere.

“And I don’t think you’re an embarrassing idiot. I mean, definitely dumb, and definitely oafish, but,” he’s angling for lightening the mood and being funny, and actually, it works. Derek’s lips twitch.

“All right, fine,” Derek closes his laptop all the way this time and shrugs his shoulders. “I guess I do know how you get all weird when faced with even a modicum of PDA. I seem to remember you and Theo never even so much as holding hands in public, let alone walking around letting it be known you’d had sex with him.”

Derek seems to have a particular vested interest in Stiles’ ex-boyfriend. If he didn’t know any better, he’d call it jealousy plain and simple, but luckily, he does know better. Derek and Theo famously did not get along in middle school; in high school, they sort of blipped off each other’s radars. Hence why Stiles was surprised that Derek was even aware they dated at all.

Old rivalries die hard. Especially among men.

“Well, Theo was not a hand holding guy, let’s be clear. I tried once and he ripped himself out of my hand like I was on fire.”

Derek frowns at him. “He sounds great.”

“Beelzebub, remember?” Then, he waves his hands, to wave Theo away from the conversation. “Anyway. What are you working on? Since it’s so important.”

Derek lets the subject drop and takes the segue, smirking and leaning back in his chair, stretching himself out so the evidence that he’s long is all out on display. Stiles drinks his coffee. This is so f*cking embarrassing. “It’s for my ancient Greece class.”

“That makes sense,” he says without thinking about it first.

“Why does that make sense?”

“Oh, uh,” he goes red. It just keeps getting f*cking worse. “…you look like – well. Remember I said you’re carved out of marble. Ha ha.”

Derek leans forward and puts his chin in his palm, and he smirks, his annoying f*cking smirk, the most annoying one, and he co*cks his head to the side. It’s all his most annoying Derekisms at once. Stiles is defenseless. “Remember I said you look like a Caravaggio painting?”

Sadly, Stiles does remember this. A lot. Frequently. He has more than once since that night looked at himself in the mirror and tried to see what it is that Derek saw in him, what could’ve possibly driven him to say that to Stiles, and has come up empty. Stiles always just sees himself. Not his favorite picture.

“I’m taking an Italian art class, too. Go figure.”

“Who knew Derek Hale was so well rounded?”

“Everybody who gave me the time of day in high school, as it would turn out.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “How many times are we going to go over this? I ignored you in high school. We get it.”

Derek touches his chest, right around his heart. “The wounds go deep.”

They laugh a little at that, and then they’re just there together, in the corner. There is nobody at any of the tables closest to them, and it feels secluded and quiet, nothing but the sound of quiet chatter and the steam wand and the grinder. They’re right by the window, and Stiles looks out and sees people walking by, mostly other students, backpacks and bikes and hydroflasks as far as the eye can see.

Stiles fiddles with the lid on his drink. “So, uh, are you going out this weekend again?”

“I’m in a frat. It’s like I have no f*cking choice. Sitting at home alone sometimes sounds a lot better than what goes on at these parties.”

“Oh, I totally relate,” he eagerly interjects, nodding. “I uh – I love to sit at home and read. Even on a Friday night.”

Derek gives him a look. It’s calculating. “Why are you asking me what I’m doing this weekend?”

“What? Oh, I’m curious.”

“Curious about what?”

“Your – like, what you’re –“ he gestures at Derek, as though this alone will answer Derek’s question. Of course, it does not, and Derek gets a slow, easy smile on his face. Like he’s won a contest, or something.

And he points at Stiles across the table, and he says, point blank, “you want to have sex with me.”

Stiles goes so red he may as well be spread across a pizza dough. “What? Oh, Derek, come on,” he looks away in disgust and shakes his head and rolls his eyes as though the accusation alone has entirely offended him, but Derek is not that stupid.

He is, actually, not that stupid at all.

“You do. You came over here to apologize and make nice because you want to f*ck me. I should’ve known,” he grins, all his teeth, his big eye crinkling smile that makes Stiles want to eat his own fingers off, “Stiles Stilinski doesn’t do anything without an ulterior motive.”

Stiles gives up on playing coy or denying it. He leans in again and he says, “well, excuse me. I saw what it looks like. I’m human. Okay?”

“See, I never really saw you as human,” Derek laughs. “I always saw you as a sort of otherworldly specimen that had no feelings. My mistake. Turns out, you do have feelings. And your feelings say, I want Derek Hale’s co*ck inside me. Wow.”

Stiles puts both hands over his face. “…yeah, all right.” He’s been broken and beaten down.

“All right,” Derek begins loading his books back into his backpack, slung over the back of his chair. Each book goes in, one by one, and then his laptop, and his pens, and he zips the bag up and gives Stiles an expectant look. “You wanna go?”

“What?” Stiles is alarmed, watching Derek stand up from the table.

“Your place is like, right down the block,” he puts his backpack on, and jerks his head in the general direction of Stiles’ dorm. “You wanna go?”

What he means is, does Stiles want to leave this café and go home with Derek to have sex in Stiles’ bedroom. Stiles is taken aback by the frankness, and the eagerness, with which Derek has taken to the entire idea. He sits there and he looks out the window toward where his dorm is, and he considers it.

Scott is at his three hour nursing lab sh*t. He won’t be back all afternoon. Stiles had just tidied up, so it’s not a cesspool of teenage boy funk. Derek is right there, ready to go, and Stiles is right here, and it’s a five minute walk. It seems like a no brainer.

It feels f*cking insane, yes, to go back to his place in broad daylight to f*ck Derek Hale, but hey. This entire thing keeps taking sharp turns. Stiles is beginning to feel strapped in and along for the ride, nothing more, nothing less.

He gets up and takes his coffee with him. “All right. Let’s – let’s go.”

Outside in the afternoon sunshine, it feels even weirder. Derek puts his sunglasses on and he looks really good like that, and meanwhile, Stiles is stuck squinting and frowning with his face all twisted up. They walk side by side, Derek with his hands in his pockets, Stiles clutching his coffee in one hand and his board in the other.

He keeps thinking about how Derek noticed that Stiles and Theo never held hands. It seems like a weird thing to notice about somebody else’s relationship, and it makes him wonder if Derek is somebody who does like to hold hands.

Not that it matters.

“Did Isaac say anything when you got back home that night?” Stiles asks, and it is a bit out of the clear blue sky. Derek is surprised, but he’s also got candor like a f*cking kid in Divergent, so he tells it precisely like it is.

“He did.” He leaves it at that.

It suggests that Stiles perhaps does not want to know what it was that Isaac said. The problem is, Stiles cannot bear to have information dangled in front of his face and not receive it. He has to know. Whether he really wants to know or not.

“Well, what did he say?”

They are standing at the cross walk to take them back to campus, watching the traffic go by and waiting for the light to change. Derek leans against the telephone pole and he smiles, because this makes him laugh. Most things Stiles says and does make him laugh.

“You really want to know?”

“Derek.” He looks Derek right in the sunglasses and sees his own reflection there. “Who are you speaking to?”

“Nancy Drew, I think.”

“You’d think correct.”

“Well,” the light turns, so they walk across the street, blinding sun and all, and Derek is smiling at his feet like something is particularly funny, and Stiles is not being let in on the joke. “It turns out, he shares the same sentiment as Cora.”

“That I’m evil?”

“No one thinks you’re evil. Also, don’t give yourself so much credit,” he nudges Stiles in the side as they walk. “You’re not exactly a Bond villain.”

“I could be,” he insists, straightening his shoulders. “A few million dollars, a cool car, a big house, some goons, and I could be truly Machiavellian. Like the Joker.”

Derek makes a face. “That’s why no one’s giving you a million dollars. You’d do weird sh*t like have a shark tank built into your floor with a trap door to kill people who say sh*tty things about you.”

Stiles would do exactly that sort of sh*t, as a DC villain. Literally. It’s hilarious that Derek has got him so on the nose like this, so he laughs and he shrugs his shoulders, because there is no use in denying it.

“But it’s not about you being evil,” Derek reiterates. “It’s more that they think you’re sort of…” he searches for the appropriate word. “…emotionally unavailable.”

“Who gives a sh*t?” Is Stiles’ immediate response. He doesn’t even bother arguing. He is, after all, quite emotionally unavailable. Though six months seems like eons, feels like millennia when he thinks about it in the abstract, it really is not that long of a time. It feels like he could turn around and Theo could be right there sometimes. It’s still sort of fresh. “Didn’t you tell him we’re just hooking up?”

Derek looks straight ahead. “Yes,” he says, and it rings as distinctly false. Or at least, it’s not the entire truth – Stiles had not ten seconds ago been thinking about just how honest of a person Derek Hale is, and here he is, struggling to tell even a tiny little white lie.

Stiles doesn’t even care about the lie itself. Derek likely has his own reasons for bending the truth to his friends, and it’s none of Stiles’ business. Hell, he’d be one to talk. Scott still has no f*cking clue this is even happening.

The issue is, what he would be telling his friends. And why he wouldn’t tell Stiles the same thing, when being forthcoming is his most prominent personality trait. Now, this is going to bug the hell out of Stiles, but he doesn’t feel like accusing Derek of lying when they’re on the way to have sex in Stiles’ dorm room, so he just lets it drop.

He allows Derek to keep this particular secret. In any event, Stiles is liable to wheedle it out of him with barely any effort on his part, because Derek is weak. Physically, no. Mentally? Stiles bests him.

“It’s just kind of a weird situation,” Derek goes on, and the red bricks of Stiles’ dorm swim into view. “I don’t think any of them really understand it. It’s not the way that I usually do things. But it’s also not that big of a deal, so I keep telling them all to just cool it.”

“My dorm windows won’t be egged, then?”

“No one will egg your windows. Honestly, nobody even dislikes you, even though you hate everyone.”

“I never said I hated Isaac.”

“Well, you don’t always have to say things, Stiles. He can read it plain as day on your f*cking face, because you don’t work to hide it.”

Well. Stiles has a very expressive face. So sue him. “Do I find him annoying? Sure,” he walks right up to the double doors that lead into his building, tucking his board under his arm and pulling one open, holding it for Derek, who in turn, holds it for him as he passes through. “But I wouldn’t say hate. Hate is a strong word.”

“Right, he was always just Derek Hale adjacent, so you hated him.”

Stiles turns to look at him, right as they’re coming up to the stairs that will lead them to Stiles’ room on the second floor, and they stop. They’re facing one another. “That’s not true,” he insists, and Derek gives him a look, like he doesn’t really believe that. “It’s really not true. I mean, I never liked you, let’s be clear, but uh, it was really more, I just felt left out. Then things got worse when I was with Theo anyways, so, f*ck it. But it was never really entirely about you.”

“Why did things get worse when you were with Theo?”

“Oh, he was crazy,” Stiles turns and takes the first step, then the next, and Derek is right beside him in seconds, matching Stiles’ pace easily. “He would go nuts if I’d spend more time with Scott than him. Let alone if I ever went to a party, or, you know. Had a f*cking life.”

Derek has nothing to say to that for the rest of the walk up the steps, or for the short walk down the hallway to Stiles’ door. He has a furrowed brow and a frown, but not a word to say out loud. That would be a first. Stiles keys into his room, and the door opens, the room only lit up by the sunlight coming in through the window. He flicks on the light, illuminating all the details of it for Derek to take in, as the door shuts behind them.

It’s not much to look at. It’s like any other dorm room in America, most likely, small and cramped and overflowing with books. Stiles’ side is obvious, because his walls are covered in posters of bands and film posters, and Scott’s side is mostly bare, save for a handful of pictures taped up to his wall under his lofted bed, right next to his desk.

“Thank god your bed isn’t lofted,” Derek comments, thumping his bag down on the ground. “We’d probably break it.”

Stiles rolls his eyes as he leans his skateboard up against the wall by his desk, and as he does so, he notices Derek eyeballing all of Stiles’ personal effects. His massive bookshelf by the window that takes up nearly all of his allotted space on that side of the room, his desk, his psycho calendar schedule he has hung up right in front of it to keep track of his assignments, everything in different colored pens that correspond to their respective classes.

“That looks like something you’d find in a serial killer’s house,” Derek says, pointing to the calendar in question.

“So, I’m organized.”

“Uh, I wouldn’t call this,” he gestures, the hundreds of post-its all over it, the chicken scratch only he can read, times and dates and shorthand that mean nothing to anyone else, “organized.”

“It’s a system. My system. And it works.”

Derek’s eyes scan over it some more, and then he bends down and points to this upcoming Friday, the thirteenth, by all coincidences. “We’re having a slasher party this week. Wanna come?”

“Uh,” Stiles sits down on the edge of his bed and shrugs his shoulders.

“It’ll be fun,” Derek presses, and then he’s sitting right next to Stiles, shoulder to shoulder, so close Stiles is almost nervous. “I’m going as Patrick Bateman.”

Of course he is. Stiles shrugs, again, rubbing his hands together in his lap awkwardly. “I don’t really go to stuff like that.”

“I know, that’s why I’m inviting you.”

“Maybe,” is what he decides out loud, though deep down, he has a feeling he will not want to go once Friday does roll around. He has a lot of classwork to get done, and this entire Derek situation has not exactly been helpful, in terms of his schoolwork. He’s behind on his readings, too busy staring out his window thinking about this totally bonkers situation to pay attention.

Derek does that thing he does, where he leans back on his hands and gives Stiles his dubious little smirk. “I’d like it if you came.”

For whatever reason, this makes Stiles feel very, very good about himself. And it makes him clam up a bit, go sweaty around his palms, because a good-looking boy is as good as asking him out, even if the actual situation is a bit more chopped and screwed than that. The two of them aren’t dating, aren’t going to date, because…well. The term oil and water comes to mind.

Although, that feels less and less true the more that Stiles gets to know Derek. The real one. Not the image of him that Stiles had of him when they were in high school.

But they are going to have sex. They’re going to have sex now, and if Stiles decides to go to Derek’s silly slasher party on Friday the 13th, they’re going to have sex then, too. He imagines going back in time to his sixteen-year-old self and telling him that this is all happening, and he imagines very vividly that high school him would bonk college him over the head with a rolled up newspaper for being so f*cking stupid and frivolous.

Still. Stiles sort of can’t help it. Even knowing this entire thing is unlike him. He’ll take his newspaper beating and then go right on ahead and keep doing the bad behavior.

“Well, I’ll think about it,” he decides out loud.

“Okay.” They sit quietly for a moment, because Stiles isn’t sure where to go from here, or how to initiate the sex he’s already shamefully admitted that he wants, but luckily, Derek has no f*cking shame. He nudges Stiles in the shoulder and he says, “so how do you want to do this?”

“Do what?” He knows. He’s just being coy.

“You told me last time that you’d have to do a lot of preparation. So…what’s the preparation?”

“Oh, uh,” he rubs the back of his head, ruffling his hair. Derek watches him. “Well, this is embarrassing, but I’ll just, uh, show you…” he leans over, bending over the edge of the bed and pawing around on the floor under their feet. He comes back up with an old converse shoebox, and Derek observes it like he’s looking at some prop comedy. Stiles wills himself to not hesitate before opening it up, revealing its contents to Derek Hale of all people on earth, and as Derek leans over and looks at it, Stiles chants that it’s not embarrassing, it’s not embarrassing, over and over again in his head. It isn’t. He’s already slept with Derek, in a manner of speaking, and they’re becoming sex friends, and all they really should be talking about with one another is sex anyway, so no. It is not embarrassing.

Well, it is. It’s humiliating. But Stiles just embraces it, lets it cover him up like mist as they sit there together and Derek computes what he’s looking at.

“You want me to put that in you first?” Derek says this all casual, though with a bit of a twinkle in his eye. “You don’t just want me to finger you?”

Stiles holds his ground, though his voice comes out all small. “I’m just nervous. I’d just like to…I mean, sorry, it’s just kinda huge. Has a doctor looked at that thing? Surely it’s not normal.”

“A doctor has looked,” he nods, serious as a heart attack, “he diagnosed me with huge dick syndrome.”

Stiles looks somewhere at an imaginary camera, though he can’t fight it off as his lips twitch at the corners.

“And the side effects include making my partners come every time –“

“All right, ha ha.”

“You said if I wanted you to like me, then I’d have to have the hugest and fattest co*ck and make you come really hard. Well,” he undoes his belt buckle, and Stiles just kinda sits there and watches him in a state of near disbelief, “let’s do it.”

“Uh, all right.” Stiles sets his box aside and shrugs out of his flannel, tossing it aside, as beside him, Derek pulls his own jacket off, his shirt following suit very quickly, turning and watching as Stiles does the same. Stiles only hesitates for a brief moment, before undoing his belt, unzipping his pants, sliding out of them, sitting there totally naked, biting his lip and avoiding Derek’s eye contact for as long as he can stand to do so.

They meet eyes eventually. “It’s funny, shy is not really a term I’d use to describe you in any other situation.”

“Well,” Stiles laughs, because he’s uncomfortable. “I wouldn’t say shy. Just sort of, like, unsure. I’m feeling nervous about the sheer size of that thing and also that it just plain won’t go in. It happens, you know.”

“It hasn’t happened to you, I know that much,” Derek says with his eyebrows up, and Stiles laughs, because it’s kinda fun to talk sh*t about his ex-boyfriend like this. It’s been such a source of pain and misery for him, that laughing about it is novel and exhilarating. “It’s going in. Trust me.”

Stiles takes Derek’s word for it. Hell or high water could likely not keep Derek out of him. f*ck it.

He lies back on the bed and keeps calm by breathing in deep and then out, a big exhalation through his mouth, opening his eyes to find Derek hovering over him. He’s still got on his jeans, undone and hanging loose off his hips a bit, but he comes in between Stiles’ open legs all the same, putting his hands on the loose skin of Stiles’ inner thighs.

His big fingers stroke around there, and it tickles, and feels good. “Just relax. You’re tense.”

“What, you wanna do breathing exercises?” Stiles mocks, though it has no real venom, because actually, that would probably help quite a bit.

Derek doesn’t grace that with a verbal response. Instead, he leans in and kisses Stiles on the mouth, which is a lot f*cking better than any breathing exercise. It takes up all of Stiles’ attention, this slow, intense movement of their mouths together, in the quiet. There are birds singing outside, and sunlight coming in, the fluorescent lights overhead making their skin look particularly bright and stark.

Their mouths separate, and Derek has learned from last time that kissing Stiles on the neck is a really good idea to get him loosened up, so he does that. And he keeps going, to Stiles’ collarbones, the patch of open skin just below it, and then, blessedly, to Stiles’ nipples. He flicks his tongue just once on the left, and Stiles inhales sharply, so Derek knows to keep doing it. He does. Over and over, Stiles’ hands mindlessly grabbing Derek on the shoulders, his biceps, just anywhere he can find, because it’s a particular kind of good feeling that goes all the way down to his dick, in a sensation he’s unfamiliar with.

Derek looks up and meets Stiles’ eyes directly. He breathes all hot on Stiles’ skin, and then grins when Stiles shudders a little. “You’re very sensitive.”

“I’m rusty,” he shakes his head. “I’m not usually operating on such a hairpin –“ his voice goes high and cuts off, as Derek goes to the other nipple and uses his tongue again, and Stiles swears he’s already leaking pre-come, which is insane, because they’re barely been fooling around for more than five minutes. Maybe Derek is right. He is extremely sensitive. Especially after so long of not being touched by anybody.

Once Derek deems Stiles sufficiently teased and messed with, he sits fully up on his knees and he gives Stiles a look. “Okay. You ready?”

Not really, but Stiles nods anyway. As not ready as he is, he wants it. Why lie? He glances hesitantly at the bulge in Derek’s pants and then looks away fast, so Derek won’t notice it. But he does. He notices everything. Stiles always thought he was an unobservant dolt living in his own reality, but apparently, he’s a highly attentive sexual partner. Go figure. Stiles barely knows Derek at all.

Derek licks his pointer finger and then sticks his hand under Stiles, poking around, finding the right spot, and he rubs it. Slowly. Around and around. It’s bizarre how good it feels, and although Stiles has been fingered and prepared for a dick a good hundred plus times in his life, he can’t say he’s ever felt something like this feeling before. It’s total attention to Stiles’ comfort, more than it is just preparing a hole for penetration and that’s all. Derek wants Stiles to feel good. And it does feel good. It works to loosen him up, so he’s not clenching out of anxiety or on instinct. Tentative, Derek presses the tip in, just to feel it.

“Ah,” he grins, “it’s tight.”

“It’s been six months, I should think it is.”

“f*ck, I wanna be in there,” he moves closer, maybe can’t help himself. But he does nothing else. He gently pushes just that single finger in more, nothing but spit on it, and Stiles forces himself to allow it to happen. After a moment or so of just getting Stiles used to the feeling of something being in there, Derek removes his finger and goes for Stiles’ embarrassing shoebox they tossed off onto the side of his tiny dorm bed, pulling the lube out and applying a generous amount to two of his fingers.

He pokes at Stiles some more, and presses. It’s just two fingers, but it feels like a lot at first, and Stiles shifts uncomfortably. Derek pauses. “Okay?”

“It’s all right,” he says, though his voice is tight. “Sorry, Jesus, this is humiliating. I haven’t done it in forever, and, I only – you know. Just one other person. This, at least.”

“I’m patient,” he assures Stiles with a little smile that works to impart the sentiment. He moves the fingers in, and out, in and out, slowly working it until they go easy like butter, over and over. Even when it’s clear Stiles is used to those two, he keeps going, and going, being extra careful. Maybe just because he knows how nervous Stiles is. Very slowly, he adds in a third finger, and he opens them up a little, as much as he can.

Stiles makes a noise of protest, and clenches, because he can’t help it.

“Want me to stop?”

“No, just – I’m getting used to it.”

“Okay.” He does it again, more slowly. Stiles shivers and opens his mouth, though no sound comes out. “Does it feel good?”

“Yeah, actually,” he breathes. “I’ve never done three fingers.”

Derek is working to keep his face entirely impassive, but Stiles can see it, his lips at the corners just twitching away because he wants to bust out laughing. “You didn’t need three fingers, before.”

“You love that so much, don’t you? That Theo had a smaller dick than you?”

“Love it,” he agrees, moving his fingers in and out still even as they talk. “You know how much I f*cking couldn’t stand him in school. I always thought he was such a little bitch.”

“Well, you win,” Stiles assures him with a small smile. “You literally win the dick shaking contest.”

“I’ll win the f*cking you contest, too.”

“That has yet to be determined.”

Derek gives him a look. And it’s like, a come on type of a look. Obviously Derek is going to win that one, as well. They have to spend twenty minutes just getting Stiles’ asshole ready to accept it, for Christ’s sake.

“You ready for the toy?”

“I think so, yes,” he agrees, and Derek wastes no time picking it up out of the box Stiles had laid it down in. It’s still not as big as Derek, because Stiles does not think he’d willingly buy a dild* as big as what Derek has going on, but it’s close. Close enough that Stiles is sure he’ll be able to handle Derek after taking it.

Derek lines the head of it up with Stiles, after it’s all slicked up and ready to go, and pushes it in. Thanks to how wet Stiles is down there from all the lube, it pops right in, but Stiles feels it in a big way. It’s a lot, after just a few fingers, and his hands scrabble for purchase on the first thing they can find. Which happens to be Derek’s firm stomach, looking particularly tan with Stiles’ pale fingers pressing against it.

Derek is gentle. He goes in and out, not fast, not with any intention of getting Stiles off this way. It’s all very clinical. It’s a task he’s doing with a mission.

He wants to get inside of there. Like, yesterday.

“This is turning me on so f*cking bad,” he says this in a crazy sex voice that makes Stiles want him in such a carnal f*cking way, it’s insane. “You’re so hard,” to demonstrate this, he grips Stiles in his hand and strokes, up and down, eliciting a moan from Stiles that’s involuntary. “You think you’re ready? Can I?”

Stiles nods, silent. Words are escaping him. Frankly, there are no words, in this moment, as he feels the toy leave him, and his hole clenches down unhappily on nothing, a distinctly uncomfortable and bizarre feeling. Derek pushes his pants and underwear down his hips like they’re on fire, getting rid of them in a fit of pure desperation, and then there it is.

The thing in question. Stiles eyeballs it. Derek notices him eyeballing it.

“It’ll fit,” he assures Stiles.

“Anal tear, here I come.”

“I would not tear you, come on,” he leans in, and he does something so f*cking intimate, it’s almost uncomfortable.

He kisses Stiles in reassurance. It’s feather light, their lips locking two, three times in succession, and then he pulls back and nuzzles Stiles’ nose with his own. It’s sweet and smooth and very nice, and it should make Stiles frown and pull away, because it’s like some sh*t you’d do with a person you’re madly in love with, not your f*cking sex buddy that up until very recently you couldn’t even stand to be in the same room with.

Stiles should do that. But the truth is, it doesn’t make him uncomfortable. And it doesn’t make him want to stop. Or tell Derek not to do that.

It makes Stiles feel the opposite of all of that. It works to settle him, to make him feel safe, like Derek would never do something like make Stiles bleed, certainly not on purpose, at least. In this moment with their bodies so close, Stiles can’t be bothered to find it weird. He likes it. It makes his heart pound in anticipation for having Derek inside of him, as close as they can possibly get.

Derek digs around in his backpack, leaning over the side of the bed, coming back up with a condom. He tears it open, kind of like a frantic mad man if Stiles is being honest, and hastily smooths it onto himself, going for the lube, getting slick. “You want to do it this way?” Derek gestures to Stiles lying there on his back. “Or hands and knees?”

“Oh, um, I don’t know,” Stiles says, honestly.

“It’s up to you. Whatever’s more comfortable.”

Stiles thinks that he would really like to see Derek’s chest, and his face, and all of him, as they’re doing it. He doesn’t want to admit that out loud, so he keeps it to himself, and settles on saying, “like this is okay.”

“Okay,” Derek comes close. He takes Stiles’ legs in his hands, leaving little lubey fingerprints on Stiles’ ankles and calves, and he adjusts them. He uses them to tug Stiles close, arranging all of him so he’s set up just the way Derek wants him to be.

He takes himself in his hand, eyes on Stiles’ face the entire time, and he guides himself to Stiles. The head presses.

It’s big. It feels even bigger than it looks. Stiles imagines his body loosening, until it actually starts happening, until he feels himself untensing, and the head slips in. Just the head, and Stiles breathes in, and out. “For f*ck’s sake, Derek,” he bursts out.

Derek goes another inch deeper. Even with all the lube, all the fingers, the dild*, all the prep in the world, it is big. It just is. It’s a lot for Stiles to take, because Stiles has never taken anything this big in all his years, and it is slow f*cking going getting it all the way in. Derek perseveres, being as patient as he promised to be, watching Stiles’ reactions, glancing down at where they’re together to make sure Stiles isn’t bleeding or anything. He’s oddly in control of himself, for someone who’s in the process of trying to f*ck somebody else – he moves like he could do this all day, just going half inch, by half inch, for hours at a time, all for Stiles’ comfort.

He finally bottoms out, his hair and balls pressing against Stiles. It feels good. Stiles finds Derek’s hair very sexy, so feeling it against him is very, very nice. Derek goes still.

They breathe together. Stiles is feeling anxious and wound up, and when he feels that way, it’s his automatic reaction to just start in with the nonsense chatter, so he does. “Why do you have such a big dick?”

“I bought some pills on the black market when I was sixteen,” he says this breathy.

“Ha ha.”

“I told you I’d get it in there,” he runs his fingers up and down Stiles’ legs, his calves, and he repeats the same f*cking thing he had said to Stiles in his own bedroom, just last week. “Your legs are so nice. I’ve always thought so.”

Stiles can’t even be bothered with that statement, let alone to start over analyzing it like he’s very prone to do. He’s got what feels like a football inside of his ass at the moment, and Derek is beginning to move it, just a little bit at a time, an inch out, an inch back in, over and over. It feels good. It hurts, at first, a sort of tight pulling on his rim that aches, but the more Derek does it, the more it levels itself out. The bad becomes good. It strokes the nerves.

Derek is so big that he barely has to try to hit Stiles where it counts. One steady push of his hips, angled just right, and Stiles feels it like all of him is electrified. He’s confident enough in Stiles’ reactions to pull all the way out, and back in, and f*ck, that feels so good. The combination of the pressure on his rim and the head stroking his prostate every other thrust is mind scramblingly good, so good Stiles has nothing to say. No witty remarks. No little comments. No jokes.

All he can think about is how badly he does not want Derek to stop. Touches his chest. Feels the hair on it. Buries his fingers into it and closes his eyes. Big breaths. The wet sound of them together. Derek’s hands on his legs, then his hips, his stomach, his own co*ck, briefly, quick strokes. Stiles doesn’t even really need it. There’s the loud sound of a door slamming out in the hallway, one of Stiles’ neighbors off to class, or to lunch, and then their footsteps right outside the door, but Stiles barely hears it. He’s so focused here, in this bed, with Derek Hale.

They’re totally sex cocooned. Bodies so close they’re sweating from the body heat.

It feels so, so good. Stiles is helpless. Even if he wanted to stop it because it feels weird to be so f*cking close to Derek Hale, he couldn’t possibly. It’s all about what his body wants, nevermind what his brain is telling him.

It builds up inside of him, one of the hottest, most intense pleasures he’s ever felt. He has to turn his face away and bite his hand to keep from moaning too loudly, teeth digging into his palm, eyes squeezing shut as he comes all over himself from nothing more than Derek’s dick inside of him, body shaking violently. His body is lax. He feels his head swim and opens his eyes to see his My Chemical Romance poster staring right back at him, before Derek takes his chin in his fingers and turns his face to look at him again.

Neither of them say a word. Derek f*cks him. His lips are parted, and his eyes are dark, and he watches himself going inside of Stiles, and out of Stiles, over and over, over and over, faster, the bed shaking because it’s too small to have two fully grown boys on top of it like this. He finishes and grunts, bending over to press his forehead into Stiles’ chest, panting, panting, silent.

Stiles does not know what to say. Silence feels loud, now. There are voices outside of the window, people walking around campus and coming back home from class, and Stiles brings his hand up to his mouth and he stares at the ceiling.

Two thoughts occur to Stiles, then.

Number one, that was the best f*cking sex has ever had in his entire life, and it is not close. Not even remotely close. All other sex pales in comparison. Stiles doesn’t even think a robotic machine programmed to f*ck him could have done it as well as Derek just did. Those are just the facts. Stiles is not too arrogant or too up his own ass to not admit it. He just came so hard he had to shove his hand into his mouth to keep himself from screaming. Period.

Number two, this is getting bad. Stiles knows, deep down in the pit of his gut, very viscerally, that he is going to go to that stupid f*cking slasher party, and he’s going to let Derek work his very clever machinations of bedding Stiles, and they’re going to have sex again. Stiles can’t even be bothered to play innocent. He wants it. It felt so good he’d do a lot of embarrassing things just to have it, including going to an infantile costume party dressed as, like, Chucky or some sh*t.

He thinks these things and he doesn’t know what to do about them.

“Now, come on,” Derek picks his head up and looks at Stiles, this lazy little f*cked-out smile on his face. His sweaty forehead. His hair all black and sticking up. “You like me more now, don’t you?”

Stiles wants to disappear in this moment. Melt into the sheets all green and goopy like the Wicked Witch of the West having water thrown on her. He is someone who has gotten very comfortable hiding. He hides behind books. He hides behind sarcasm and eye rolling and sighs. He hides behind jokes. He does not tell the truth, not all the time, and even if he does, he masks it like it’s all so funny, even when it isn’t.

It feels like, no matter what he does, he cannot hide from Derek Hale.

“I wouldn’t say that,” he says, but it does not land. Derek is still inside of him. They’re alone. “Your dick, sure, I like that.”

“I’m attached to it.”

“I know, it’s a shame.”

Derek lowers his neck and he does this exhausted, ball busted little laugh. Shakes his head, like he both can’t believe it, and doesn’t know what he expected at the same time. After a moment, he gently removes himself, squelching out of Stiles with a sound that makes Stiles scrunch his nose up in disgust. He watches as Derek unravels the condom from his dick, throwing it into the waste basket next to Stiles’ desk.

What the hell should he say?

Derek sits on the edge of the bed and stretches his arms above his head, turning his head side to side to work out a crick in his neck. “Do you want me to look and see if you got hurt at all?”

It’s a bizarrely nice thing to offer. Stiles is immediately embarrassed by the kindness, shaking his head fervently as he sits up. “No, uh, no. I can feel – no tears. It may bruise, though. That’s okay. Yeah, no, you don’t have to – it’s fine.” He decides he can’t sit here naked with Derek, so he grabs for his shirt and hastily puts it on, but Derek just sits there, naked as the day he was born, even while Stiles pulls his boxers on, then his jeans.

“You want to smoke a little?”

Stiles frowns at him in the middle of buttoning his jeans. “We are not supposed to smoke anything in the dorms.”

Derek mimics him in a nerdy voice, and Stiles’ laugh is punched out and surprised. “You’re not supposed to have gay sex in the dorms, either, I don’t think.”

He’s already going into his backpack, pulling out a pre-roll in a little plastic tube that he must have gotten at a dispensary, with a sticker on it describing what it is, percentages, this that and the other thing. He’s opening it up. Stiles barks, “can you put on some god damn pants?”

“What?” Derek asks this completely innocently, glancing down at his softening co*ck. “What’s wrong with this?”

“Put. Your. Pants. On.”

“Jesus Christ,” he sets his joint down on Stiles’ desk, standing up, finding his pants and underwear. He gives Stiles a look after he’s buttoned up, gesturing his arms out. “Are you happy?”

Stiles gazes at Derek’s bare chest. The thought of sitting there watching Derek smoking weed with no shirt on does thrill the pervert in him a little bit, but still, he’s pretending to be above all this. He hands Derek’s shirt to him all imperiously, and Derek rolls his eyes, but puts it on.

He takes a lighter and his pre-roll over to the window, using the crank to open it up the little bit that it will. He lights it, and Stiles watches, can’t really help from watching him.

This has been said before. Stiles himself has said it again and again.

But Derek is so, so f*cking sexy. Even in spite of the fact that they just f*cked not ten minutes ago, Stiles sort of wants to drag him back into bed and f*ck him again, just watching him smoke.

“Come here,” Derek says, after breathing a big grey cloud of smoke out the window. Sure, that’s inconspicuous. Anyone down below will know exactly what’s going on in here. “Come hit this, Stiles.”

Stiles does as he’s told, ambling over and standing right next to Derek, and the open window. Cold autumn air hits him, as he takes a hit, and Derek’s eyes are on him. He smiles, watching Stiles smoke. It’s weird. The whole thing is weird. Stiles is learning to just go with it.

“What are you thinking?” Derek asks him.

Stiles exhales. He hands it back to Derek, who takes it, leaning up against the wall by the window. He’s always doing that. Leaning up against things, all casual, all give a f*ck, like nothing in the world is of any consequence to him. The nonchalance drove Stiles insane in school, and it drives him insane now, just in a completely different way. “…I don’t know. We just had sex.”

“Sure did.”

“This is not how I saw my day going.”

“It’s not so bad, is it?” It’s Stiles’ turn again, and Derek hands it off, and Stiles doesn’t know what to say to that.

It is bad. It isn’t, also.

There’s the sound of a key in the door before Stiles can do anything about it, because they lost track of f*cking time, and Stiles chokes on smoke and hastily hands Derek the joint, right as the handle is turning, lunging with his entire body at the bed to hide his dild* and the lube. He lands on top of both at the same time that the door is swinging open.

Then, Scott is standing there with big eyes, surprised at seeing Derek Hale with no shoes on, in his bedroom, with a lit joint in his hand, Stiles splayed out on the bed. Stiles quickly angles for casual, the dild* digging into his side as he rests his head in his palm and smiles.

Derek seriously just takes another hit like he couldn’t care less about these proceedings.

“Hi,” Scott says. “Derek, good to see you, man.” He has his backpack on, and he’s stepping into the room, closing the door behind himself so it bangs. He looks at Derek, his bare feet, and then at Stiles. The mussed bed. Stiles on top of it smirking like the Cheshire Cat because he’s trying to look normal and failing miserably, because again, Derek smokes good weed, and Stiles is all weird now.

“What’s up, man?” Derek asks him, no give a f*ck detected.

“Well, Derek was just going,” Stiles hastily says, pointedly looking at Derek, who looks back at him with a slow blink.

He puts the joint to his lips. Puffs. Looks at Scott. “You want to hit this?”

Scott laughs, all good natured, as he puts his bag down beside his desk. “Uh, no. Thanks though. What are you two doing?” He is playing this off.

He does not say what he’s thinking, because he’s a nice person.

But what he’s thinking is, what the ever living holy f*ck is Derek Hale of all people doing alone in our room with Stiles? With no f*cking shoes on? Why is Derek Hale in my room smoking marijuana out the window as though he owns the place? Why is Stiles smoking weed with Derek Hale? It is not computing. Stiles can see it on his face. Derek may not be able to detect the mental turmoil going on behind Scott’s eyes, but Stiles knows him. Back of his hand style.

He’s flipping. He is an expert at being polite and cordial, even in the face of absurdity. He was raised by a single mother. He has a feminine touch to interactions.

“Derek was literally just leaving,” Stiles repeats this.

Derek does not leave. He finds this entire thing funny. He’s going to stand there and finish that entire thing, Stiles knows that he is. And to make matters worse, he holds the lit thing out to Stiles, smirking, and he says, “you want some more?”

Derek knows god damn well Stiles can’t get up off of this bed, because then Scott will get an eyeful of Stiles’ used f*cking dild*. He’s being sh*tty. It would be funny, if only Stiles weren’t on the receiving end of it.

Scott puts his hands on his hips. There’s a frozen smile on his face. “You guys hanging out?” The what the f*ck is implied.

“Yeah, hanging out,” Derek agrees. He puffs some more. He looks like a f*cking fiend, over there. “Stiles is branching out. Hasn’t he told you about his new leaf? It’s a philosophy.”

“New leaf,” Scott repeats. He’s still got his hands on his hips.

“Hey, you want to come to a party on Friday?” Derek asks him instead of explaining anymore than he already has, and Scott is immediately sidetracked by the invitation. “It’s a costume party. For the thirteenth. Like, bloody style. Come as a killer from a movie, or a book, whatever.”

“Oh, awesome.”

“No real life serial killers, though. Off the table.”

Stiles is lying on the bed just completely frozen. He wills Derek to get the f*ck out of here with his eyes, and still, Derek just stands and smokes. At least he’s being nice to Scott. In school, those two never had any problems, were actually relatively friendly with one another when they came into contact. But it’s still strange to see them standing there talking like old friends.

Especially after what just happened.

“I’ll come. Are you going, Stiles?” His big brown eyes swivel to Stiles, assessing, analyzing, head to toe. Stiles sees the gears turning behind them. He’s doing the math. He may not be a rocket scientist by any stretch of the imagination, but hey, he is a nursing major, and he’s doing pretty well, so the high school stereotype of him being an utter idiot has been well and truly disproven.

“Stiles is coming,” Derek answers for him. With finality. But thank god, he’s finishing his pre-roll, licking his fingers, putting it out with his pointer and index. It’s so hot Stiles wants to f*cking kill himself, but instead he just watches and stays still. “I don’t think he could stay away even if he tried.”

He comes over, onto Stiles’ bed. He puts his shoes on, ties them, one by one, and as his neck is bent and he’s focused on his task, Scott and Stiles make eye contact.

Scott starts doing huge hand gestures, eyes big in his head, what the f*ck is he doing here, he mouths, what is going on, more mouthing, are you stoned, on and on, until Derek looks up, tied shoes and all, and stands. Scott goes still and plasters a smile on his face, like nothing is going on, nothing to see here.

Derek looks between them both as he puts his backpack on. “Well. See you guys, then. Stiles. Thank you.”

Thank you. He says thank you. The f*cking son of a bitch.

Then he turns, and goes. Leaving the window open to air out the marijuana he’s left in his wake, the door slamming behind him.

Stiles and Scott are alone. Stiles is getting vein imprints on his side from the dild*.

“What,” Scott claps his hands together, so hard and loud it makes Stiles flinch, “the f*ck. Is going. On.”

“Nothing.” It is a bad lie.

Scott puts his hands back on his hips, and he assesses. He taps his fingers on his hips. He looks around. “He wasn’t wearing shoes.”

“Well, he took them off. He took his shoes off. So?”

“Your bed isn’t made.”

“Sometimes I don’t make it.”

Scott walks right the f*ck over to the waste basket, gazes inside, and he nods like he saw it coming a mile away. “There’s a used condom in the garbage.”

“I had a Craigslist hook up, you wouldn’t know him!”

“What are you hiding from me over there?”

“What?” He laughs like it’s so absurd, shaking his head. He’s stoned. He can’t be doing this right now.

“What are you lying on top of that you don’t want me to see?”

“I’m just lounging,” he insists. “You’re being so paranoid. Like, oh yeah, I’m having sex with Derek Hale. You’re nuts. Like I’d ever do that.”

He co*cks his head to the side. He looks exactly like a confused dog when he does that, all puppy eyed and everything, and he twists his mouth down into a frown. “You are, aren’t you? You’re having sex with Derek? Stiles, you’re having sex with Derek Hale?”

“I’m not –“

“Stiles, there’s a f*cking used condom in the waste basket. Come on.”

Stiles admits defeat. His cheeks go hot. He looks out the window, where Derek was just standing, and he has this sick thought that he sort of wishes he hadn’t kicked Derek out, that Derek was still here, and Scott never came home, and they were just in here getting high and hanging out and talking about books and sh*t.

It’s sick. He’s crazy. He’s losing his grip on the situation.

“…all right,” he rubs at his face. “Okay. f*ck it. Fine. Yeah. I – we are…sort of having sex.”

Scott sits down on his desk chair very melodramatically, as though his information has knocked him off his feet. “What are you doing having sex with Derek Hale? You hate him! You always say how f*cking irritating you find him!”

“Well…” Stiles has had just enough of his inhibitions altered by the substances in his system that he says, really, “…he has the biggest dick I’ve ever seen in person.”

Scott drops his jaw. He says, “whoa, really?” He’s surprised.

“Um, yeah,” Stiles laughs. “It’s big.”

“Okay, whoa. Ha, okay…” he’s thinking about it, probably imagining just how big it could possibly be, and then he sobers up and waves his hands, like that’s of no consequence. “Okay, so, you’re, what? Fooling around? You guys hang out, or you just have sex?”

“…it sort of just started,” he traces a pattern on his sheets with his finger, not looking Scott in the face. “We’re just…hanging out. Really. He’s kind of funny.”

“Kind of funny,” Scott repeats, shaking his head. “Stiles. In high school, you called him a f*cking idiot whenever you got the opportunity. Now, you’re f*cking him in the middle of the day and laughing at his jokes? What is this? How did this even start? How did you even – I don’t –“ words fail. Words absolutely fail, here.

Stiles doesn’t have the answers.

“What are you lying on top of?” Scott demands, again, and Stiles pales.

“…a sex toy.”

“Oh. My. God.”

“Well, Derek is all, like, experienced. He has a lot of toys, I don’t know, I just –“

“I can’t hear this,” he puts his hands over his ears. “That’s – Jesus, Stiles, we were in Kindergarten with this f*cking guy! Now you’re having kinky sex with him?”

“It’s not kinky!”

Well. Yet. Derek really does have a lot of toys.

“You’re trying to date him?”

“Oh, absolutely f*cking not,” the answer is kneejerk, automatic, he doesn’t even think about it. “No, f*ck no. We’re not – no. Uh uh.”

“Then, what are you doing?”

“Having fun,” he says this with conviction. “He’s sexy. His dick is big. He has toys. I don’t know. Why is this so weird to you?” Stiles is trying to play this off as well as he can, as not a big deal, as nothing, absolutely nothing, even though he knows it’s something. He knows it really is a very big something. Its why he was keeping it from Scott to begin with.

“You don’t have fun like this,” Scott knows Stiles better than anyone on planet earth, and he knows this about him, above all things. Stiles plays at being disaffected and emotionless, at times, but deep down, he is a relationship person. He wants people to care about him and want him and want to be with him. He wants to have someone.

It was this deep desire that trapped him in Hell with Theo.

Derek wouldn’t know this about Stiles. Of course, his best friend does.

“I’m turning over a new leaf, like Derek said.”

“What does that even mean?”

“It means I’m trying something new, that’s all. Friends with benefits. Actually, barely friends, because he drives me crazy, but –“

“Oh, yeah, you hate him so much,” Scott’s sarcastic prowess is pretty lackluster, but this lands exactly how he intends it to. “You’re f*cking him at noon on a Monday, yeah, you hate him. Give me a break. Stiles, I don’t judge you. But I don’t see this going well.”

It’s crazy, Scott is repeating nearly word for word what Cora Hale had said. Two more different people have never existed on earth, but they feel the exact same way about this situation. Cora is perhaps Derek’s closest, most trusted person. Scott is Stiles’.

And they both don’t like this. That perhaps means something.

Problem is, Stiles is in this f*cking thing. He’s down for the count, locked in, not even his best friend can talk him out of it.

It is what it is.

Chapter 4: All's Fair

Chapter Text

Stiles hates statistics.

It isn’t because he doesn’t understand the math, because he does. It isn’t because he finds it terribly hard, because he doesn’t. He just finds it f*cking boring and droll, the same formulas and the same equations over and over again, and numbers do not interest him. If he didn’t need it for core credit, he would’ve already dropped it. As it is, he is trapped in the monotony.

At least he has Erica. She, also, is only in the class for the credits, so when their professor announces a partner project, they go for each other right away as everyone else murmurs and tries to find their own partners. They meet up in the library to start working on it, downstairs on the first floor where talking is allowed, people everywhere, the coffee shop and all its noise tittering away. They sit at a table by the fountain and spend the first hour together mostly just f*cking off with the occasional attempt at getting some work done, more numbers, more bullsh*t. Stiles likes Erica because she has a very dry sense of humor, and she walks around dressed like she’s on the way to somewhere better all the time, even if she’s just going to class or to the dining hall. Erica maybe just likes Stiles because he’s got the same disaffected attitude towards statistics as her, but it doesn’t matter either way. They’re becoming friends.

He’s in the middle of feigning interest in the project with her, chewing on his pen as he assesses the requirements on the handout they were given, when a shadow crosses over them, blocking out the fluorescent lights overhead and stirring them both into gazing up.

It’s Derek Hale. Stiles goes still and stiff.

They have not seen or spoken to one another since Monday, when they had sex in Stiles’ bed and Scott nearly walked in on them. It’s Wednesday now, and Stiles has wanted to text him because he’s mentally ill, but has stayed strong and avoided it and him altogether. Derek stands with his hands in his pockets, backpack on, and he looks at the two of them there with this impossible to read expression on his face.

“Hi,” Derek says. He looks at Erica. Sweeps her, head to toe – her big blonde hair, dark makeup, red lips, full cleavage, tight pants. And he looks at Stiles immediately after, and Stiles swears, he sees irritation on his face.

“Oh, hi, Derek,” he goes for calm and normal. It’s not his automatic setting, not by a longshot, but he tries his f*cking best. “Uh, what’s up?”

“Came for a coffee,” he says. He keeps his hands buried deep. He looks at Erica again. Of course he does, she’s the best thing to look at in the entire room, so his eyes are magnetized. She’s very pretty. More to the point, she’s very hot. Classically hot.

It bothers Stiles. And it embarrasses him to be bothered. He buries it down deep.

“We’re just working on something for this stupid class we’re taking,” Stiles explains to him when the silence goes on awkwardly for another moment or two, clearing his throat.

Derek’s shoulders visibly untighten, relaxing back into something resembling his more normal self. Likely, because he’s happy to learn that Stiles isn’t having sex with Erica, so he’s free to make a move on her if he so wishes. Again, it kind of hurts Stiles’ feelings, humiliating as it is, and he just has to remind himself, it isn’t supposed to matter, if Derek goes off and has sex with other people. They’re just fooling around. Exclusivity was never on the table.

In his quest to be mature, and the bigger person, he decides to introduce them to each other. Though he thinks he’d rather swallow nails than do so. “This is Erica,” he points to her, then to Derek, “this is Derek. We went to high school together.”

“Oh,” she smiles, red lips pulling across her perfect teeth, not a stain in sight, and Derek nods at her in greeting. “There are so many people like that at this school. Everyone went to f*cking high school together. You two are –“ she points between the two of them, one long finger, “friends?”

“Friends, yes,” Stiles agrees a tad too hastily, before the word is even completely out of her mouth.

Derek smiles at him. And then, like Erica isn’t even there at all, he says, “are you coming to the party on Friday? You never said whether you actually were or weren’t, the other day.”

“Oh, um –“ he shrugs, leaning back in his seat. He is trying so f*cking hard to seem like he doesn’t care that he feels like it’s coming across more like he cares way too f*cking much, and he shakes it off. He downplays. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

There’s a beat. Derek takes one hand out of his pocket, runs it through his hair, and Stiles watches the movement very closely. When he catches Erica looking at his looking, he pointedly averts his gaze, clearing his throat.

“Are you really going to make me ask you for a third time to come?”

Stiles ducks his head. He smiles at the table. “If it would make you so f*cking happy, sure, I will come. Fine. Now I have to come up with some idiotic costume. Wonderful.”

“I thought you said you’d make a great villain, now you can’t even be bothered to come up with a villainous costume? Your true colors are showing.”

Erica looks between the two of them, over and over, a smile on her lips all tight and intense. She looks like she’s watching her favorite show. Stiles has it on very good authority that Derek only came over here to talk to Stiles in the first place because he wanted an excuse to say hi to Erica, but he can’t help it, he feels nervous and clammy.

“I’ll come up with something, just you wait,” Stiles warns him, “and it’ll blow your f*cking mind.”

“All right,” he looks at Erica one more time. “Nice to meet you.”

“Sure,” she says back to him, almost purrs it, and Stiles wants to reach out and smudge her lipstick across her face for talking to Derek like that. As though Derek is his territory, or something.

“It’s at nine o’clock,” he starts slowly backing up, step by step, not breaking Stiles’ eye contact. “What do you like to drink? I’ll get it for you.”

“Oh, whatever, I’m not picky.”

“See you there, Stiles,” he finally turns, and he walks away. He goes past the printers and the shelves of books, making his descent down the short set of steps that will take him to the coffee.

Erica says, “uh, I thought you said you weren’t seeing anybody.”

Stiles is flabbergasted by this, turning to look at her, Derek long gone now, and he frowns. “I’m not.”

She points at the space where Derek had just stood. “Well, what the f*ck was that?”

“Oh, that?” He waves it off. “He’s just – I went to school with him. He’s nobody.”

He picks up his pen to resume their work, or lack thereof, so that he can be done with this entire subject altogether, but Erica does not let it drop. “You two are having sex. Let’s start there.”

Stiles laughs loud, way too loud for it to be appropriate in any kind of a public space, and slaps his hand over his mouth to stifle it very quickly, surprised at himself. And at her, too, for that matter. “Where the f*ck did you get that from?”

“Because,” she leans back in her chair, arm draped over the back as she looks at him with a pleased little smirk on her face, “he was doing that eye-f*cking thing in a certain way, like, in the way men can only do to people they’ve actually seen without their clothes on before. I would know.”

“He was not doing an eye-f*cking thing,” Stiles rolls his eyes. “And if he was, it was directed at you. It’s the only reason he even came over here in the first place –“

“Me?” Her voice goes up about ten octaves, eyes going wide. “Me? Are you f*cking kidding me? I’m chopped f*cking liver. It was like I was wearing a burlap sack and you had on glitter booty shorts, for f*cking real. You two are f*cking.” She draws that word out nice and long as though trying to drill the point home, and hey, she’s the kind of girl who would certainly know how to tell these things, so he should probably just give up on denying it any longer.

He sighs. Puts his pen down. “…okay. We’ve hooked up a couple of times. But it’s really not what you think. We’re not actually, like, going out, or hanging out, even. Just – sometimes we have sex. We had a weird hate thing going on in high school, and then…well, I don’t know how we got here, honestly. It just. Sorta. Started.”

Erica is pleased with this information. “He’s your f*ck friend?”

“Friend is a strong word, but yes, we f*ck.”

“Uh huh,” she smiles. “And I can tell it’s big.”

Stiles leans in closer to her all conspiratorial, and she leans in, too, and they’re in on something together. “It’s huge.”

She puts her hand over her mouth to stifle her insane giggling.

“But trust me. It’s not going there. He couldn’t – we’re just not going to do that. It’s not like that. I think maybe a couple more times and then…” he shrugs.

Honestly. He has no f*cking idea where it’s going, or even how many more times they are going to see one another, or if by this time next week they’ll see one another out and about on campus and both of them will look the other way, like they never existed to each other in the first place. The thought of that makes something strange and foreign clench up inside of him, but he adds it to the dogpile of other weird feelings he’s had in the past couple of weeks, and writes it off.

“Well, you’re going to his little party, aren’t you? Dressed up? In your slu*ttiest attire, I assume?”

He gives her a look. “I don’t have slu*tty attire.”

“You’ll need to get some. I’ll go with you to the Halloween store, for real. It’ll be fun.”

“I don’t really do stuff like that,” he insists, going red just at the sheer f*cking idea of showing up to Derek’s house in anything other than a shirt and pants, like a normal person. If Erica had her way, she’d foist him into a speedo and a crop top, like he was on Baywatch. “But, you could come with me, if you wanted to.”

She observes him. She crosses one leg over the other and just looks at him – looks and looks, like she’s waiting for the punchline. “Are you trying to make your f*ck buddy all jealous?”

This is an absurd accusation, so Stiles laughs. “Uh, no. I couldn’t even if I f*cking wanted to, because it’s not like that.”

“Oh, but it is,” she grins, Cruella DeVille style, so wide it should hurt her face to smile like that. “I’ve played these games before, Stiles Stilinski. You’re talking to the queen of mental warfare in situationships. It’s an art.”

Situationships. Huh.

“You want me to come with you with my tit* out so he gets all mad at the prospect of you having sex with someone else.”

“It really isn’t about that –“

“I know how to make men nuts,” she taps her temple. “I can teach you how to f*ck with him so bad he’ll beg to f*ck you. Really.”

Stiles’ mouth goes dry.

The thought of Derek actually wanting Stiles so badly that he’d f*cking beg for it is enticing and impossible at the same time. It’s so stupid. Derek could have anybody that he f*cking wants, Erica included if he really tried hard enough, and he would never be driven to the brink of begging, of all people on earth, Stiles Stilinski for a roll in the sack.

“It’s just supposed to be fun,” Stiles tells her very frankly. “We’re not – it’s not like that.”

“He’s very sexy.”

“Well, f*cking duh.”

“And he has a big co*ck.”

Stiles puts his hands over his eyes. “Imagine what The Hulk probably has inside of his shorts, then add two inches.”

“Then, what are we f*cking doing hemming and hawing over this?” She holds her arms out, all the possibilities in the world for what she refers to as mental warfare, and Stiles really doesn’t have an answer to that.

If it’s all supposed to be fun and games anyway, what’s wrong with making it just a little bit extra fun? What’s wrong with throwing gasoline onto an already raging fire? What’s wrong with dumping the hot oil all over everything so it sizzles and burns?

Scott takes one look at Stiles standing there out front of Derek’s frat house, under the maple tree where they agreed to meet, and he actually nearly passes out from the sheer sight of him alone. He backs up in shock, knocking into the tree all over dramatic, and puts his hand on his forehead. “Jesus, what are you supposed to be?”

Stiles adjusts his grip on his props. “It’s hard to explain.”

For his part, Scott is literally dressed as Chucky, because of course he is, plastic knife with fake blood stains and all, his blue overalls and sweater covered in the stuff. He looks really cute dressed like that, not at all intimidating, which Stiles figures is exactly the point of Chucky to begin with, so it completely works for him. He’s already met Erica, though he goes a little wide-eyed at the sight of her – she’s dressed as Carrie, in a floor length satin gown with the highest slit Stiles has ever seen someone get away with, her breasts fighting to escape the confines of the material, covered in blood from head to toe. It’s this bizarre sort of menacing sexy thing that Stiles is sure will make everyone doubletake her all night long.

But she plasters herself to Stiles’ side like they’re f*cking. For real. She drapes herself against him so close and hard that he gets blood all over him, walking into the party with her arms around him, and everyone clears a path. Scott wields his toy knife like he has no f*cking clue what he’s supposed to be doing here, third wheeling it with Erica and Stiles and sticking out like a sore thumb right next to them.

“I thought you were here to see Derek?” Scott kind of whisper-hisses this to Stiles, and Stiles does not get to answer, but Erica does it for him.

“He is,” she promises with a wink, and Scott clearly does not get it. He’s baffled. But he gets a drink, and he finds people to talk to, leaving Erica and Stiles to their pseudo-f*cking in the living room, where beer pong is taking place, the music very loud, blacklights illuminating them all in hazy shades of purple and orange and green. There are bodies everywhere, girls dressed like Florence Pugh in Midsommar by the f*cking dozen, boys as Freddie and Jason and Michael Meyers, and all of them turn and look at Stiles and Erica like they cannot believe their very eyes.

Erica really overdid it. She keeps overdoing it. She’s clutching onto Stiles so hard she’s practically humping his leg, is about to start panting and moaning, Stiles is certain of it. Holy sh*t. She leans in close to his ear like she’s going to say something really f*cking filthy, but instead just asks, “you want something to drink?”

The implication lands, though. Everyone thinks they’re here together. Like, together together.

And that really is everyone. As they walk toward the kitchen to take stock of the liquor and beer available to them, they go directly past Cora Hale. She’s in the corner by the window nodding to someone who’s talking to her, up and down, sipping her beer, dressed up like Pearl in a long red dress with a toy axe at her side, and she glances once at Stiles and Erica.

Doubletakes. She looks at them, from head to toe. Erica’s blood all over Stiles. Erica herself all over Stiles. And she stops her conversation dead in the middle, to say, almost to herself, “you’ve got to be f*cking kidding me.” Stiles likely was not meant to hear it, but he hears it all the same. She looks, to put it very lightly, completely and entirely disgusted. Like, grab the nearest bucket and start dry heaving disgusted.

They go past her before she can directly address either of them. In the kitchen, it’s brighter, real lights on, the back doors wide open so that some air circulates in here instead of just being a mass of body heat and sweat and smoke. There’s a big red cooler in the middle of the room, open, overflowing with ice and beer as far as the eye can see. Stiles bends down and he gets Erica a watermelon white claw, handing it to her, before getting a beer for himself and popping it open.

He sips it. He feels strange standing here dressed like this, but honestly, some people are dressed far more ridiculous than he, so he just tries to blend right in.

He can’t. Erica literally won’t allow it to happen. She talks close to his ear, completely innocent sh*t about classes and Scott and this that and the other thing, but the proximity of their bodies makes it seem almost tawdry that they’re even standing here at all.

Stiles sets his beer down on the kitchen island, and he looks up, across the room, right on time to see Derek Hale walking into it. He is, as he said he would be, dressed like Patrick Bateman. He’s in a suit and tie, a blue suit, red tie, nice shoes that are shiny in the lights, and his face is splattered with fake blood. It’s on his collar too, dotting across his crisp white button down under his jacket, and his hair is slicked back very nice and still with so much gel he probably doesn’t have any left in the bottle he used.

He looks spectacularly lickable. It’s the first thing that comes to Stiles’ mind when he spots him. Stiles would like to walk right up and use his tongue to scrape off some of that fake blood, taste the corn syrup and dye, go up to Derek’s bedroom and have sex with him and just say f*ck everybody else, and Erica’s machinations to make Derek want him more, and all of it. He wants to be alone with Derek.

Unfortunately, it does not go that way.

Derek sees Stiles. His eyes do a long sweep of the room like he’s looking for someone in particular, and they nearly go right past Stiles, standing there at the other end.

Then, they come back. Settle. His face shifts to something more akin to open shock than anything else. He freezes in the doorway, eyes going from Stiles’ legs to his middle to his face. It’s a very generous, very long, up and down look. It makes Stiles warm to be looked at that way.

For the moment, there is nobody else in this room aside from the two of them. That’s really how it feels.

Of course, however it may feel, that isn’t the reality.

Derek has to push people out of his way to get to where Stiles is standing. And it’s amazing, how Derek just has a one-track mind, he hasn’t even noticed that Erica is right there with barely any clothes on, covering Stiles in all her fake blood. It’s as though he can’t even compute any other stimuli going on around himself, other than Stiles. What Stiles is wearing. What Stiles is doing. What Stiles looks like.

He’s close enough to speak, after ten seconds of clearing the room. He says, “I half expected you to not come at all. Instead, you come into my house looking like this.”

Stiles smirks. He reaches his arm up and lays his plastic sword against the back of his shoulders, holding the Michael Meyers mask he and Erica had stuffed a dodgeball into to hold the proper shape of a head out – in a perfect mimicry of the source work. They had bought him an ill-fitting white shirt and cut it strategically so it only actually covers one half of his upper body, one arm out all bare, his chest naked, and when Stiles looked at himself in the mirror before leaving Erica’s room, he was startled by just how similar he looked to the picture. “Do you recognize it?”

“You think I wouldn’t know a Caravaggio walking around in my house? How did you know that’s my favorite painting?”

Stiles did not know that. He plays it off. “Lucky guess.”

Derek licks his lips. His eyes go to Stiles’ exposed nipple, and it makes Stiles think about Derek putting his mouth there like he did last time, and maybe Derek is thinking of the exact same f*cking thing, because his face seems flushed, his breathing faster.

He likes it. He thinks it’s sexy. Stiles could flop to the ground like a fish out of water, he’s so surprised that Derek could actually be turned on by this.

“It’s not technically a slasher costume,” Derek says, instead of what he perhaps would really like to say. “But since you look so good in it, I’ll let it slide.”

“You think I look good?”

“Like a painting come to life,” he ducks his head. His hair is shiny slick, every strand in place. “You always look like that.”

Erica pointedly clears her throat, which is when Stiles even remembers she’s there at all, and when Derek becomes aware that she exists to begin with. He lifts his head, and he looks right at her, taking her in from head to toe. The tit*. The blood. The same blood all over Stiles’ entire left side because she has been on him like white on rice since the second they walked in here.

The gears in his head turn. He looks at Stiles and makes a face. “Uh, you brought a friend.”

Erica is a mastermind. Or she’s just evil. “Friend, sure,” she does her sexy purring thing again, and puts her hand on Stiles’ face, turning it away from Derek to face her, and Derek watches all this happen like a hawk.

He doesn’t like it. It’s clear.

“I want a cigarette, can we go outside?” She asks Stiles in this weird sexy baby voice that probably works on straight men like gangbusters. She says it pointedly enough that Stiles knows he’s meant to go along with it, even though he’d really like to stay here and talk to Derek.

Stiles looks at Derek. He remembers Erica’s earlier insistence that blowing him off is the key to making him want Stiles extra, extra bad, so he goes for casually mean. “See you later,” he says, and then Derek is left to watch, flabbergasted, as Erica and Stiles walk arm and arm out the open back doors to the patio Stiles can’t remember being on the last time he was here.

Once they’re out, among the smokers and the hot tub people, Erica is laughing out loud, like the Disney villain she really is down to her core, just cackling at the night sky. “Holy sh*t! Did you see his f*cking face? He’s obsessed with you!”

Stiles frowns. “He isn’t. He’s just horny.”

“Stiles, your obliviousness is tiring,” she really did want a cigarette, so she stuffs one in between her red lips and lights it up, the lighter casting her face all orange and shadowy for a moment. “The man wants you so bad, he’s so f*cking mad you came here with me. And my titt*es.”

Stiles laughs at that. Honestly, he sort of feels like he only came here with Erica’s titt*es, for the way everyone keeps staring at them. “Well, you know he only invited me here to get into bed with him. Now he’s thinking I’m going to sleep with you, instead.”

“I wish!” She says this all friendly, reaching her free hand out to pat him on the shoulder. “You look so good. I’d peg you, Stiles. Really.”

“Thanks,” his face goes hot and he looks away, at all the other people, awkwardly holding his sword. He is clinically insane to not leap at the chance to sleep with Erica, to not suggest that maybe they just leave so they can go to her place and do exactly that, but the truth is, hot as Erica is, he can’t fully entertain the thought. He’s busy thinking about somebody else.

She stands there smoking, leaving lipstick prints on the filter, and she observes him. She’s thinking something that she maybe will not share, her eyes calculating and serious. “What is the deal with you and this guy?”

“Me and Derek?” His voice goes up at the end before he can help it.

“Yeah,” she draws it out nice and long, ashing over the side of the porch with a harsh flick of her finger. “Weird situation, it seems like.”

“Not much to tell. We barely spoke up until a few weeks ago.”

“He said you went to high school together.”

“And middle. And elementary. And pre-school.”

“Jesus,” she exclaims, eyes going wide. She finds this juicy. “And yet you barely spoke to each other?”

“We didn’t run in the same circles.”

“What circles?” She demands, shaking her head. “You probably remember what he looks like in a f*cking diaper.”

Well, Stiles does, but only because there are pictures of it buried somewhere deep in the recesses of the basem*nt at his childhood house.

“The plot thickens,” she murmurs this to herself as she gazes out across the lawn and all the people, deep in thought. “I bet he’s been into you for, like, ever, and only just got the balls to actually make a move on you.”

“Derek is not the type of person who’s too afraid to make a f*cking move on somebody,” he informs her very matter of fact, because it’s true. If Derek in school ever gave one single solitary thought to wanting Stiles in any kind of a sexual way, he would’ve made his move. Stiles is certain of this. He’s not shy. And also, he seems particularly accustomed to getting what he wants. It would make no sense.

“And yet.” She lets that dangle there. Stiles doesn’t know what to do with it.

He does not know what to do with any of this, truth be told. He’s just here to have fun and be casual and all that sh*t. He is certainly not here to get all in his feelings about any of this.

Not even a little bit. Not at all. f*ck that.

They go back inside after Erica finishes her cigarette, and they both get a second drink, lurking around and talking to anyone who talks to them. People are friendly for the most part, but Stiles catches more than one person being physically unable to look at anything other than Erica’s chest. A couple of people eyeball Stiles’ exposed chest and that makes him feel all weird, enough that he wishes they hadn’t cut the shirt so f*cking drastically that he could at least cover himself up more a little bit. Scott is missing in action for a little while, but eventually, they spot him in the living room, underneath a giant lit up pumpkin, shotgunning a beer. Scott has a natural proclivity for making friends wherever he goes, so it’s no surprise he just walked in here and started hanging out with strangers.

Sometimes Stiles wishes he could be like that. He’s too awkward. People find him off putting, just like Derek Hale said about him that first night with the Jell-O shots and the puke. He’s not the kind of person who can just walk into a room and be charming and likable and all that sh*t.

They’re in the process of moving over to go talk to Scott, one foot in front of the other, when Stiles sees perhaps the scariest specter that he could possibly see in this room full of ghouls and goblins.

It’s Theo. Stiles’ kneejerk reaction just at the immediate sight of him is to tuck and roll, so he stops mid-step and begins hunting for an exit, putting his arm around Erica as if to shield her from him, but it’s too late either way. Stiles looks at a half open window and thinks about leaping out of it, tumbling to the grass down below and just making a f*cking break for it, but Theo has spotted him.

He’s got this way of looking at Stiles that makes him freeze. It worked back then, it works now.

Stiles has got nowhere to go. And Theo is walking over to them, and Stiles is trapped in here. Too much body heat, too much booze, too much everything. He has this open sort of surprise on his face as though he forgot that this is a fraternity on the campus of the school that Stiles f*cking goes to, like it’s so absurd for Stiles to be here at all, and it irritates Stiles to no end.

He has it on good authority Theo only comes to these f*cking parties at this f*cking school because he’s banking on running into Stiles and working his god damn machinations. It’s what he always does when he wants to sleep with somebody. Stiles is an old standby.

“Stiles,” he greets, and he says Stiles’ name just like he always used to. Stiles purses his lips. “What’s the matter? You don’t say hi to me anymore?”

He leans in and envelopes Stiles in a hug, their bodies close. It’s weird to touch him again, because his body feels the same.

Stiles has not talked to him, looked at him, or touched him, in months. It took him forever to become okay with that thought. Now here Theo is, undoing everything, because it’s funny to him, most likely. Messing with Stiles is his favorite pastime.

When he pulls back, he keeps his hand on Stiles’ shoulder. The bare one. Like he has any f*cking right to just touch Stiles wherever he wants whenever he wants to. “What are you supposed to be?”

“It’s –“ Stiles is embarrassed. He doesn’t know how to explain this to him. First of all, Theo wouldn’t know the difference between a Caravaggio and a Rembrandt, let alone enough to recognize either of those names. Second of all, he’s not about to tell his ex that he’s dressed up like his f*ck friend’s favorite painting, because that would piss him right the f*ck off.

Especially if he were ever to come to discover that the f*ck friend in question is Derek goddamn Hale. Oh, f*ck that. Theo would go utterly ballistic. Like, fighting style ballistic. He’d find Derek and they’d fight. Period. No way around it.

Theo has a weird sense of ownership over Stiles, and he always has. Even after all this time. Stiles would argue he’s forfeited his right to become territorial over him, but Theo would beg to differ. It’s how he is.

Over Theo’s shoulder, Stiles sees Scott taking note that this is going on. And he, sincerely, wields his toy knife like he could do something with it, his brow furrowing, one step forward. He’s considering stabbing Theo in the f*cking back with it. Nobody hates Theo more than Scott McCall, trust that. He’s the one who had to console Stiles all the times he’d cry and cry over this f*cking asshole.

Theo is looking him up and down. His severed head, his sword, his bare chest. He looks at Stiles and he makes a face. Crazy, how that makes Stiles feel like sh*t instantly. He doesn’t even have to say that he thinks Stiles looks stupid. It’s written all over his face.

Erica has already done the math, Stiles can see it on her face. She has deduced that this is Stiles’ demonic ex-boyfriend, that she’s heard only a few things about, and she is not pleased that he’s standing there. She may be thinking about how best to get Stiles out of this situation before the voodoo takes over and Stiles is abruptly alone with Theo and Theo is digging his fingers into Stiles’ skull to take over his brain. Seriously. It’s like that.

Luckily, it doesn’t come to that.

Cora and Lydia come out of the shadows. They bump into Theo, very hard, shouting fake apologies, nearly knocking him over. Theo can’t see it from his angle, but Stiles can see it clear as day from his – Lydia throws her wine directly onto him. She plays it off like an accident, as the burgundy seeps into Theo’s crisp white t-shirt, ruining it, but that was no f*cking accident. It was on purpose.

“Oh, god, I’m sorry,” she says, furiously swiping at Theo’s shirt, turning her body so she’s directly in front of him, directly in between him and Stiles. Theo is pissed off, looking down at himself as Lydia makes the stain worse, and worse, rubbing on it like that, and he throws his arms out to shoo her away. They surround him, talking about club soda and baking soda, getting a wet rag from the kitchen, forming a united front to begin corralling him off and away towards the kitchen.

“Hey,” Derek is there, right there, out of nowhere, and he grabs Stiles by the arm. Stiles is surprised. And a little gob smacked. He’s all rattled up inside the head, because he just saw Theo and all that and the last five minutes has been absolute and utter chaos, so when he looks up to see Derek staring at him, he’s taken aback. Confused, almost. “Come over here.”

“But the –“

“Come here,” he demands again, tightening his hand on Stiles’ arm like he suspects that Stiles will try to escape. The girls have well and truly gotten Theo out of the room, gone like he never was, and Stiles wonders if Derek had even seen him in the first place. There are enough people here at the party that it’s possible Derek still has no f*cking clue he’s lurking the premises.

Derek begins leading Stiles toward the hallway, all dark and nearly empty, no lights in there, so it’s clearly not meant to be part of the festivities. Stiles just goes along with it.

“How does he keep f*cking winding up at these god damn parties?” Stiles hisses once they’re in the hallway, but Derek seems to not know what he’s talking about, and also seems to not care very much. He’s brought Stiles down here for a reason, and he does not want to talk about anything the f*ck else other than exactly what he wants to.

He pushes Stiles up against the wall and holds him there with the warm palm of his hand. “What are you playing at?” This statement alone is enough to completely sidetrack Stiles from what just happened, his eyes going wide as he thumps his head back against the wall. He blinks.

“What?”

“Are you messing with me?”

Yes. Very much so.

Stiles presses his lips down to keep from smiling like an escaped mental patient. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You don’t know what I’m talking about,” he repeats this incredulous and low, ducking his head to briefly stare at his feet, work his jaw, as though he’s struggling to even deal with this situation. “You’re playing f*cking mind games with me.”

Stiles is. “Derek, come on, I’m not –“

“You show up here to my house,” he begins, moving in closer, so close, their faces nearly touching, only inches away, voice dangerously low, “after I invited you, and you show up half f*cking dressed –“

“This is not half naked,” Stiles scoffs.

Derek reaches up and flicks Stiles’ bare nipple with his index finger, forcing a shocked gasp and grunt from Stiles. Stiles slaps his hand over it to keep Derek from doing that again, jaw dropped. The f*cking nerve.

“Yeah,” Derek says, smile mean. “I know how much you like that.”

Stiles gapes at him. “You know what? I’m outta here –“ he moves to do exactly that, taking his sword and his head and clearing right the f*ck out, but Derek stops him with his firm hand, pushing him back up against the wall.

“…and you’ve got a half dressed girl with you, climbing all over you. Come on. Be less f*cking transparent.”

Stiles puts his nose in the air. “I don’t know to what you refer. Erica is a friend.”

“Exactly my point,” he snaps his fingers, like he’s won. “You’ve employed your hot friend to come down and play jealousy games with me. I get it. You’re manipulative, she’s manipulative, it’s all just a manipulation.”

“So, you think she’s hot,” Stiles puts his chin on top of his fist like The Thinker, smirking.

Derek smiles with all his teeth. “Stiles. She looks like a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader. You know that. It’s why you brought her here. To get inside my f*cking head.”

“Don’t get so f*cking full of yourself.”

“Why would I? It’s you who’d rather be full of me –“

“You’re gross –“

Derek cuts him off by abruptly slamming his face into Stiles’. Their lips connect all hard and fast, and Stiles does not do a god damn thing to stop it. He drops his severed head. It clatters to the ground and maybe rolls away. Stiles cannot be bothered with it. Derek tastes like marijuana and peppermint gum, and a little like corn syrup from the fake blood on him; an odd combination, but it works. Somehow, it just works. When it comes to Derek, things do tend to just fall together, like that.

Derek fumbles for something on the wall that turns out to be a door handle. And what Stiles has been pressed up against in the dark was not a wall at all, but a door, and they go tumbling back into another room, Derek slamming the door shut behind them, the light coming on over their heads.

It’s a bathroom. It’s small and cramped but it has a sink. Stiles is quickly picked up and dumped on top of that sink, sitting on it with his legs spread, Derek pushing himself in between and going for Stiles’ lips again.

They kiss. And kiss. It’s loud in the muffled room, wet smacks of their lips moving together, panting, hands moving up and down each other’s bodies. It’s crazy, five minutes ago he thought he was going to be trapped in another one of Theo’s fabled video game levels, the boss level, fighting for his very f*cking life, and now he’s here with Derek letting him put his hands all over his bare body. The very body he was feeling spectacularly sh*tty about when Theo was looking at him. Now, it doesn’t feel so sh*tty at all. Derek’s touch makes it feel good.

Stiles is thinking he got exactly what he wanted.

Who knows what Derek is thinking?

It’s in his character to say precisely that, though, so he pulls off and he says, against Stiles’ lips, “you look so f*cking sexy like this.”

Stiles blushes. Big time. If he were alone, he’d be jumping up and down on his bed and laughing out loud at the absurdity of it all. As it is, he’s here, in a tiny bathroom with Derek Hale, as an entire party goes on outside. Music and voices and people and none of it f*cking matters.

“Just admit it,” Derek presses. He looks Stiles in the eye. “You came here to f*ck with me. And you brought your pretty friend to help. Why?”

He ducks his head. He looks at Derek in between his legs, his suit and his big hands and his tie.

When he looks back up, Derek is still looking at him. Can’t look away.

“I’m the villain, remember? Shark tanks and goons. Maybe I really am just mean, and manipulative, and I just like to mess with people.”

Bizarrely, this makes Derek grin extra wide. It’s his crinkle eye smile. Stiles could die. “You have a strange way of showing you like somebody, is more accurate.”

“Oh, I don’t like you.”

“You don’t?”

“No, we’ve been over this. I like having sex with you. There is a difference.”

“Stilinski,” Derek says Stiles’ name like he’d like to be saying something else, “you are impossible. It makes me want you extra f*cking bad.”

Erica had been crystal clear with him that no matter what happens, no matter even if it kills him to walk away, Stiles is not supposed to have sex with Derek. Absolutely not. She says that making men want you is all about giving them just enough and then pulling away. You know. The bait and switch, or whatever it would be in this scenario.

But Stiles would really like to be f*cked on this sink. Like, really. Derek is hard. And he’s saying really nice stuff to Stiles. And he has this uncanny ability for making Stiles feel like a million dollars, and no one has ever made him feel like that.

In fact, more often than not, he’s been made to feel inferior and ugly and annoying. Derek never makes him feel like that. It’s his most f*ckable attribute.

Erica said not to.

Stiles wants to be wanted. He’s never really ever been wanted, not this way. It’s addicting. He can’t get enough of it.

He hops off the sink, much to Derek’s evident shock and chagrin, and he says, “I should really go.”

Derek doesn’t even bother to try to hide his disappointment. “Go? But you –“

“I know, but I came here with my friend, I shouldn’t leave her.”

“You mean the bait?” He holds his arms out like what the f*ck. “I thought you only brought her here to make me want to f*ck you, and now –“

“I really gotta go,” he goes for the door and opens it, leaving Derek opening and closing his mouth in shock, like a fish out of water.

He’s flabbergasted, for the second time in a single night. He really thought he was going to get laid tonight. The realization that he isn’t is short circuiting his brain.

Stiles picks up his lost head and sword in the hallway, and he goes for the living room. It looks just the same as he left it, people everywhere, music, lights, and Erica is still here. She’s standing in the corner having a very animated conversation with Cora and Lydia, no Theo in sight, because he likely slunk off into the night with his ruined shirt all pissed off and embarrassed - but at least their chatter looks more friendly than anything else. Earlier, those two were eyeballing Erica like a deer in the woods they were trying to hunt and kill, but now, they’re getting along. Thank god for that.

They all turn when they see Stiles coming. Cora purses her lips and straightens, and he is beginning to suspect that she just plain does not like him or trust him or any of it. He pisses her off. That’s obvious.

“Hi,” Stiles says to them all. Then, to Erica in particular, “you ready to go?”

“Yes,” she agrees. “This room is beginning to smell like sweat and asshole.”

“Bye Stiles,” Cora says. It’s very pointed. She puts her arms over her chest and everything, mean mugging the sh*t out of him. “Your outfit is cute. Derek has a print of that painting. Funny you show up dressed exactly like it.”

“Hi-larious,” Lydia agrees. She has another glass of wine. She swirls it. Stiles absently wonders if perhaps he is the next target for the sloshing.

“Well, bye,” Stiles decides to not grace that with a response, because any response he could have would probably just goad them into an argument with him. He simply takes Erica and goes, out of the living room, walking past Scott, who’s deep in conversation in the kitchen with a very pretty Midsommar girl that apparently finds everything he says utterly fascinating and funny.

Stiles catches his eye and does a thumbs up with a question on his face, to ask him if he’s all right to be left here alone. Scott thumbs up back and waves, turning back to his conversation, and Stiles leaves. He goes for the front door and then the porch and down the steps and to the lawn.

He just goes. It feels weirdly powerful, too, in a way, to get Derek all worked up, just to peace the f*ck out without even looking back.

Erica says, “I assume that now you’ve got him eating out of the palm of your hand,” as she fixes her hair. “He seems dumb. So hot, though.”

“He’s actually pretty smart,” Stiles says, and it catches even him off guard. Whoa. When did that happen? He shakes his head at himself and decides to change the subject as they walk in the direction of Erica’s apartment, just a few blocks away. “What were you talking to Cora and Lydia about?”

“Oh, well, Cora pounced on me and demanded to know if you and I were f*cking,” she says this all casual, though it takes Stiles off guard. “I said, no, we’re trying to make his f*ck buddy jealous. After that, they were a lot nicer.”

“Really,” Stiles is shocked. He was sure that the knowledge that Stiles brought Erica here on the sheer basis of making Derek jealous would piss Cora the f*ck off, as his protective twin sister and all.

Apparently, so long as Stiles isn’t f*cking anyone else, Stiles is free to mess with Derek’s head all he wants. Well. Okay.

Erica shrugs. “I think they’d like it if you two dated for real.”

“Ha! No.”

“That’s the vibe I got.”

“Your reading must be off,” he playfully taps on her head with his knuckles, and she laughs. “Cora would castrate me if I got with Derek for real. She hates me. Lydia tolerates me only because she feels bad for me. Come on.”

“I don’t think she hates you,” she insists, shaking her head. “I think she just doesn’t trust you.”

That’s sort of exactly what Derek said.

“Are you saying you don’t want to date Derek? Why not?”

“Well, because, we’re different.”

“So? Opposites attract.”

“Well,” he sputters. “…I kinda just got out of the worst relationship ever of all time, so –“

“Cora said that ended, like, seven months ago,” she furrows her brow at him like she just doesn’t get it. Stiles doesn’t really like that the girls were all gathered around talking about Stiles’ ex-boyfriend and his relationships and this that and the other thing, so he gets irritated, and a bit mad, and defensive.

The way he always f*cking does whenever Theo comes up.

“Yeah, well, we were really serious. Like, for real. You don’t just, like, get out of that and then start dating anyone and everyone. And plus, Theo and Derek f*cking hate each other. Maybe I don’t want to rock the boat.”

Erica gives him a look, like she just does not buy that for one single second. “Or, you’re petrified of being in a relationship again after what happened last time. That it’ll be just as bad,” they’re at her place, the lights on up the stairs, and she begins to imperiously climb up one by one, her back to Stiles as she keeps speaking. “Or worse. It’ll be better. And that freaks the hell out of you. Being treated badly is your comfort zone. Being treated well? Yikes. Too scary for you. Well, have a good night. See you in stats,” she gives him an air kiss and goes into her place with her roommates she says she can’t stand, as though she didn’t just read him like a f*cking book without barely knowing him at all, and shuts the door behind her.

Stiles is left standing there all half-dressed, in his silly outfit they constructed to drive Derek insane, and he frowns at the night sky.

He wonders if all that is really true, about himself. One thing he knows about women, they tend to be right. But it makes him feel like sh*t to think that it could be true, that he was treated so poorly for so long that now he can’t even allow the possibility of a good relationship, because he won’t know how to do it. He’ll just f*ck it up.

Whoa. That is scary. He thinks he can’t hold onto anything good. Worse still, he thinks he’ll ruin it himself.

As he begins to walk home, slowly and deep in thought, he realizes something – he f*cking ran into Theo tonight and had nearly entirely forgotten about the interaction altogether. Something like this three months ago would’ve killed him, seeing Theo like that, being hugged by him where everyone could see it. It would’ve absolutely gutted him.

But he forgot. The thought makes him smile.

Chapter 5: Second Best

Chapter Text

Derek, 10:10 AM : Hi.

Stiles wakes up to this text first thing and smiles so hard his face hurts. Less than twelve hours since they saw one another and here Derek is in his texts, clamoring for Stiles’ attentions. It makes him feel good, and also, it is exactly what Erica said would happen.

Me, 10:34 AM : Hi.
Derek, 10:36 AM : Do you want to like NOT go to a party?
Me, 10:38 AM : I pretty much never want to go to a party so sure.
Derek, 10:40 AM : you want to come over? Just you and me.

The fact that he clarifies this makes Stiles laugh into his pillow. Like Stiles would sincerely show up to Derek’s house with Erica on his arm again, just to piss him off. Stiles may be a game player, but come on. That would be a bit low even for him.

Scott, awake and dicking around on his phone in bed asks, “what’s funny over there?”

“Nothing,” Stiles answers quickly. Scott makes a face at him and returns to his mindless scrolling.

Me, 10:43 AM : Okay. I’ll come over in like an hour.

Stiles gets out of bed, stretching, and he marches right over to the sink to start brushing his teeth. In the mirror, he can see Scott sitting up, pushing the covers off of himself, and they meet eyes. Stiles has got a mouthful of toothpaste as he furiously brushes, so Scott gets to speak first.

“Hey, uh, I saw you run into Theo last night,” he says, first f*cking thing, because of course this is what he’s dying to bring up out of everything that he could. “You wanna talk about it?”

Stiles spits. He imagines spitting Theo out, too. “No. I mean, nothing really happened,” he shoves his toothbrush back in his mouth and goes back at it. He’s brushing so hard it hurts his gums, but he doesn’t care.

“Still. You haven’t seen him in forever, right?”

He has not texted, or called, or jacksh*t, since the last time they spoke to one another, nearly seven entire months ago, now. Being broken up with right after graduation sort of f*cking stings, so Stiles has avoided him to the very best of his ability; painfully enough, Theo wasn’t even making it difficult. He just fell off the face of the planet. He’s out there taking his classes at community college and working and probably f*cking whoever and whatever he can. Stiles doesn’t like to think about it.

He spits again, and shoves his mouth into the faucet to suck some water into his mouth. He spits that out, too, setting his toothbrush down. “Thank god.”

“We don’t have to talk about it,” Scott immediately reads Stiles like a book. Stiles wants the subject to drop, so he drops it, onto the next thing. “Were you just texting Derek?”

Stiles wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’m going over to his house to hang out, actually.”

“Hmm,” he rubs at his jaw. He wants to pry. Stiles can see it all over his face. “Are you guys –“

Stiles interrupts him quickly, grabbing his shower caddy and cradling it against his chest, “who was that girl you were talking to last night?”

Mission accomplished. Stiles has distracted him. Sometimes, it’s almost too easy. Scott smiles with all his teeth, dimples popping out as he rubs the back of his neck all bashful. “The love of my life.”

“Oh, right,” Stiles snaps his fingers, “her.”

“She’s an environmental science major,” he tells Stiles imperiously, like this is impressive. Stiles guesses it is. “She has a pet frog named Larry.”

“Right, so, naturally, you’re getting married.”

“Could be,” he says mysteriously, tapping his chin. He might not have been as distracted as Stiles thought that he had been, though, because he says, “maybe you and Derek will –“

“Anyway, I’m going to shower,” he takes his caddy and his towel and f*cks right out of there, out the door before Scott can say another word.

It is another Saturday morning at Derek’s house, and when he hops off his board and begins walking up the path to the porch steps, Isaac is out there gathering empty bottles and cans from the railings, tearing down streamers and sh*t. He spots Stiles coming and he does not banish him from the premises, which is surprising in and of itself.

What’s even more surprising is that he deigns to smile at Stiles like they’re old friends, or something. He says, “hi, Stiles.”

Well, Isaac and Stiles have never properly interacted. Hi, bye, that sort of a thing, but even then, only rarely. Isaac was very athletic in school. He had lots of friends and he had lots of girlfriends, too, so he had his own sh*t going on, and so did Stiles.

“Hey,” Stiles greets, coming up the stairs. He grips his board and then pauses. He is coming over to Isaac’s house, too, after all, so at the least he could be a bit friendlier than normal. “Uh, good party last night.”

Isaac eyeballs him. “You weren’t there very long.”

“Long enough.”

“Can I say something to you?” He stuffs an empty beer can into a big black trash bag and moves closer, so his bag rustles.

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“Right,” Isaac smirks. It’s of no consequence to him what Stiles does or does not want. “I ran into your ex-boyfriend last night.”

“Ugh.” Stiles mimes puking over the side of the porch, and Isaac watches with his eyebrows up. “Don’t remind me.”

“Well, you know we were on lacrosse together.”

“Yeah,” he says slowly, not getting where this is going.

Isaac squints into the mid-morning sun. He hesitates. “…he made some sh*t comment to me last night about you.”

“Oh, do not tell me,” Stiles moves two steps away, fleeing the words themselves. “I do not want to know, I can just tell. It’s best if I don’t.”

“You’re not talking to him again?” He seems dubious. Who f*cking knows what Theo said to him? Likely something about wanting to f*ck Stiles. Gag. He wishes.

“Let me ask you something,” he comes back over to Isaac, close, a few steps away. “When you escape the basem*nt of your kidnapper, do you go back to his house for tea?”

Isaac seems very amused by this, lips pulling up at the corners. “…I guess the answer to that is no.”

“The answer is no. f*ck no. I try my best to avoid him, but, sure, he’s a bit persistent. Or, he can be. He’s got this weird way of worming into my f*cking brain,” he mimes a worm with his finger, needling into his ear. “Why are you asking me about this?”

“Oh, because, he just made it seem like – well, f*ck it. He’s an asshole. I’m glad Lydia spilled her wine on him.”

“Uh huh,” Stiles really, really does not want to know. Really. “Derek is waiting for me.”

“Okay,” Isaac agrees. “Well.”

Weird f*cking conversation. Stiles turns on his heel and goes for the door, pushing it open without knocking, figuring that he’s already been welcomed in by Isaac. Most of the decorations from the night before are already gone, the house clean for the most part, save for some big trash bags. There’s still some Halloween sh*t around, a plastic skeleton hanging from the ceiling right by the door, pumpkins on a few surfaces, but otherwise, it looks normal again. Stiles sees Derek’s other friend who he’s really only met in passing, Boyd, washing dishes at the sink, his back to Stiles, so Stiles just quietly skirts right on by. He’s had enough awkward interactions with Derek’s roommates for one day. He takes the stairs two at a time to get away from everybody else, breathing out a sigh of relief when he’s on the landing of the second floor, in the hall.

He remembers where Derek’s room is, so he knocks twice, and Derek calls for him to come in.

Stiles does. It looks the same as last time. Maybe moderately neater, all the clothes in the hamper, no empty cans of soda on top of his desk, his laptop open but black screened. Derek himself is sitting on the edge of his bed, shoving things into his backpack. He’s just Derek again, no Patrick Bateman costume, no fake blood, just one of his long sleeved shirts and his jeans, his feet bare. He smiles at the sight of Stiles standing there, and he says, “well, look who it is.”

Stiles sets his board down. “Your roommates are nosy.”

“Tell me about it,” he grumbles this mostly to himself, like Stiles isn’t really meant to hear it. “Were they bothering you?”

“Just Isaac. I guess he ran into Theo last night.”

Derek puts his backpack down with a hard thump. He blinks. “Theo?”

So, Stiles was right last night. Derek had absolutely no clue that Theo was ever there to begin with, and he perhaps was too busy dealing with general party stuff to be told by any of his friends or his own sister that Theo was there.

Stiles purses his lips. This is a tricky subject, now. “…well, he kinda showed up last night, presumably looking for me –“

“That f*cking guy was in my god damn house?” Derek booms this, aghast and disgusted, it would seem, his brow furrowed and his arms held out wide like what the f*ck. “In my house?”

“I don’t know how he keeps finding out about these f*cking parties. Remember, I said last night –“

“Well, I was a little distracted by you to notice the sh*t that you might have said about that. Holy sh*t. What? Did you talk to him?”

Stiles comes over and sits down next to him on the bed, settling beside Derek, who turns and looks directly at him, expectantly awaiting a response. “Kinda.”

“Kinda.”

“He ambushed me,” he puts his arms up in surrender. “I sort of have a hard time shaking him off once he latches on. Luckily, your sister and Lydia showed up and spilled wine all over him, and then you came over, so I managed to get away.”

Derek’s lips part, like he’s surprised by something that Stiles has said. “If I see that guy in my f*cking house again, I’ll knock his teeth out.”

“Okay,” Stiles rolls his eyes.

“I am not kidding.” He’s not. Stiles can tell.

“I thought you guys got over your little school rivalry,” Stiles reminds him with his eyebrows up, and Derek frowns at him all pissed off.

“School rivalry?” He repeats. He’s definitely pissed off. “He keyed my car, Stiles. He pushed my brother down the stairs. And not to even f*cking mention, he –“ he abruptly cuts himself off, looking away pointedly. Stiles stares at the side of his face and his clenched jaw, and he thinks, holy sh*t, how did Stiles miss all this sh*t in high school? “…well. Yeah. Anyway. He did all that sh*t. And more. This is no petty bullsh*t. The blood may be cold, but the wounds last, trust me.”

“Now you’re starting to talk like me,” Stiles angles for lightening the mood, but Derek will not be lightened. He is serious as a heart attack. Stiles sobers up and shakes his head. “Well, okay. Jeez. You’ll punch him if you see him. Heard and understood.”

“What’s he even doing coming around here? I thought he was too good for higher education, remember?”

“Well,” Stiles scratches at his arm absentmindedly. “I think it’s because of me.”

“I do not want to discuss this anymore, it’ll piss me off too much,” he bursts out suddenly, and Stiles is taken aback by the severity in his tone, and the volume of it, too, so he blinks hard and rears his neck back. Derek pinches the bridge of his nose, like he didn’t mean to say it like that, and he corrects himself, quickly. “Sorry. f*ck. He’s just such a f*cking asshole – what did he even say to you?”

“Um.” He thinks. Where to f*cking begin? It’s like, he barely said anything, but he said a lot of sh*t, too, at the same time. He says a lot of sh*t with his face instead of with his words, Theo does. “He hated my costume.”

“He’s unlearned,” Derek snaps. “He wouldn’t know a Caravaggio from a f*cking Rembrandt.”

“That’s exactly what I said,” he laughs, surprised by the parroting of Stiles’ own thoughts from last night. “No, he just like, has this talent? For making me feel like sh*t? Without even hardly trying. Um…feels like sh*t. I don’t know. I wouldn’t mind not talking about this, either.”

Derek is quiet for a moment. Stiles isn’t looking at him. He just looks at his feet, still in his converse, and a hole he has in his jeans, and he picks at it.

“I really liked your costume last night,” he says, after a full thirty seconds of dead silence. “I would’ve f*cked you in the bathroom. Too bad you had to play mind games, instead.”

Stiles smiles. Derek has an uncanny ability, for making Stiles smile, even when he really doesn’t want to, sometimes. “I would’ve f*cked you in the bathroom, too, but – again. I brought my friend. Can’t blow my friends off to blow you. Get it?”

“Don’t tease me about sucking my dick,” he warns, but he’s joking. “It isn’t funny.”

It is funny. Very funny. Almost as funny as the fact that Stiles really wouldn’t mind doing it.

“Well, anyway,” Stiles changes the subject. “What did you wanna do? Since I’m here. And you wanted to hang out.”

“What do you think I want to do?” He gives Stiles a look, and then he reaches onto his desk to grab his familiar bong, holding it out for Stiles to see. Stiles nods, like of course, not surprised at all, and Derek starts getting it ready. As he works to pack it, Stiles looks around his bedroom a bit more closely than he has the past two times he’s been in here, scanning the walls and the closet and the bookshelf. He stands to go look at all of Derek’s books, the titles on the spines and everything, and he recognizes more than a few from his own collection. Stiles is impressed.

His eyes slide to the left, and he spots something he hadn’t noticed before. “Whoa, you have a record player.”

“And records.”

Stiles looks, under the desk it sits on top of, and he sees a milk crate full of, yes, vinyl. He leaps at it and squats down, beginning to go through title after title, record cover after record cover. Derek has a pretty big collection, almost as big as Stiles’ back home. There was no room for his turntable or his records at school, so he left it all behind in his kid bedroom. It’s probably all just sitting there collecting dust.

He finds one in particular and gasps, pulling it out from the rest and cradling it against his chest. He looks at Derek and he says, “I love this band.”

“Put it on,” Derek waves all non-committal, leaning forward to take a hit. Stiles does not need to be asked twice. He gently takes the record out from its sleeve, laying it into the turntable with care and putting the needle down. It scratches in that familiar way that always makes Stiles feel better whenever he hears that sound, lots of nights spent alone in his room listening to his records, and then the music starts.

Stiles hugs his knees to his chest and sits in front of it, absolutely giddy. “I wouldn’t think you’d know this band.”

“I know, you’re so, like, off the grid. No one knows the things you do.”

Stiles makes a face at him. “Since when do you and I have so much in common?”

“Ha,” Derek shakes his head. He’s amused. Who knows what’s funny? “We always have. But, you know. Oh, let’s not go over it all again,” he stands up, bringing the bong with him, and he comes and sits down on the floor right next to Stiles, not a f*ck given, crossing his legs and everything. He hands the bong to Stiles and sits with him, shoulder to shoulder, watching the record spin. “It is a good band.”

After Stiles takes his hit and breathes out, he says, “I’ve seen them live.”

“Of course you have.”

“Well, no friends, no parties, one has to go to shows.”

“One has to.”

Stiles gives the bong back with the lighter, and then works on untying his shoes and tossing them aside, figuring they’ll be up in this room for at least a little while. “How was the party after I left?”

“I went to f*cking bed, actually,” he says this a bit choked up with smoke in his lungs, before exhaling it all out. “I had blue balls. Had to masturbat* and sleep.”

Stiles laughs out loud at that, just imagining Derek angrily jerking off into the sink and then retiring for the evening, too mad to have fun. “Oh, so you didn’t find somebody else to hook up with, then?” Stiles is just baiting him at this point, for the hell of it, the way he is prone to do to people every now and again, but Derek does not take the bait.

“Everyone else just seemed like second best,” he says this all honest. Stiles looks at him, waits for the punchline, and it never comes. He is serious. And he means it. Stiles does not know what to say to that. People are not generally so nice to him, and it catches him off guard, trips him up. What kind of sh*tty barb could he say to that?

Stiles clears his throat and looks away, at Derek’s walls. His pictures and his movie tickets. He tries to think of something to say and comes up with nothing. Totally blank. He takes the bong, takes a hit, and hands it back. They sit quietly and listen to the record play, and Stiles thinks about how he sat alone in his room listening to this over and over when he and Theo broke up, and the memory should by all means make him f*cking miserable, but instead, he sort of feels nothing about it.

“Still can’t believe you showed up with your hot friend to get under my skin.”

“I can’t believe it actually worked.”

“I’m a simple man,” he points to his chest. “And you’re f*cking crazy. So, duh.”

“In what way am I crazy?” Stiles demands, turning his body so they’re facing each other more directly, and he can’t help from smiling. He may be more high than he’s ever gotten in his life. The bong is being handed back to him and he takes it, without even stopping to wonder if maybe he should lay off it a little bit.

“You’re not seriously asking me that.”

“I am asking.”

“You’re bonkers,” Derek insists, eyes wide in his head. “You would sell me down the river for a new skateboard deck if it came down to it.”

“Ha! What’s the situation? Are we in a dystopian future where everyone is bartering for skateboards, for some reason? I sell you into sexual slavery?”

“The fact that you even need clarification on the exact parameters of this fake reality, instead of just being like, no Derek, I’d never sell you down the river for a skateboard? That says it all.”

“I have to have a board,” Stiles insists, coughing a little. “If the choice is you or my board, sorry Charlie, it’s my board every time.”

“But your skateboard isn’t going to make love to you like me.”

“I don’t need dick,” Stiles waves this off. “I do need to skate. See? It’s only the truth. Don’t get so upset. I’ll find a use for you in the dystopia, I promise,” he pats Derek on the shoulder, and Derek just rolls his eyes.

In the midst of handing Derek the piece back, he catches sight of something else sitting all forgotten next to the turntable, and he reaches for it instantly. “Holy sh*t, is this, like, an original Polaroid camera?”

“I don’t know about original, but,” he shrugs his shoulders, finishing off what’s left in the bowl and setting it aside, “it was my mom’s in the nineties. She gave it to me for my birthday one year because I would always steal it. Want me to take your picture?”

“It still works?”

“Yeah, duh, these things are like f*cking Nokia phones. They just keep going and going,” he takes it from Stiles’ hands and gestures, for Stiles to pose. “Say cheese.”

He poises it over his eye and gets ready to take the picture. Stiles is on the spot and also very, very high, so he does the first thing he can think of – which is to do finger guns like he’s The Fonz, a stupid grin on his face, and the flash blinds him for a moment. He blinks rapidly in the wake of it, and there’s the mechanical whirr of the camera printing out the picture.

It comes out slow, and Derek picks it gently with two fingers. He doesn’t shake it. Treats it like fine China, setting it up against the side of one of his speakers to develop safely. “That was a good one, I can tell.”

Stiles’ face feels like water. He has had way too much to smoke. Says as much out loud. “I think I smoked too much.”

“You’re okay, you’re with me. Whenever I’ve gotten, like, beyond stoned and start feeling freaked or paranoid, I just turn on an easy watching show or play video games. Mario Kart?”

This is like being in a f*cking candy store. “You have Mario Kart?”

Derek does have Mario Kart. He has a switch, and he hooks it up to a little television he has in his room. It’s only like, twenty inches or something, but it does the trick, and they sit on the floor together, shoulder to shoulder. Derek always plays as Bowser, and he nudges Stiles in the side and he says, “it’s because we’re spiritually linked.” Stiles has no f*cking idea what that means.

But Stiles always plays as King Boo, so maybe there’s something to that. Maybe he’s spiritually linked with King Boo, or something. Who knows? All he knows is that Derek is sort of really bad at Mario Kart, and Stiles didn’t know that was something a person could actually be bad at. But Derek is. He loses every time, sometimes catastrophically, hitting every banana peel, taking every shell, falling off of cliffs instead of making the jumps to the other side. The third time in a row he hits a banana and gets unreasonably angry about it, Stiles laughs so hard he falls over and cries and they both lose to Link and Princess Peach and all those other assholes.

After ten straight games, Derek asks, “uh, do you want to like, order a really gross amount of McDonald’s from DoorDash?”

“That sounds so f*cking good,” Stiles agrees, and they sit together and stare at Derek’s phone screen as they order. They both get hamburgers and they supersize the meals for as many fries as they can possibly get, and then they also get a twenty piece chicken McNugget to share. When the food comes, Stiles had forgotten they ordered anything at all, because they wound up at Derek’s book shelf sharing each other’s opinions on all of his books, if they liked them or not, but then Isaac is knocking on the door and holding the giant McDonald’s bag for them to take.

They sit on the bed with more food than they could ever possibly eat, but they make a pretty valiant effort of it. They eat half the nuggets, the entirety of their hamburgers, with their massive sodas they drink like fiends because the food is too salty as it always is. Derek is obsessed with ketchup, apparently, so he squirts like a thousand of those little packets onto the wrapper of his Big Mac and sops his fries into the pile, as they talk about all sorts of sh*t. Really, anything and everything, the whole sky, you know?

Derek says he does not know what he plans to do with his history degree, and that all his siblings say it’s a waste of time and money, but he can’t help it, because it’s the only thing he really loves. He has extensive knowledge of, like, Ancient Greece, and he likes to quote The Iliad and The Odyssey, and he watches documentaries on the history channel more than he watches movies.

“Do you ever think, like, you were born in the wrong era, or something?” Stiles asks him, finishing off the last bite of his burger and washing it down with a huge sip of his Diet co*ke. “Since you know so much about every era.”

Derek shakes his head. “Honestly? The main thing I always take away from it all, is that people are always the same. They’re always the same. It’s like, people were boycotting not being allowed to go to the pubs and sh*t during the Black Plague. Remind you of anything?”

Stiles blinks. Whoa.

“It’s always the same. So, no. Plus, a lot of other time periods were sh*ttier, if anything. Like the fifties? Racist, sexist, hom*ophobic hellscape that people are always romanticizing? No thanks.”

“I totally get that. I always think that.”

“What about you? Born in the wrong time, were you?”

“Wrong place, maybe,” he laughs, bunching up his hamburger wrapper and throwing it into the garbage bag, along with his empty fry box. “I always felt like – well. I don’t know. Things could’ve gone a lot differently if only I were more…I don’t know. I think things just went to sh*t for me mentally when my mom died, and then I never could fix it, and no one really got it. Who would? We were all like, eleven. Who gets it? I just sorta curled into myself and my books after that. Nobody understood me, that’s how it felt. Whoa, sorry, I’m like, unloading my childhood trauma onto you.”

Derek shakes his head. “It’s fine,” he insists. He’s got a mouthful of fries, and he licks ketchup off his index finger. “I – well. Maybe I would have. My dad died.”

Right. Derek’s dad did die. They were even younger than Stiles was when his mom died, so it’s hard to remember it, but it happened. Stiles had forgotten about that, and he feels like sh*t, forgetting something that was so central to Derek’s existence.

“It sucked.” This is all Derek says. It’s succinct, and to the point.

Stiles laughs, because it’s like, yeah. That’s all there is to say about it. It f*cking sucked.

“My mom is awesome, though, she totally did us all so well. I mean, we’re weird, but she’s weird, so that stands to reason. I think Laura took it the worst, and that’s why she’s sort of…um. Crazy.”

“Well, she’s…” he trails off. He can’t really argue that she isn’t crazy because he first of all does not know her, and second of all, it’s all he hears about, that she’s f*cking nuts. He decides he doesn’t want to touch it with a ten foot pole, settling instead for watching Derek throw out his own trash, dumping the bag down onto the ground so they’re alone on the bed together.

Stiles pulls his knees up to his chest. He averts his eyes. “I wish I would’ve gotten to know you in school.” This is a huge thing to say. Huge to admit. It’s almost shameful. He’s humiliated saying it, but it’s the truth, and he’s still just stoned enough to say it. “…I was just very isolated.”

“Yeah,” Derek agrees. His tone is quiet. Like he’s unsure of where to step, surrounded by eggshells in this particular conversation.

“My mom died and then I became very sad. And – my dad…well. Then, I was with Theo, and he was so…yeah.”

“You really don’t have to explain this sh*t to me,” he waves it off. “Hey, we’re adults now. It was high school. We can just put all that sh*t away.”

“Okay,” he agrees. He puts his chin on his knee and he smiles, slow and easy.

They don’t say anything for a moment. Stiles is getting very tired, though the sun is only just beginning to go down and set, and his eyes are drooping. Derek notices. He says, “wanna lie down for a bit?”

Stiles nods in agreement, and Derek moves aside, making room for Stiles. He lies down on his side, and Derek lies down right next to him.

They are sharing the same pillow, and facing one another. Stiles really is f*cking exhausted because he got really stoned and just ate his weight in McDonald’s, but he keeps his eyes open, and Derek looks back at him.

Derek searches his face. He says, “you are so good looking.”

Stiles laughs at that. “Right.”

“You are. Sorry somebody made you feel like you’re not, but, you are.”

Stiles moves closer, just a little bit. He looks at Derek’s lips. Derek looks at his lips. It’s natural, a totally obvious progression of events, when they kiss. Stiles puts his hands on Derek’s chest and they keep kissing, and kissing, over and over. There’s some tongue, a little lip biting, but mostly, it’s just simple, gentle kissing. Normally when people make out like this it leads directly into sex, and Stiles keeps waiting for Derek to touch him somewhere more provocative, or for Stiles to do that back to him, but neither of them do.

They just kiss. Derek puts his hand on Stiles’ face. Strokes his hair. Stiles hugs him close and buries his face into Derek’s chest for a second, and when Derek can’t kiss him on the lips, he settles for kissing him on the forehead instead. Stiles’ heart beats in his chest.

He likes Derek a lot. Way more than he thought he would. He doesn’t know what to do about that. So he decides to just embrace it, and be in the moment, and keep kissing him.

He wakes up disoriented. It’s pitch dark. There’s a warm body next to him that he knows is Derek, only because he remembers after a few seconds of blind wondering. He clicks his tongue and he’s, like, dying of thirst, so he sits up all bleary eyed and paws around on Derek’s desk next to his bed for what’s left of his Diet co*ke, slurping it down like a mad man.

Derek is snoring. Stiles snorts, hearing it, and nudges him in the shoulder. “Derek,” he croaks, and Derek stirs. “Hi. We fell asleep.”

“Huh?”

“We fell asleep. It’s, like, two in the morning.”

“Oh, yeah.” He’s still asleep, for the most part.

“It’s uh, late.”

No response.

“Can I sleep here with you?”

“Yeah, of course,” his voice is gruff and low, his body turning away toward the wall to fall back asleep. Stiles drinks some more co*ke and gets up, moving carefully toward the door and poking his head out into the hall. There are voices downstairs, the television on, lights on, so he moves as quietly as possible to the bathroom.

It’s sort of messy in here, but what does Stiles expect? It’s just a bunch of boys living here. He pisses, washes his hands, and creeps back down to Derek’s room, shutting the door softly behind himself. He sheds his jeans, down to just his briefs and his t-shirt, and climbs back into bed with Derek.

“Come here,” Derek says, turning over and draping his arm over Stiles’ hip. He kisses Stiles on the neck, still mostly asleep, like he barely realizes he’s doing it. “You smell good.”

Stiles settles into the pillows, and Derek drapes the comforter over their bodies, holding Stiles up against his front. Stiles never really was one for sleeping with other people, because he’s too fidgety and tosses and turns, and he prefers to just be on his own – he expects himself to lie there wide awake overthinking everything that happened yesterday, as he often does, but he doesn’t.

Stiles falls back asleep in minutes, to the sound of Derek’s breathing that eventually becomes snoring again.

In the morning, they wake up early. Like, really early. Sun barely up early. They got a ton of sleep and are all well rested and relaxed, full of McDonald’s still, and Stiles should feel weird about the fact that he slept in Derek’s bed and snuggled him all night, but he just doesn’t. You know? f*ck it. No one’s ever snuggled him like that before, like he’s a teddy bear to be cuddled. No one has ever kissed him so many times in a twelve hour period before, either.

Derek has a spare toothbrush that he lets Stiles use, and they brush together, side by side in the bathroom. The house is silent. Nobody else is awake, and they’re quiet together, just meeting each other’s eyes in the mirror and smiling at one another around their brushes. It only stands to reason that they have sex, quiet and sort of rushed so no one will hear them, but it’s good, and Stiles hides his face in Derek’s chest when he comes so he won’t make too much noise. Derek drives Stiles home, and takes him through the Starbucks drive-thru, buys coffee for him even though Stiles drinks the expensive stuff, kisses him before he gets out of the car to go back to his dorm.

Upstairs, Scott is already gone at his job. Stiles is alone in his room, and he puts his coffee down and flops face first into his bed. He puts his pillow over his face. He screams into it like a maniac, pounding his fists on the mattress because he’s nuts, but sue him. He just had the best day of his entire life, with a boy even, and not just any boy, Derek Hale, and they kissed and f*cked and talked to each other for hours and hours, and Derek kissed him goodbye even.

No one has ever been so nice to him. He wants to kill himself. Really. He wants to hang himself right now because he could die this way, he’s that happy. He feels like someone actually really likes him, and maybe he really likes someone back, and it’s been so long since he’s felt that way, he doesn’t even know what to do with it.

He lies there for an hour just sipping his coffee that Derek bought for him, staring at his ceiling, hugging his pillow. He wonders if Derek is going to ask him out for real or if they’re just going to keep having sex, but Stiles will take it either way, so long as Derek doesn’t f*ck anyone else. He just doesn’t mind. He likes Derek. It feels so silly, but it’s true. He likes Derek. Like, likes him. Derek is funny and he sucks at Mario Kart and he buys Stiles food and coffee without expecting anything in return, and he reads, and he has records and a Polaroid camera.

His phone buzzes on his desk and he immediately assumes it to be Derek, so he grabs it instantly, excited.

His heart sinks into his chest, when he sees the notifications on his screen.

Theo, 8:30 AM : Hey, how are you? We barely got to talk at that stupid f*cking party because that c*nt Lydia spilled her wine all over me.
Theo, 8:30 AM : I miss you.

Chapter 6: Loose Ends / New Friends

Chapter Text

Stiles attempts to evade the texts from Theo, just ignoring them altogether. He forgets that he has his read receipts on. And he remembers, oh right, Theo forced me to put my f*cking read receipts on when we were together so he’d know if I was ignoring him. It should surprise him more than it does that his phone starts buzzing ten minutes after he works to ignore them, and when he sees Theo’s name on his screen, he gets this deep visceral sense of anxiety, because it reminds him of constantly fighting and arguing and being sh*tty to each other and he just doesn’t want to do that anymore.

He should’ve blocked Theo’s number. He could ignore the call and block it immediately after. He could. He’d like to think of himself as being older and wiser, now, and different, and someone that can’t be controlled anymore.

But he answers it. So maybe he is not so much older, or so much wiser, after all.

“What is up with you?” Theo asks him first thing, accusatory. “You mad at me for something? We haven’t even spoken in months.”

Stiles runs his finger over his lips and he tries to come up with the least inflammatory thing that he could say, so that this doesn’t spiral into an argument. “Well, no, but – we are broken up. So.”

“Oh, so that makes me the bad guy again.”

Theo is always the f*cking bad guy.

“I don’t really get why we’d need to speak to one another if we’re broken up, so, like, sure, we can say hello, but –“

“Are you really sill pissed off at me because of all that?”

“All what?”

“When we broke up.”

“Let’s be clear,” Stiles sits up straight in his desk chair, and he points an accusatory finger out at nothing and no one, as though Theo were in the room with him right now, “you broke up with me. At my graduation party. And then didn’t talk to me for seven months. If I felt sore over that, could you really blame me?”

“So, now we can’t even speak to each other?”

“The truth is, I would rather not.”

Theo does the thing he does, that he’s so spectacular at, which is derailing the entire f*cking conversation by saying something manipulative and nice. Theo is only ever nice when it’s part of a grand master plan, like a means to an end. “I was telling the truth when I said I miss you.”

“You miss fighting until two in the morning every night? Right.”

“Maybe so,” he argues defensively. “You know, people only fight like that when there’s a lot of, like, passion in a relationship.”

Stiles begs to f*cking differ. People who actually love each other and are right for each other might argue and fight from time to time, yes, but not like the way Theo and Stiles did. They’d fight for hours. They would say horrible f*cking things. Theo would use the fights as an excuse to hook up with someone else. Sometimes, Stiles would suspect that Theo would deliberately work to piss Stiles off just so he could have an excuse to cheat. Seriously.

“You only wanted to date me because I was the only other boy who liked boys, that you were aware of. That’s not the start of a great love story.”

“It could have been.”

Stiles wants to reach through the phone and wring his f*cking neck. “Is there a point to this conversation? What is it, are you bored?”

“There is a point to this conversation,” he admits, angrily. He takes in a deep breath that’s all tinny over the phone, and Stiles imagines him in his green bedroom in his house, drinking some hangover cure sh*t. Stiles spent many a long night in that green bedroom. He could draw it from memory. “Someone told me that you and Derek Hale are, like –“

“This is about Derek?” Stiles cuts him off, voice going up about three octaves just out of sheer surprise. “You’ve got to be f*cking kidding me –“

“Well, is it true?”

“Is what true?”

“You two are –“

“We’re not doing anything,” Stiles snaps quickly, though he can still sort of feel Derek’s lips against his own even as he says this. “Jesus. Even if we were, what business is it of yours?”

“Are you kidding me?” He really sounds disgusted by that question. “What f*cking business is it of mine? He would only be going after you to piss me off.”

Stiles frowns, his brow furrowed.

He had not thought about that. Derek had been so f*cking angry at the sheer mention of Theo, and named all the sh*tty things that Theo had done to him, or at least some of them. It’s clearly not a rivalry that has gone away with time. They both still hate each other.

It’s not totally out of the question that Derek would, maybe and only maybe, get into Stiles’ pants just to piss Theo off. Like, in Erica’s words, mental warfare.

“He knows how important you are to me,” Theo goes on, and Stiles palms his face, “of course he would try to sleep with you just to rattle my f*cking cage.”

“He’s not trying to sleep with me,” Stiles flouts the maxim so hard he’s amazed that Theo believes it – because Derek really is not trying to sleep with Stiles. He is actively succeeding at doing exactly that. But Theo doesn’t need to know that. “Derek is not nearly that immature, either.”

There’s a pause on the other line. “…you defending him, now?”

“Well –“ Stiles sputters.

“Are you really hanging around with him?”

“As friends,” this is more bending of the truth. Friends don’t sleep in the same bed and snuggle and kiss each other goodbye.

“You shouldn’t be talking to him.”

“I can really do whatever I want, because –“

“You make terrible decisions,” Theo interrupts him, very succinct. “You have horrible taste in friends, and really, palling around with Derek Hale just proves that. That guy is all smoke and f*cking mirrors.”

Well, he’s definitely all smoke. Stiles will give him that.

“…he acts like he’s some intellectual, sensitive guy and it works to get people to sleep with him. He’s a f*cking sh*t stain. And if you give him half a chance, he’ll mess with you. Just trust me.”

Stiles thinks he’s had just about enough of this conversation, honestly. “Did you really just call me to, like, try and get me to not talk to Derek Hale?”

“Just because we broke up does not mean that I don’t care about you. I’d really hate it if he weaseled his way into your head and you got all upset because he was just f*cking with you.”

“I won’t let him weasel into my head,” Stiles barks. “Is that all? I’m busy.”

He hangs up before Theo can say anything else, throwing his phone on top of his desk and shaking his head all mad. He puts his arms over his chest and he stares blankly at his empty desktop, his laptop closed, papers neatly organized into piles.

Derek does not do sh*t like that. It’s an absurd thing for Theo to say. And likely, he only said it because he’s trying to get the voodoo to come back, so he can find his way into Stiles’ bed again and they can have sex and the hellish merry-go-round of their relationship can start up all over again. Stiles worked very, very hard to get off that merry-go-round. Theo knows that.

He also knows how easy it is to get him back on it. He’s a manipulator. Logically, Stiles knows all of this. This is what Theo does. He did it their entire relationship. Everyone who would get close to Stiles was evil, somehow, and Theo would plant seeds in Stiles’ head to get rid of everyone else, so he could have Stiles all to himself. It’s a game that Stiles knows.

But Stiles is also a deeply anxious, paranoid person. And whether he likes it or not, the seed has been planted.

Stiles and Erica are hovering underneath a big maple tree on campus, crowded around Erica’s phone with their heads bowed, so that Stiles can read the texts she has been receiving from some jackass on the football team. She wants him to assess them, from a male point of view, to see if he’s interested in her for real or if he just wants to have sex.

“My knowledge of straight male communication is sort of not great,” he tells her, eyes scanning over their individual text bubbles. “But it seems like he likes you?”

“I think so, too,” she says with a satisfied smile on her face, observing the texts for herself like she’s viewing a work of art. “But, watch, we’ll have sex and then he’ll go full f*cking phantom of the opera. Pure ghost.”

Stiles doesn’t know what to say to that, because men do sort of tend to do sh*t like that. Especially in college. Because it’s like actions have no consequences here, or at least, that’s how some people seem to act.

“Oh, well,” she sighs, tucking her phone away into her purse. “How’s it going with you and your, um,” she does air quotes, “friend?”

“Nothing to tell,” he quickly answers, looking away to frown across campus at the mid morning sun.

There is actually quite a lot to tell. They spent an entire day together. They kissed and had sex. They played Mario Kart. This is not nothing. People who are just supposed to sleep together and then not give a sh*t don’t spend an entire day together fooling around. Stiles keeps it to himself, though, because the entire day, that had made him so happy at first, has been tainted by the phantoms of Theo’s words. He keeps going back over every detail of it all and looking for clues that what Theo says is true – that Derek is lying, and using Stiles as a pawn in this endless chess game he has going with Theo.

It would really, really suck if that were the case. It would actually hurt quite a lot, because Stiles likes him. He can admit that to himself, now, as shameful as it may be.

Stiles has already been suckerpunched by one boy’s bullsh*t this year, he doesn’t need another black eye, thanks very much.

“He didn’t call you after the party?” She sems surprised by this, eyes up in her hairline.

“No, he did,” he rubs the back of his neck. “We hung out, uh, it’s not a big deal, though.”

She is critically examining him, head to toe, like she knows she’s being fed bullsh*t but doesn’t know how, let alone why – the conversation is put aside and derailed by the exact man in question coming up behind them. He has a particular talent for showing up like Beetlejuice, you know? Say his name three times, and there he f*cking is. He comes right up out of nowhere with his backpack on, sunglasses, this easy going smile on his face like nothing in the world is wrong at all.

“Stiles,” he greets, sunglasses pushed up onto his head, and his eyes slide to Erica standing there. “Hi, how are you?” He is friendly. He’s always been friendly.

“I’m okay,” she says back, watching both of them.

Derek pulls Stiles in and hugs him. Like, out of absolutely nowhere. One second he’s talking to Erica, and the next, he’s wrapping both of his arms around Stiles in front of the entire world, and it’s not a quick hug. He holds on. Stiles is bombasted by it, but he’s not an animal – he lifts his arms and hugs back, a little awkwardly, because he’s not used to random hugs like this. Maybe with Scott, sure, but that’s legitimately it. Theo never hugged him. And his dad is not big on that sort of sh*t.

When they pull apart, Derek puts his hand on Stiles’ shoulder. “What are you guys doing?”

“Well, Erica and I were just –“

“I’m late for class, actually,” she says quickly, turning and going with a wave for both of them. Stiles gapes at her. He knows for certain she doesn’t have class for another hour because she told him that, and they were going to get coffee and bagels and hang out for a little while, but there she goes. She tosses her hair over her shoulder and gives Stiles a very red, very knowing little smirk, and click-clacks away across campus, fast.

She’s left Stiles and Derek here alone. Stiles feels unsure, and uncomfortable, because he let someone say bad things about Derek, bad things that are bothering him still, and he does not know what to say.

But, you know, Derek has a superpower. He can’t detect awkwardness, seriously, Stiles thinks he doesn’t have the radar for it. He just plows forward like nothing is weird at all, nothing to see here, everything is fine.

He puts his hands on Stiles’ arms, and he rubs them both up and down, like he’s trying to start a fire with Stiles’ body. “Jesus, you’re cold. Why aren’t you wearing a jacket?”

“It’s unseasonably cold, yeah,” he agrees, sniffling a bit. “I wasn’t expecting it, so I…” he’s just wearing a t-shirt and a loose flannel, not nearly enough to keep him warm in the temperature, and it shows. His cheeks and nose are probably all red from cold.

Derek takes his backpack off. “Here,” he says, pulling his hoody up over his head and offering it to Stiles with no hesitation.

“Oh, come on, I can’t take your –“

“This thing is warmer than it looks,” he gestures to his long sleeved shirt, and it actually does look pretty warm. “Take it. You have like, four classes today. You can’t be walking around all day freezing.”

Derek knows Stiles’ class schedule. He actually listens when Stiles f*cking talks about his schoolwork. Jesus.

“Okay,” Stiles takes it from him gently. It’s a big green hoody with the logo of some clothing brand Stiles isn’t familiar with on it, totally inoffensive. He takes his own backpack off and moves to set that and his board down, but Derek takes them both from him, holding them and watching Stiles pull the hoody up over his head.

It’s warm from Derek’s body heat, and it smells like him. Stiles buries the insanely giddy little smile he wants to burst out into as best as he can, settling the article onto his body. It’s too big on him, but boy, is it f*cking cozy.

“Better?” Derek asks.

“Yeah, thanks,” he’s embarrassed. He ducks his head.

“You want to go get a coffee?”

Derek is like a mind reader. Or, he’s deducing. Stiles has to have coffee in the morning, and he doesn’t have one in his hands at the moment, so he must want one.

“Okay,” Stiles agrees. He reaches for his things back, and Derek hands him the backpack, but holds onto the skateboard.

“I’ll carry it for you.”

Stiles wants to kill himself. Like, really. He wants to climb the nearest tree and use the straps of his backpack to hang himself. He can’t deal with this. It’s too much. Derek must study romantic movies or something, to know exactly what to say and what to do, how to make Stiles completely bananas over him for the simplest sh*t.

Or, he just really is nice, and thoughtful, and he really does like Stiles. Stiles does not know which of these two possibilities is weirder.

They walk together, in the direction of the library, where the closest coffee is located. Stiles stuffs his hands into the front pocket of Derek’s sweatshirt, hiding them deep, but he can’t help from glancing at Derek’s free hand all limp at his side. It’s the side closest to Stiles.

This evil gremlin inside of him wants to grab it and hold it. He ignores the impulse.

“How’s it going?” Derek asks him. “Busy day today?”

“Yeah, holy sh*t. Tuesdays are my worst days of the week.”

“Right, you told me that. I don’t know why you packed your schedule so tight, it would make me insane being that busy.”

“I like busy,” he shrugs.

Derek smiles at him, like he finds that endearing or something, and Stiles looks away, before he does something dumb, like try to kiss him.

At the counter for coffee, Derek pulls his wallet out before Stiles can even fumble for it in his backpack and pays for them both – he insists on getting Stiles a muffin even though Stiles says not to worry about it, and he says that Stiles will be starving all day otherwise. And he tips, too, a crisp five into the cup. Stiles finds it all very, very sexy.

They sit down after getting their stuff, right by the grinder so it’s a little loud, tons of kids here getting coffee and talking and doing homework. Derek has to lean forward so they can talk, over the table, as Stiles picks chunks out of his muffin. “I had a really good time the other day.”

Stiles goes red, but he says the truth. “…me, too. It was really good. Um, you are fun to hang out with.”

“You’re only just now discovering this?” He crinkles around the eyes with his smile, and Stiles wants to hit him. It’s the same impulse he gets when he sees a baby animal on the internet, this need to reach in and just squeeze the hell out of it because it’s so cute he doesn’t know what else to do with it. “You like hanging out with me?”

“Yeah, fine,” he rolls his eyes, like he’s so irritated by this. Even though he isn’t. “You’re acceptable company. Better than my laptop.”

“High praise,” he laughs. “Well, you want to go for dinner on Friday?”

Derek has no f*cking chill. Clearly. Stiles tucks a strand of hair behind his ear all awkward and he doesn’t immediately respond, because he’s taken off guard – though his instantaneous, kneejerk reaction to that is a big fat yes, he somehow manages to salvage his pride, and he squelches it down. He runs his finger over his mouth to keep from smiling. And Derek reads all of this as reluctance, or at least that Stiles is considering it instead of already knowing that he’d like to do exactly that.

“It’s just ramen,” he insists, hands up in innocence.

Stiles gives him a look. “Oh right, only my favorite food in the world.”

“Really?” Derek taps his chin. “Who would’ve thought?”

Of course Derek would know what Stiles’ favorite food is – in high school, Stiles might have been a nobody, but he was sort of renowned for bringing cup of noodles to lunch more than three days out of the week. Stiles loves any kind of ramen, from the cheap sh*t that costs ninety nine cents in a bag, to the authentic stuff, to the fancy over the top stuff. It’s all about the noodles.

“Okay,” he agrees, hiding his face behind his coffee cup. “Fine. So, what is it, like, a date?”

“If you’d like,” he gestures sort of grandly, as though he’s speaking to a king. Stiles rolls his eyes for the tenth time today. “Or, it could just be whatever.”

“Whatever is definitely a more comfortable space for me,” he averts his eyes as he says this, although, not because it isn’t true. It really is more comfortable to refer to it all as just one big fat whatever, even if secretly, he might want it to be something a little bit more. He could never admit that.

“Well, fine, it’s whatever,” Derek agrees, checking the time on his phone and standing up hastily, tucking his chair in. “I’ve got class, sh*t, I’m late. I’ll pick you up on Friday, okay?” And then he’s out of there, bat out of hell style, charging like his life depends on it. He really is late. Maybe he really didn’t have time to come and get coffee with Stiles at all, and only did so because he saw the opportunity to hang out with him for five minutes and took it.

Stiles drinks his coffee. He finishes his muffin. Both of these things Derek paid for, and he really didn’t have to. Back when Stiles was with Theo, things like that didn’t really happen – and it’s never really about the money, it’s always about the gesture.

Theo was never much for gestures.

“You’re not seriously holding that,” Derek says first thing on Friday evening, when Stiles opens up the passenger door to climb inside Derek’s truck idling outside of Stiles’ dorm.

Stiles looks at his skateboard. “Why not?”

As Stiles climbs in and settles into the seat, closing the door behind him, Derek says, “what the f*ck do you need your board for? We’re going to dinner.”

“You never know.”

“Are you expecting it to go terribly, and to have to make a hasty escape on your f*cking skateboard?”

“It,” Stiles puts his finger in the air, “has happened before. You never know. I never trust going places in someone else’s car without having a way of getting home on my own. Who knows? We could wind up hating each other by the time this night is over. I don’t want to have to sit in your truck in awkward silence as you drive me home.”

“What do you really think is going to happen?” Derek asks, a dubious look on his face as he watches Stiles buckle up. “I’m going to be a terrible asshole?”

“Who knows?”

“Have you ever skated away from Theo before?”

Stiles laughs. “Dozens of times!”

“You’ve seriously fled a date with Theo on your board?” He clarifies this again, an expression on his face like he just cannot f*cking believe what he’s hearing.

“When I could actually manage to escape, yes.”

“Well,” he puts his truck in drive and shakes his head very resolutely, “I promise to not say or do anything that will have you rolling away into the night. How’s that?”

“My hero.”

They drive along in silence for a moment – Stiles is quiet because he has no f*cking clue how to navigate this situation, but who knows what Derek is sitting over there thinking? Stiles side-eyes him as good as he can without letting Derek know that he’s staring, and Derek is just sat there, driving along, his face lit up by passing cars and streetlights as they go.

“Uh, look, sorry if I, like, constantly bring up my ex-boyfriend,” Stiles says out of the blue, and Derek glances at him for just a moment, before his eyes go back to the road. “I bet that gets annoying. I just can’t – well. It was sort of recent. And he’s still, like –“

“You still talk to him?” Derek asks – his tone is hard to read. But he’s very good at making his tone hard to read, Stiles has learned.

“Uh,” Stiles is not exactly a world class liar. “I wouldn’t say that.”

Derek snorts. “That’s a vague way of answering a yes or no question.”

“What does it matter? We talk, we don’t talk, who cares?”

Derek, also, is not a world class liar. But it’s not even that he tries. He just does not care to lie at all, won’t bother, has no interest in it. The truth may be something he holds the most near and dear to his character. So, he says, “I sort of care,” with a shrug of his shoulders. As though it never once occurred to him to say anything else, even if this is a massively embarrassing thing to admit.

It makes Stiles blush. The frankness of it. And also, the implication of it. Derek sitting around getting mad at the prospect of Stiles talking to his ex-boyfriend, like that. “What’s there to care about?”

“He’s only my arch-nemesis.”

“I don’t think grown men have arch-nemeses.”

“I guess I’m not a grown man,” he smirks at himself, turning onto the main street of town with a click of his blinker. “And he’s a f*ck, anyway. It’s not all about you.”

Stiles scratches at his jeans, avoiding looking at Derek directly. “Is it partially about me?”

“Now, why does that matter?” He’s got teasing in his tone, which is his automatic setting, so Stiles is not surprised, but he is embarrassed. “I thought I was the dumb-dumb you were having sex with for the f*ck of it, to get over your ex? Who cares what I think?”

“Well,” Stiles sputters, glaring out the window. He grips his board. He imagines himself tuck and rolling out of this car and making a break for it on his board, just to get away from this conversation. That he himself f*cking started. “I don’t care. I was just asking. You know. Isaac told me – well. Who cares?”

“What did Isaac tell you?” Derek ignores Stiles’ attempts at derailing that thought.

“He said – when I came to your house? The other day? When I saw him on the porch, he said, at the party, Theo made some comment about me that was in some way sh*tty.”

Derek taps his fingers on his steering wheel, sitting at a red light. It illuminates his face all red, too, shadows cast across it, making him look different, for just a moment. It turns green, and he drives onward, eyes dead ahead. It’s like he’s debating whether or not he should respond to this how he’d really like to.

“…you know, Theo has always made comments about you. Back in school, he did, at least.”

“About me?” Stiles puts his hands against his chest, eyebrows up. “Like, what? About…?”

“Uh, just, you know. He’s a braggart.”

“He bragged about me?” Stiles scoffs, rolling his eyes, because, uh, yeah, right. Theo would not brag about Stiles. Theo was the guy who would constantly criticize everything that Stiles did, everything Stiles liked; his music, his books, his clothes, his entire f*cking life. Seems hard to imagine he would go from being dismissive about Stiles’ very existence to suddenly boasting about getting to date him.

“Of course he did,” Derek says this like it’s a no-brainer. “He just did it in a very gross way. I shouldn’t tell you this. It’ll probably just piss you off.”

“A gross way?” That was the word Isaac had used on the porch, too – gross. It’s specific. “What, like, about having sex with me? He would say that sh*t? To the – to the other guys in the locker room?”

Derek does not deny it. He doesn’t confirm it, but he doesn’t deny it, just sitting there with a sheepish look on his face.

Stiles puts his hands over his eyes. “That’s f*cking humiliating…” he moans, feeling the heat on his cheeks. “Holy sh*t. Did he really? Like – he wasn’t – he didn’t…”

“If anything, it made you sound great,” Derek says, and this is likely just an attempt to make Stiles feel better.

“Isaac heard all this sh*t?” The question is muffled by Stiles’ fingers. His embarrassment. “The other boys? Why would he do that? He’d know how much that would absolutely f*cking humiliate me, why would he do that?”

Well, that’s probably why. The relationship was one big control test, like Theo was constantly trying to see how much he could manipulate Stiles’ entire life, down to his most personal sh*t, the things they did when they were all alone. It’s, like, to Stiles, completely unforgivable, but really, it’s just another unforgivable act to add to the pile.

“I shouldn’t have said anything. sh*t. I’m sorry,” he sounds genuine as he says this, slowing to a stop, likely parking. Stiles wouldn’t know. He’s still hiding behind his hands. “Stiles? sh*t. I was being a jackass when I told you that, I was just – I was saying it to piss you off so if you were talking to him still it would just make you more mad at him so you wouldn’t – sorry. That was really – Stiles?” One of Derek’s hands tugs gently at Stiles’ wrists, to get his hands off of his face.

Stiles drops them into his lap. He is having a hard time meeting Derek’s eyes in this moment. “No, I need to hear these things,” he says this resolutely, nodding once, to reaffirm it. “Because, yeah. It does piss me off. And it makes me not want to even f*cking look at him. So. Yeah. Thanks. It’s okay.”

“I shouldn’t have said it. I was being a jerk.”

“Seriously, I just –“ he takes in a deep breath, and lets it out. It’s kind of hard to shake it off, this knowledge that all the boys on the Beacon Hills High lacrosse team got to hear intimate details of Stiles’ (frankly bad) sex life. And Stiles had no idea. Walked around school with all these boys who knew things about him that no one else is supposed to know except for his boyfriend. It stings. It kind of makes Stiles want to go home, like home home, to his kid bedroom, and hide under the covers and cry. “…he is such a f*cking asshole. He does this. You know? He takes everything that’s mine and just –“ he mimes mashing something up with his hands, like clay, or play-doh. “And for the record, since we’re telling truths, he said some sh*t to me about you the other day.”

Derek turns the truck off with finality, and unbuckles, turning to give Stiles his full and entire attention. “Oh?” He wants to know more.

Of course he does. Derek is a type. He likes to punch people in the face who say sh*t things about him, that’s kind of his entire thing.

It’s half his appeal. Okay? Stiles will admit that. He’s not trying to feed the beast or anything, genuinely he isn’t, but he’s been hiding this from Derek for almost an entire week, and it feels bad. Derek is so honest. Stiles should try on the outfit, from time to time.

“He told me – he was all mad, at this prospect of you and me talking to each other.”

“I bet he was.”

“And he made it sound like you only wanted to talk to me or be around me at all just to, like, get to him,” Stiles looks right at Derek as he says this, because he’s reading Derek’s every move and facial expression, for clues. Evidence. “Like you couldn’t possibly really like me.”

Derek laughs. Instead of getting irately angry or vehemently denying it, like Stiles would’ve expected, he fully laughs, body shaking with it. He laughs, and laughs, and laughs, pressing his forehead onto his steering wheel and just losing it. Stiles does not get the joke, but his laugh is sort of infectious, so Stiles feels a smile spreading across his face, because he can’t help it.

“That is so f*cking rich, coming from him. Oh, yeah, like I’d ever do that to somebody,” he wipes honest to god tears from his eyes. “I don’t do sh*t like that. I’m not some master manipulator – why would I be? I could sleep with anybody.”

“Well,” Stiles rubs the back of his neck.

“He really does this sh*t to you? Gets inside your head and plays chess?”

Stiles looks at his hands. It feels embarrassing. “Yes. Sometimes, I feel like he just…he just wants something to mess with. I’m an easy target. I have daddy issues. He knows that. My biggest regret in life is ever letting him in and telling him my secrets. He just uses them to his own advantage. And, then, I can say all this to you now, and be like, f*ck him. But then he calls. I don’t know. He’s like a parasite.”

Derek leans back in his seat, but he keeps his eyes on the side of Stiles’ face. He says nothing, not for a full ten or fifteen seconds, breathing in and out, considering his next words carefully. When he does speak, he puts his hand on Stiles’ shoulder. “I am not sleeping with you as a way to get to him. Trust me.”

Stiles nearly does. That’s the scary part.

“I am sleeping with you because I like doing it. I don’t really have ulterior motives,” he shrugs, easy. “Plus, I’m not f*cking immature like that. In spite of what I’m sure he’s said. Boy, I bet he’s said some sh*t to you about me that would make me want to drive to his house and beat him f*cking senseless.”

“Um,” Stiles turns away. He should not repeat the things Theo has said about Derek. It would really make Derek psycho. Stiles knows better than to poke the bear.

“I don’t even want to know,” he shakes his head. “Enough about him. You want some soup, or what? Come on.” He opens his door and steps out, closing it behind him. Stiles rubs at his face and decides to leave his board in the truck at the last second, sliding off of the leather seat onto the sidewalk Derek had parked up alongside. He looks around to find they’re downtown, lots of other people around, the bars loud with music, smokers gathered outside of them laughing and talking.

“Have you ever been here?” Derek gestures with his chin toward the red neon sign of the restaurant they’re parked right outside of, and Stiles is familiar with it. Derek doesn’t even wait for an answer, coming right up alongside him and saying, “of course you have.”

Stiles has. A lot of times, actually. It’s top three favorite local restaurants for him. Stiles won’t do Derek the courtesy of stroking his ego and admitting that.

“Well, I’m a lover of the arts, food included. Scott and I actually set out a few years ago to try every restaurant in ten miles for all three available meals. We’ve been everywhere. I could show you our chart with the ratings we did.”

Derek does this thing that Stiles thinks it completely f*cking nuts, then, which is to put his hand on the small of Stiles’ back and lead him forward, toward the front door. Stiles is taken aback by it at first, almost to the point he wants to weasel away from the touch – but he doesn’t. Derek’s hand is big and warm. “You guys made a chart?”

“I did,” Stiles corrects. “Every restaurant, with ratings for ambiance, service, and food.”

“Holy sh*t, that is the nerdiest sh*t I have ever heard,” Derek says, but he’s laughing as he says it, like really, he finds it endearing. “And what’s this one got?”

“Five stars across the board. Duh.”

“Oh, so I made a good choice?”

Derek opens the door for Stiles. Stiles ducks his head and goes inside, utterly humiliated by this gesture, but it does not end there. It turns out, Derek fully made an entire reservation for them, which is so insane Stiles nearly laughs when they’re standing there talking to the hostess about it. Like, he actually planned. He didn’t just say uh hey want to go to dinner as nothing more than a pre-cursor to having sex?

He truly wanted to go to dinner with Stiles. And talk to him. For hours.

They get the best table in the place by sheer happenstance, the one right by the wide front window. Stiles likes to people watch, especially because there’s a rowdy bar right across the street that tends to see a lot of fights, so this is his favorite spot in the entire restaurant.

It’s kind of an intimate restaurant. They do mood lighting, everything sort of tinted red, the tables small and tight, so Derek and Stiles’ legs are touching underneath the table. There’s a candle between them. Stiles ignores all of this to the best of his ability, looking at the menu like he does not already know exactly what he’s going to get.

“Since you’re the connoisseur, what should I get?” Derek asks him, laying his own menu flat for Stiles to look at with him. “I only picked this place because I thought you’d like it. I’ve never been.”

Stiles blushes. He wants to kill himself. “Um,” he laughs nervously, leaning over the menu to point things out to Derek one by one. “I’ve had, like, the entire menu. It’s all really good. Ramen is best, though.”

Their faces are close. “Okay. Whatever you say.”

“Okay,” Stiles leans away, nervous at their proximity. It feels stupid being nervous over it, when they’ve f*cked like three times, now, have kissed a lot, all that sh*t, but Stiles can’t help himself. His palms are sweaty, and he begins to feel like, no matter how Derek had played it off when he had asked, that this is an actual honest to god date. Not just some bullsh*t.

He was not nervous before. He is now.

The waitress comes and both of them are ready to order, which must thrill her, or at least make her job easier. Derek says please and thank you. He smiles and collects both the menus to give to her. Stiles compares and contrasts this experience to the experiences he used to have with Theo when they’d go out to eat, and then he quickly stops himself, because he’d really like to stop thinking about Theo all the god damn time.

It’s hard. But he shakes it off and he tries to think of something to say.

Derek beats him to it. “How’s classes and sh*t going?”

“Um,” Stiles rubs at the back of his neck. “Fine. I mean, good. Yeah. I’m doing really well. Not to be braggy, I just meant – I’m having a good semester so far. I was so nervous about coming to college and discovering that I’m actually a totally inept idiot incapable of higher education, so, it’s good that it’s, like, hard, because I like the challenge, but it’s not too hard for me. That’s good. I just think it’s so much easier to pick my classes than have to sit in some sh*t like biology again. I hated science. Uh, anyway, wow, sorry, I’m going on and on.”

“I’m not much for biology either,” Derek shrugs. “I’m not into math or science. That was always hard for me, in high school. I’m surprised I passed trigonometry. sh*t blew my mind.”

“Oh, really?” Stiles leans forward without realizing it. “I’m not right brained either. I’m so much better with verbal. I can handle math, but I don’t like it.”

“I thought you were good at literally everything,” Derek puts his chin in his palm and smirks.

“Well, I got my grades. But I would be so miserable doing quadratic bullsh*t. What about you? How’s your classes?”

“I love it. I’m having a way better time than I had in high school, I’ll say that much.”

Stiles gives him a look. “Give me a break. You were king of the world in high school.”

“Uh, that is not how I f*cking remember it,” he shakes his head, denying it completely.

“Let’s see,” Stiles begins counting things off on his fingers, “captain of the lacrosse team, always had a girlfriend, tons of friends –“

“All that sh*t was so f*cking surface level. Sure, I had friends. Some of them were downright horrible, and I couldn’t stand most of them,” he shrugs his shoulders. “It’s like, all of us were only ever friends just because we were friends in f*cking first grade. Well, the people you like in the first grade don’t always stay fun and cool when they start growing up.”

Stiles fiddles with his napkin. This is taking him by surprise. When thinking about Derek in high school, he remembers Derek always going to parties, kissing girls, like cheerleaders and sh*t, and being surrounded by people during lunch period, while Stiles sat by himself and got made fun of.

He had no idea that Derek wasn’t actually having the time of his life, either.

“It’s so much better to have control over my life. I pick my friends, and my classes, and my food, all that sh*t. Instead of just being told who I should hang out with. You know what I mean?”

Well, yeah, he does. Actually. Just not for the same reasons that Derek has. “Also sort of scary sometimes, too.”

“That’s half the fun,” he waves this off. “I f*cking hated high school. It’s funny to me that you think I had a ball there. Honestly, it was miserable.”

“Oh,” Stiles taps his fingers on the table top. “…me, too. I was really miserable. I felt really isolated all the time. And…yeah.”

“Well, no one walks around wearing a My Chemical Romance t-shirt when they’re having fun in high school. Or a Front Bottoms t-shirt, either.”

Derek really is not wrong about that, which is funny, so Stiles laughs. “Why do you have this encyclopedic knowledge of all my t-shirts?”

“All your t-shirts?” He repeats this in disbelief, eyebrows going up. “You rotate out the same ten from high school, and you know it. Band t-shirt, band t-shirt, band t-shirt –“

“I like music,” he defends, nose in the air. “I enjoy shows. I buy the shirts at the shows. You’re one to talk – all you wear is green and black shirts everywhere you go.”

“If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”

“I guess you do look pretty good in green,” Stiles says without thinking, then gets all squirrely over the fact that he really just said that, ducking his head and playing with the wrapper of his straw. “Oh, uh, I still have your hoody, too. I should’ve brought it with me to give it back.”

Derek shakes his head. “Keep it.”

“…okay,” Stiles agrees, head down, eyes averted.

Truth be told, he wants the stupid hoody. It’s really comfortable. And too big, and it smells like Derek and weed, which Stiles is beginning to associate with being happy. So. Sue him.

Their food comes, distracting Stiles entirely. He really does love ramen, especially this ramen. It’s picturesque, Instagram worthy beyond, simmering and steaming. He stares at it for fifteen entire seconds just to truly appreciate his meal before he begins to open up his pack of chopsticks, and as he’s rubbing the sticks together, he looks across the table to find Derek is already holding his, digging into his food.

Stiles blinks at him. “You can use chopsticks?”

“This is surprising?”

Well. Yeah.

Derek Hale should not know how to use chopsticks. Let alone be adept at it – he does it expertly, like he’s had dozens and dozens of opportunities to practice, like he taught himself young, or his mother did, and now there he is doing it like it’s second nature. He reads distinctly like the type of guy who would always ask for a fork even at the most authentic of restaurants.

There isn’t a fork in sight. He has no problems, smirking at Stiles’ genuine fascination in watching him use them. “I really am just a classless loser you couldn’t stand in high school. Yikes.”

“I guess not,” Stiles says honestly, and Derek smiles at him.

When the check comes after they’ve finished eating and have their bowls piled neatly for the waitress to collect, Derek rips it out of Stiles’ bony little hands and stuffs his debit card into it before Stiles can even get his wallet out.

“What is all this sh*t about?” Stiles demands after the waitress takes it away to run it.

“What do you mean?” He plays dumb.

“You always pay for everything.”

“The person who asks pays, Stiles,” Derek says this very frankly, like it’s a no-brainer, and of course to him, it is. He’s been dating a lot before in his life. He knows all the rules.

Stiles only ever dated one person. And really, he wouldn’t call it “dating.” That was a relationship – even when they were just messing around at first, it was still a relationship, in its own way. He and Theo were serious from the get-go. Stiles does not know all the tiny little etiquettes of casual relationships, or, just hanging out with someone else, or any of that type of sh*t.

“And nobody has asked me anywhere,” Derek says this pointedly with a dramatic flair, like he’s sincerely put out about it, but Stiles can tell that he’s kidding. He smiles with all of his teeth and ducks his head because Derek is so f*cking stupid, and it’s almost fun, to be with someone who never takes themselves so seriously. Or, it is fun. It is. Stiles has had fun.

“Would you like it if I did?”

“I’m messing around,” he waves it off like it doesn’t matter, and the waitress is back with the check for Derek to sign. He takes it and thanks her, clicking the pen to write in a tip and sign his name.

Stiles watches the pen move over the paper, and for some reason, his heart pounds in his chest. He feels his palms sweat, so he wipes them off on his knees, and he won’t look Derek in the face. “Um,” he starts, and then clears his throat, laughing in spite of himself when Derek looks up to meet his eyes at the disruption. “…do you like Modern Baseball?”

“If you do,” he smiles.

“Do you really, though?”

“Well enough, I guess,” he shrugs. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I –“ Stiles feels like the biggest f*cking idiot on the face of the planet, running his hand through his hair all nervous, adjusting the collar of his flannel, and Derek just looks at him. Oh, f*ck it. Just f*ck it. “I have tickets and no one to go with. No one else ever wants to go with me. Scott hates my music. He really hates Modern Baseball. He says it hurts his head. Do you want to come?”

“You’re inviting me?”

“It’s not a big deal,” he looks away and shrugs, like whatever, nothing to see here. “I just hate going alone.”

“Oh, is that all?” Derek laughs and shakes his head, all incredulous, like he can’t believe Stiles is a real person who’s really saying this to him. “Are you sure you just can’t stand spending even one weekend without me?”

“Nevermind,” Stiles says definitively, standing up and pushing his chair in. “Forget it. Nope. I take it back.”

“No, please, I’m dying to go,” Derek leaps up, too, hastily catching up to Stiles as he passes between the other tables with other people who don’t even look at either of them as they walk. “I want to go to your sad boy concert so badly. I was messing. I’m the one who can’t stand to spend even one weekend with you.”

He’s kidding around, and Stiles gives him a look as they go through the front door back out onto the sidewalk. “If it’s not your thing –“

“I want to go,” Derek swears. He laughs. He looks at his feet and scuffs his shoes on the pavement, outside in the neon glow of the sign, both of them all red out here together. “I have a fake ID. I’ll get you beers.”

“Sold,” Stiles says, finger gunning at him. “Now you can’t say I never invite you anywhere.”

“Okay, fine, crow tastes so good. Especially when served by Stiles Stilinski.”

“Okay,” Stiles laughs. It’s short. He shrugs his shoulders. He guesses that he and Derek are sort of dating, but he doesn’t know what that really means, and he keeps thinking about Grease and when everyone talks about going steady, and how every single generation comes up with a new way to refer to the same god damn thing.

And, he thinks about what Theo said. Derek is some master manipulator who does everything that he does to get one over on someone else, because he’s petty, and mean, and he isn’t as honest as he pretends to be, and he uses his big dumb smile to trick people into believing everything he says.

The issue is, it’s working. If all of that is true, it’s working.

“You want me to drive you home?” Derek asks. He has this sort of casual uncertainty in his tone, putting his hands into his pockets, shrugging, like it doesn’t matter, at the same time it does matter, and he’s worried to hear the answer. “…or you could come to mine?”

It would piss Theo the f*ck off if he knew just how quickly Stiles says, “your house sounds good,” and how Stiles goes home with Derek to his stupid frat house with his dumb friends who all say hi from the kitchen table when they go past toward the stairs, and how Stiles goes up to Derek’s bedroom and stays with him all night long, waking up with him in the morning, and going for coffee.

It would make him so god damn mad.

Chapter 7: Peaches

Chapter Text

Me, 11:54 AM : seeing as how I asked you and not the other way around this time, I will pick you up.
Derek, 11:56 AM : You have a car ???
Derek, 11:56 AM : oh no. Don’t tell me…that thing still RUNS????
Me, 11:58 AM : y e s it does.
Derek, 12:01 PM : Oh no. I will pick you up. I’m not risking our lives to get to this show.
Me, 12:03 PM : hey, it’s MY outing. Come on. It’s not that bad!

When Stiles pulls up in his Jeep, that he went all the way back home to his dad’s house to collect just for this specific thing, Derek is standing on his front porch smoking a blunt. Stiles can tell even in the dark, because the tip glows orange as he puffs extra hard at the sheer sight of Stiles’ old car. He puts it out on the ashtray Stiles knows sits on their porch railing, and then he approaches.

Opens the door. It creaks like opening up a crypt. “Jesus Christ.” In he comes, settling into the seat. He reaches for a seatbelt, discovers there isn’t one anymore, and gives Stiles a look. “Our father, who art in Heaven…”

“Relax,” Stiles rolls his eyes and throws it into gear, sending them both lurching forward with a grinding noise from down below. “You know, I drove this thing every day for a years. Never died.”

At the stop sign, Stiles rolls through it so he won’t have to switch gears, and Derek gives him another look. “By the grace of god.”

“It’s a zombie. You can try to kill it a million different ways, but it just keeps on rolling.”

“That inspires confidence,” he digs into his pocket and produces something, holding it out in his palm for Stiles to take. “I brought you edibles. Your favorite.”

They’re peach rings. Those are Stiles’ favorite, incidentally.

“Two should be good for you,” he says, and Stiles takes two out of Derek’s palm, shoving them into his mouth with one hand on the wheel. He gets dangerously close to a trash can and abruptly swerves, knocking Derek over a little.

“Sorry,” Stiles says.

Derek sits up straight. He has no comment. But he grips extra hard to the handle on the door.

They go rolling through another stop sign, and Stiles takes the turn a little too hard, surprising Derek into knocking his head on the window with a thump. At the red light onto Main Street, he slams to a stop and nearly rear ends the car in front of him, fiddling with the heater, barely even noticing how close he came to the other car’s bumper.

“You can’t f*cking drive,” Derek says point blank. “Like, you cannot drive. How did you get your license?”

“What do you mean?” He lurches forward and stalls, failing to change gears fast enough. He swears under his breath as the car dies in the middle of the street, frantically starting it with a guttural groan from the Jeep, the car behind them honking in indignation.

“I should’ve gotten more stoned, holy sh*t…”

The car starts, and away they go. Stiles switches lanes, no blinker, again pissing off the car behind them, and Stiles forcibly cranks his window down to stick his middle finger out of it, while Derek watches in horror.

“How are you the Sheriff’s son? Does he know you drive like this?”

“Please,” Stiles rolls his eyes. “I have like, six unpaid tickets.”

“What?” He puts his hands on his face. “This is insane…you know that joke, about how queer people can’t drive?”

“f*ck off,” Stiles laughs. “I’m not a fantastic driver, I’ll give you that –“ in testament to this, Stiles nearly misses his turn but gets it at the last second, toppling Derek over yet again, “…but I’m not that bad.”

When they arrive at the venue, the big parking lot already half full, Stiles gets into a parking spot, and the second the engine is killed, Derek is out of the car as though it’s caught fire.

They meet around back, and Derek puts his finger in Stiles’ face. “You’re not allowed to drive anymore.”

“Says who?”

“Honestly, if I could drive stick, I’d drive us home. You’re a menace to society. You have no regard for human life.”

“Wait wait wait,” Stiles waves his arms, “you can’t drive stick?”

Derek frowns. “Me and half the population.”

Stiles laughs out loud, bending over and putting his hands on his knees. “Oh, this is too good. Big strong man who can’t even drive f*cking stick. Yet I’m the one who can’t drive?”

“What does driving stick have to do with whether or not I’m a man?”

“Well, it’s just – you know.”

“You know what? I can drive the only stick that f*cking matters and it’s right here,” he grips his crotch and Stiles immediately shoves him with a surprised laugh.

“Okay, stop.”

“But I’m being serious,” they start to walk, and the doors are already open and the line is moving inside, phones being checked for tickets and so on. “You cannot f*cking drive. Your dad should’ve revoked your license years ago.”

“I rarely drive anymore, so it’s moot,” he shrugs. “And when I was with Theo, he drove me everywhere.”

Derek is quiet. He has his hands in his pockets again. They crunch in the gravel underfoot as they approach the line to get in it, and then Derek clears his throat and he says, “I’ll drive you everywhere, now.”

Stiles bites his lip to keep from doing stupid, like grinning with all his teeth.

They go through the line, and at security they’re checking ID’s. Derek shows his fake, and Stiles gets a good look at it - it’s really convincing, or maybe the kid tasked with checking them just doesn’t give a f*ck, because Derek gets a stamp on the back of his hand. Once they’re inside by the merch booth and the bar, Derek licks it, and presses it on Stiles’ own hand. It leaves behind a stamp, faint, but enough to get him a beer.

“You’ve done this before,” Stiles accuses.

Derek shrugs. “I’m in a frat. Figuring out how to get liquor before you’re 21 should be an elective class.”

At the bar, they both get PBR’s in plastic cups and Stiles pays for them, as he promised he would. The crowd is a sea of Doc Martens and dirty old converse, flannel shirts and ripped jeans and tattoos, and Derek looks distinctly like somebody’s f*cking boyfriend, taken here by somebody else. It’s funny to see him standing here with everyone else, sticking out like a sore thumb, but it oddly endears Stiles to him. They find a good spot to stand where they’ll be away from all the bozos attempting to push and shove their way to the front, sipping and leaning in close to talk to one another to be heard over the loud crowd.

Stiles turns his head and says into Derek’s ear, “I think the edibles are starting to hit.”

Derek looks into Stiles’ eyes, and he smiles. “They definitely are.”

“I’ve never been stoned at a show before,” he comments, looking around. “I wonder if it’ll be better or worse.”

“Better.” Derek puts his hand on Stiles’ back. “Especially for this type of noise.”

“Don’t say that too loud,” Stiles commands him, eyes furtively glancing around to make sure nobody heard him. “I thought you said you liked them.”

“Eh,” he shrugs, but he grins also. Their sides are close. Derek keeps his arm around Stiles. “It’s a bit more, uh, rough around the edges than I like. And none of them can sing. That seems to be your thing, though.”

“What?” Stiles is indignant.

“The Front Bottoms, The Wonder Years, Brand New – these are all men that can’t sing.”

“You don’t understand punk music,” Stiles rolls his eyes as he says this, sipping his drink. “If you want someone who can sing, go see Adele.”

“I don’t want to go see Adele,” he smiles with all his teeth. “I want to go see shows with you. I’ll grin and bear it.”

Stiles is high enough and also a little buzzed from the beer to laugh out loud at this. “You’re so dumb sometimes.”

“What’s dumb about that?” He nudges Stiles in the side, and it makes Stiles laugh harder. There’s hundreds of people crammed into this room, some standing closer to Stiles and Derek than is entirely comfortable, but they ignore all of it.

“Oh, I don’t know, just –“ he sips his beer, coming up with something to say. “…surely, you wouldn’t just come and stand here for hours listening to music you don’t like surrounded by hooligans just to sleep with me. Doesn’t seem worth it.”

“First of all, it is worth it. Second of all, it isn’t just to sleep with you.”

“Really.”

“Yes. Really.”

“Because I’m such great company. You told me I’m prickly like a cactus.”

“You are,” he concedes this point, “I find it sexy.”

Stiles blushes from his chin to the tips of his ears. He feels himself going all hot and clammy and he laughs, like that’s the stupidest thing he’s ever heard in his life.

“No, seriously. Whenever you start being particularly bitchy it does something to my brain,” he points to his temple with his free hand. “It makes me want to f*ck you so bad.”

“Right, to shut me up.”

“Well, yeah, but also, it just turns me on. I dunno. It’s funny, too. Why do I constantly have to explain my attraction to you? Don’t you have any idea you’re so f*cking hot?”

“Derek, you don’t have to try this hard to f*ck me.”

“I’m not,” he laughs again, but it’s sort of irritated, his eyes going big. “Why do you think Theo would brag so much about getting to f*ck you?”

Well, honestly, Stiles mostly assumed that was Theo being his usual f*ckbag self. He hadn’t thought about it very deeply, because Theo in general never acted like he found Stiles that alluring. He was always bitching about how Stiles slouches or Stiles walks weird or Stiles has weird spots or Stiles needs to eat less, sh*t like that.

But, well, yeah. Derek has a point. Why f*cking brag about f*cking someone you don’t think is hot? Especially to the boys’ locker room, of all places on planet earth to brag about the boy you’re screwing.

Stiles is quiet for long enough that maybe Derek thinks he’s getting sad at the mention of Theo. He says, “come here,” and takes Stiles by his chin, tilting it up so he can kiss Stiles on the mouth. “Why would you let someone like that make you feel so bad?”

Stiles shrugs. “He was the only one who paid me any attention.”

Derek furrows his brow, like this pisses him off somehow, but Stiles keeps talking.

“And, you know, sometimes our relationship wasn’t so bad. He could be a very good boyfriend when the mood struck him – took me a while to figure out that was just an act, but, still.”

“He still has a tiny co*ck,” Derek says this with finality – you know, as though it doesn’t matter what Theo ever says or ever does or if he makes Stiles laugh or if he was ever a good boyfriend or how much money he may make or what he’ll go on to do with his life. Derek will always have a bigger dick than him.

Stiles never should have told Derek that. But, oh well, Stiles thinks, sipping his beer to hide his deranged smirk – it is true.

The lights go down and the opener comes on, met with cheering and clapping from the audience. It’s a band Stiles has heard of but only knows a handful of songs, none of them particular favorites of his, so he just stands and watches, claps after each song more perfunctorily than anything else. Derek stands next to him, right up against him, and he puts his hand on Stiles’ waist. Right on his hip, the fingers warm where they press against his side.

When Stiles had been thinking earlier that Derek looks like somebody’s boyfriend in this crowd, being taken here against his will, he hadn’t thought that he looked like Stiles’ boyfriend. Stiles looks around at his immediate surroundings, other people, and he wonders if they all assume that Derek is his boyfriend.

Most likely. It definitely looks that way. Stiles goes red in the dark, face lit up only by the lights from the stage, and he wants to push Derek’s hand and body away and say that they’re not really together and it’s all just supposed to be casual and people are going to think they’re serious, standing here all close like this.

He does not. He stands. He likes the way it feels to have someone here with him, who will push people away if they get too close or move Stiles away from a beer that’s being spilled. Stiles almost always goes to shows alone, and has for years, but if he’s being honest, he thinks he prefers going with Derek.

Or, you know, someone. Anyone. It doesn’t have to be Derek.

The opener finishes their set and the lights come back on and the crowd chatter starts up again. People are pushing and shoving to get to the bar, and more and more of them are trying to fight to get to the front now that the main event is coming. Stiles has never been like that, because he likes to actually have a good time at these things – he just watches.

“Do you want another beer?” Derek asks him right in his ear. His breath tickles the little hairs around the base of Stiles’ neck.

“Nah, I have to drive, one’s good.”

“That is a very good point. You’re bad enough of a sober driver –“

“All right,” Stiles elbows him in the gut and Derek grunts, before laughing.

Some guy comes up behind them and pushes to get past them, shoving Stiles just enough that he staggers closer into Derek’s chest, nearly spilling what’s left of his beer.

“How about excuse me, jackass?” Derek barks at his retreating back, though it falls on deaf ears. With a scowl, Derek wraps his arm around Stiles’ shoulders and pulls him in closer as if protecting him from any future attacks of a similar kind. “What a f*cking prick.”

“There’s always people like that at these shows, it’s crazy.” They are so close now that Stiles has to crane his neck to look and see Derek’s face, finding him scanning the crowd with his jaw a little tight, like he’s looking for the guy that bumped into Stiles.

Here is something about Derek that Stiles tends to forget, when he’s not immediately faced with it - he’s kind of a hothead. Stiles remembers it from school, how Derek would get riled up by the most innocuous of slights. Especially when it would come to his siblings. Once, Derek dumped another kid head first into a trash can in the lunch room for calling his sister Cora a d-slur. Deserved, yes, but Stiles remembers watching it happen and thinking Derek was a psychopath. He never thought of it this way before, but it’s possible Derek smokes so much because it keeps him from going full rage spiral more often than not.

Stiles nudges him a little. “Hey, you good?”

“Yeah,” he says, shaking his head. “Sorry. It just bugs me when people behave like the world revolves around them.”

“Selfish people suck,” Stiles agrees. “I bet having so many siblings, it was like, drilled into you to share and wait your turn and sh*t. I wouldn’t know. I’m an only child, but we were poor so the brat thing totally skipped me.”

Derek smiles. “You definitely have never struck me as spoiled or selfish. Hidden beneath all your porcupine quills is just a big anxious marshmallow blob,” he tickles Stiles’ side just to make him laugh, and it works, like it always does. “See, mean people aren’t ticklish like this –“ he does it some more, and this time, Stiles really does spill a little of his beer. It splashes on the concrete underfoot and Stiles pushes Derek’s hand away frantically, nearly slipping in it, but Derek grips him and holds him steady with his big arm.

“I am mean, you know,” Stiles insists, sobering up a little. “Ticklish or not.”

“You’re like one of those little fuzzy dogs that barks a lot and then never does anything.”

“A pomeranian?” Stiles clarifies, making a face.

“Yes. You even have the same big eyes and little squished nose.”

“I think that insults me,” he decides out loud, though the venom of it is cut a bit by the smile he has on when he says it.

“I just mean, you’re really all talk.”

Stiles can’t exactly argue with that – he’s never really done anything to anybody. Rolling his eyes and being sarcastic does not make him some hardened badass. It’s a defense mechanism, because, Derek is right. Stiles’ center really is all marshmallows and anxiety. It’s way too easy to wound him, but he doesn’t like for anybody to know that.

Least of all someone who he’s letting in. It freaks him out that Derek knows that about him, like he could use it against Stiles whenever he felt like it, like Theo always did. He used everything he ever learned about Stiles against him. Stiles’ body image, Stiles’ poor relationship with his dad, Stiles’ anxiety, all of it.

The lights go out and Stiles is completely sidetracked, all of his focus taken up. “Holy sh*t, they’re coming on,” he bursts out before he can stop himself, and worst of all, he latches onto Derek’s wrist in a vice out of excitement, leaning forward on his toes while the crowd screams and claps. The shadows of the band members appear, guitars and all, and Stiles tugs Derek forward, closer, without even realizing it.

“I feel like you underplayed how much you like this band,” is the last thing Stiles can hear before the spotlights come on and the music starts. They open with one of Stiles’ favorite songs of all time, and he downs his beer and hastily shoves the empty cup at Derek to hold so he can go as ballistic as he wants without anything in his hands. Derek takes the cup and stands right there, nodding along to this song he does not know, while Stiles knows all the words, yells them with everyone else, smiles from ear to ear. The next song goes the same way, and the next, and the next, and Derek is a good sport. He knows a couple of the songs, a handful of lyrics, but for the most part, he really is just there. He gets elbowed by Stiles more than once and barely reacts, other than to laugh and corral Stiles’ arms away from him a bit, so he’s more out of the line of fire. He lets Stiles drink the rest of his beer when Stiles’ throat starts to hurt from screaming. He puts his hands on Stiles’ body to keep him close.

At one point, Stiles turns to look at him, for the first time directly in more than half an hour. Derek’s face is lit up in shadow, only by the lights from the stage, and they meet eyes. Derek smiles at him, leaning in to kiss him, and f*ck it, Stiles is buzzed from the beer and the edible is still pinging around inside his brain and he’s euphoric from the show, so he’s way too amped up to bother being shy, or getting in his head, so he kisses Derek back with twice as much enthusiasm. Derek likes it.

It’s too loud for them to talk anyway, so why bother? They kiss, and get as close to each other as they can without melting into one another, and kiss some more, probably irritating the ever living hell out of everyone around them. Stiles does not care. It feels good. Derek is touching him in a way that suggests that at the earliest possible convenience they’re going to have sex, and Stiles touches him back to suggest that he wants to do that, too; all in all, it’s probably the most fun he’s ever had at a show.

When it’s over, Stiles demands that they go to the merch booth. They have to fight tooth and nail, moving people out of their way and shoving through the crowd with muttered excuse me’s, so they beat everyone else there and they won’t have to stand in line for an hour. Just so they don’t lose each other, Stiles grips onto Derek’s hand as they go.

It’s warm. Derek squeezes back.

Stiles buys Derek a t-shirt that’s the exact same as his, and he says, “it’s a memento,” pushing it into Derek’s hands before Derek can even protest. “Maybe you don’t like the band, but it was a great show, wasn’t it?”

“I like them more, now,” Derek holds the shirt delicately, like he does not want to ruin it.

They go back to Derek’s house, narrowly escaping death as Derek would describe it watching Stiles drive, and the lights are all on because everyone is home. It’s only eleven at night, so of course, everyone is up and screwing around. They spill in through the front door and find Boyd and Isaac are playing giant jenga in the living room on the coffee table, watched very seriously by Derek’s other two roommates Stiles has only met in passing. They try to open up conversation with them, how was the show, was it packed, on and on, and Derek and Stiles wave all these questions off with one word answers, both of them moving toward the stairs even as they talk, half on top of one another.

The stairs dip into shadow, halfway up, where no one can see them. They can probably hear them, still, but for whatever reason, it is of absolutely no consequence to either of them. They burst out laughing and kiss, all over each other, nearly knocking a picture frame off the wall that Derek catches at the last second, but it causes quite a bit of racket, Stiles leaning over the railing and laughing hard, Derek banging into the wall to catch the frame at the last second.

“Go to your f*cking room!” Isaac shouts from the ground floor, and Stiles covers his face with his hands and dives at Derek to hide himself.

“Come on,” Derek says, grabbing Stiles by his shoulders and moving him step by step, until they’re finally on the landing. Into Derek’s bedroom they go, and it’s just the same as always – his messy desk, overflowing clothes hamper, unmade bed, the window cracked open to let the stale smell of weed get aired out. It means it’s chilly in here, though neither of them seem to really care, hastily undoing their pants in between kissing, Stiles tossing his keys and phone and wallet onto the ground on top of his discarded shirt, until they’re both naked and in bed together, hands all over each other.

Derek kisses Stiles’ neck from his collarbones up, making Stiles nuts, which is exactly why Derek does it. It’s crazy, how they’ve slept together less than five times, now, but Derek has already figured out the places on Stiles’ body to touch, his most sensitive places, the spots that make Stiles want him extra f*cking badly. “Can I ask you for something?” Derek says into Stiles’ ear, before he bites the shell of it, making Stiles shiver.

Stiles can guess what it may be that Derek would ask him for, in bed, naked, with the door closed and everything. He, also, is a man, and has a dick, and he already knows what Derek is going to ask. But all the same, he plays coy, because he sort of wants to hear Derek have to ask for it. “What is it?”

Derek ducks his head into the crook of Stiles’ neck, like he has to hide his face, gathering up the stones to ask for exactly what he wants from Stiles. When he looks back up to meet Stiles’ eyes, he has this odd little smile on his face, and Stiles reads it instantly as shy. Which is funny. Derek is literally never shy. Not even about sex.

“…will you suck me off?” He asks, voice low, though he does manage to maintain eye contact.

“Hmm,” Stiles ponders that, tapping his index finger on his chin and thumping his head back down into Derek’s pillows, as though he really has to think about it all that much.

Truth be told, he doesn’t. The first time that Stiles ever saw it, what feels like eons ago now, Stiles wanted to put it in his mouth. It has a certain quality to it, you know? Even though Stiles likes boys, maybe a little more than he likes girls, though who can say for sure, not every co*ck is one he’s wanted to put in his mouth.

He just sort of wants to make Derek squirm a little, since it’s clear having to ask this is humiliating him. “I’m not sure,” he plays, shrugging his shoulders, and Derek ducks his head again and laughs all ball busted and nervous. Stiles can see the tips of his ears going pink with embarrassment and it makes him crack, because Derek is really just being earnest, and Stiles is being his usual self, poking fun at his expense. “I’m kidding,” Stiles shoves him a bit. “I’ll do it. You have to get me off after, too, you know.”

“Do you really feel the need to clarify that?” Derek asks as he thumps down onto his ass instead of being right on top of Stiles, giving Stiles the space to sit up. “Of course I’ll get you off, too. What am I, an animal?”

Well, Theo was the king of asking for blowj*bs and then citing being too tired to keep fooling around before Stiles ever got to come. Stiles actually started downright refusing to suck him off until he’d get Stiles off first. It feels so insane to think about it now, watching Derek be flabbergasted at the mere suggestion of not returning the favor, how Stiles was stuck in that f*cking relationship for so long. Christ, they didn’t even have good sex. What was the point?

Stiles gets down onto his knees in front of the bed, and Derek hastily situates himself right in front of him, his legs bracketing Stiles in. His big thighs, all hairy and coarse, and his stomach, his abs, his tan skin, and then the thing itself.

Derek has a spectacularly good looking dick. That’s even as far as dicks go. Some of them can be really, really weird. Stiles may not be the co*ck of the walk, f*cking men and women left and right, but he has seen quite a bit of p*rn, and he’s seen some freakish f*cking co*cks in his time. Derek’s looks like it belongs in a textbook somewhere, this perfect specimen of a dick, right down to the balls and everything. It has this particular vein that Stiles has noticed every time they’ve f*cked, that’s very pronounced, and Stiles looks right at it, as he takes Derek in his hand by the base, and moves forward.

For some reason, Derek interrupts him. He says, “Stiles,” all abrupt and fast, like he has to stop Stiles before he starts – Stiles looks up, Derek’s meat in hand, and raises his eyebrows.

“What’s the matter?”

“Just –“ he clears his throat. He puts his hand in Stiles’ hair. It’s not rough, not grabbing and harsh, it’s just there, softly stroking Stiles’ hair on top of his head, and he looks Stiles right in the eye. “You know, I’ve thought about this a lot. Um. Getting sucked off by you. It’s sort of…a big deal.”

Stiles makes a face. “Is it?”

“Yes,” he insists this very seriously, so Stiles takes him seriously. “You have a lot of very attractive features, but you know, when, in the past, I’ve – like – fantasized –“

“Hold on,” Stiles puts both his hands up in surprise, “fantasized?”

“Yes,” he doesn’t even hesitate to admit it. “Any time I’ve had any kind of sex fantasy about you it’s been about you putting your mouth on my dick. Okay? Can I relish the moment, here? Without being mocked?”

Stiles should say no, really, and he should mock Derek to hell and back, because what the hell? But he doesn’t. He leans back on his haunches and hides his smile by running his finger along his lips, taking in a deep breath through his nose. “All right. Fine. Relish away. Take a picture, if you want.”

Derek blinks. “Really?”

“No, holy sh*t,” Stiles laughs out loud, shaking his head. He has already played the game of letting someone take pictures of him in incriminating positions, and that ended terribly. Stiles was certain, one of the times they broke up, the worst time after the worst fight, that Theo would use them for revenge p*rn on the internet. Luckily, he didn’t, and when they got back together, Stiles snuck onto his phone and deleted them, which lead to another massive fight, and – well. Enough said. Stiles wouldn’t trust anybody with pictures like that of him, after that.

Derek puts his hand on Stiles’ face, his chin, and tilts it up. He leaves his fingers there, cupping Stiles’ face just gently, and he smiles. It’s contagious. Stiles smiles back, even though it’s absurd. “Okay,” he decides. “I’m ready.” Like he’s getting ready to ship off to the f*cking moon on Apollo 13.

“All right, great,” Stiles snorts and takes Derek in his hand again, leaning in, going after that particular vein first with his tongue, mostly just to satisfy his own curiosity about it. It feels just like he figured it would, but still, it’s very gratifying to finally touch it after all these weeks of thinking about it, especially because Derek reacts, inhaling sharply.

For the hell of it, Stiles does the same thing again, from root to tip, and he looks Derek right in the f*cking eyes as he does it, too.

“Oh, f*ck,” Derek breathes out, so quiet Stiles almost wonders if he’s not meant to hear it. “Don’t tell me you’re as good at this as I’ve always thought you would be.”

“What about me would suggest being good at blowj*bs?” Stiles laughs, hand still on Derek, but still.

“I know someone has told you before.”

“Told me what?”

“Seriously?” Derek’s eyes go big. “You ever noticed what you do to your pens?”

Stiles blinks. He does chew his pens, yes, but that’s sort of a dirty little habit he’s tried to break himself from, but cannot. It’s an anxiety thing. He gets very, very high strung about his class work, and whenever the stress gets to be too much, usually around finals and mid-terms, he physically cannot help himself from chewing on the end of his pens for the entirety of class. Sometimes even in the safety of his own home, while studying, there he is, chomp chomp chomp. “You want me to chew on your dick?”

“No, it’s not about the –“ he puts his hands on his face. “Can you just suck me off?”

“Not until I hear about this alleged comment everyone makes about me being good at blowj*bs.”

“It’s just…” he sounds pained. His eyes are still behind his hands. “…people do not talk about you like that, at least not any of my friends, I swear. Just. You have. A certain kind of look. That suggests –“

“Because I chew my pens.”

“Well, you know what?” Derek takes his hands off his eyes and looks Stiles right in his. “When you sit and watch someone shove something in their mouth for the entirety of AP History in eleventh grade, it’s hard to not think about it. Okay?”

AP History in eleventh grade. Stiles only vaguely remembers the class. He remembers it being difficult, and he remembers he sat by the window, and he remembers that he color coded his notes for that class to make them easier to study, so he had a lot of pens on his desk at any given time.

He does not remember Derek Hale being in that class. At all. Meanwhile, apparently, Derek was sitting just a few desks away sitting there staring at Stiles chewing on his pens.

“You would sit there and imagine me giving you a blowj*b?” Stiles clarifies. It’s hard to keep the disbelief out of his tone.

“I was a seventeen year old boy. Yeah. Yeah. That’s what I thought about. Sorry. If that’s, like, super gross, or creepy, just –“

“It’s not,” Stiles insists.

Is it? He doesn’t know. He’s too busy being flattered to bother wondering.

“…I mean, history was clearly your favorite subject, it seems weird you would tune out and think about me chewing on my pens,” he laughs a little, shrugging. “I didn’t enjoy that class so much. Apparently, I paid more attention than you.”

“Yeah. I think so. I’d watch you taking your weird anal notes by color.”

“It wasn’t anal,” Stiles snorts. “It actually helped a lot. I’m very visual. It helped organize everything in my brain come test time.”

“…it was neurotic as hell,” Derek insists, but he doesn’t say it all mean, not at all. He says it sort of fond, a little smile on his face. “Um, I just thought you were so smart. I don’t know. I wanted you to give me head. Now, here we are.”

“And you’re, like, massively bungling it by talking.”

“Holy sh*t, you’re right,” he shakes his head as if shaking it all off, and away from him, out of his mind, so he can focus on the task at hand. “Sorry. Holy sh*t. I don’t usually – anyway. Continue.”

Stiles leans in for the third time, and he takes Derek into his mouth. He tests himself to see how deep he can get it before he just can’t, and he only makes it a little more than halfway, which is fine, because he uses his hand on the rest. Unfortunately for himself, Stiles has actually given more than his fair share of blowj*bs, and was also insanely critical of himself and his ability to give them, so he’s kind of actually good at it. This is, however, very fortunate for Derek. Who has no f*cking idea that Stiles would be good at it, because in all other sexual areas Stiles is sort of a novice.

Not this one, though. It was really important to Stiles to be good at giving blowj*bs because he thought it would make Theo like him more. It didn’t. Now, Derek gets to benefit from all of Stiles’ weird studying of the art of the blowj*b.

That said, giving Theo a blowj*b and giving Derek a blowj*b is sort of two totally different ballgames, because they’re two radically different dicks. Stiles is deep in thought as he does this, getting used to the feel of Derek in his mouth, the particular stretch of his lips around it, feeling it and how much he can take at once, how much he can’t, letting his spit sort of drip down onto his hand so he can use that as lube to stroke the rest.

He hollows his cheeks and sucks up and down on the head, stroking hard on the shaft, and Derek pants, hard. “Oh, my god,” he grips Stiles’ hair, and he says, “don’t stop doing that – f*ck – can I come in your mouth? Can I come in your –“

Stiles makes an affirmative noise from his throat that probably feels really good on Derek’s dick, and Derek’s hand is like a vice in Stiles’ hair, almost to the point that it hurts, but Stiles does not mind. He’s kind of used to being pulled around by his hair down here, anyway.

“f*ck, I’m gonna come – I’m – Stiles – I’m –“ he chokes off, makes the single sexiest sound Stiles has ever heard, and he comes. Right down Stiles’ throat. Like, directly down it. Stiles is surprised, even though Derek had warned him, because it f*cking shoots deep down his throat in a way he’s not familiar with. He chokes on it a bit, more taken aback than anything, and as he sputters and all, he still has Derek in his mouth going through the aftershocks, and it must feel pretty god damn good.

Stiles pulls off, a trail of saliva connecting him and Derek’s dick for a second, and swallows, coughing a little. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and Derek lays down on his bed, staring up at his ceiling.

“That was the best head of my life,” he says, up at the sky. “Oh, no. Seventeen year old me was right, you’re the throat goat.”

Stiles laughs, because it’s such an absurd thing to say, shaking his head. “I didn’t even deep throat it. Maybe next time – I was a little hesitant because it’s like, going to choke me, but, whatever.”

Derek sits up. He looks at Stiles there on the ground. “Why have you been withholding your dick-sucking expertise from me?”

“You hadn’t earned it,” Stiles comes up off the floor and sits down next to Derek on the bed, both of them all naked there, Derek’s dick slick and glistening with Stiles’ spit and some leftover ji*zz.

“Oh, right,” Derek snaps his fingers. “…why are you so good at that? Actually. You’re all nervous and cagey about sex otherwise. Yet you just sucked me off like you’ve been in the sex Olympics, or some sh*t.”

“Uh,” Stiles rubs the back of his neck. “I just am. It’s the pens. What can I say?”

Derek eyeballs him like he knows there’s more to the story than that, but he will not push it, because clearly, Stiles doesn’t want to talk about it. But, Stiles will say this – it does feel really good to have someone actually appreciate the effort he put in to making them feel nice.

“Hey, uh,” Derek nudges him, “you want me to eat you out?”

“Oh,” Stiles is taken aback by this. He colors red. He assumed Derek would just jerk him off or, hopefully, suck him off to return the favor, but this has come out of left field. He averts his eyes and all of his alleged sexual prowess from before goes out the window as he shyly admits, “well, no one ever has before, so –“

“What?” Derek shouts, and then abruptly, Stiles is being hugged, manhandled into Derek’s arms and held close like a baby deer. “Oh, no. A bottom who has never had their ass ate. This is a f*cking travesty.”

“Derek,” Stiles laughs all embarrassed and tries to free himself from the hug, but Derek just holds tighter.

“There, there. It’s okay. I’m here, now.”

“You really don’t have to,” Stiles’ voice is muffled by Derek’s chest, but he finally breaks free, even as he refuses to look Derek right in the eye. “Um, yeah. You don’t have to.”

“Who said have to? I said want to. I’ll do it, come on,” he stands up, and then he’s handling Stiles again, taking him by his hips and flipping him over, even as Stiles squirms and shakes his head and babbles about how it’s really not necessary and if he doesn’t want to he doesn’t have to, on and on, but it’s too late either way. Derek gets Stiles on his hands and knees across the bed, leaving Stiles staring at Derek’s Young the Giant poster, and this is deeply humiliating to him, for whatever reason.

Probably because no one has ever been down there like this. It’s the most intimate thing anyone has ever done to him, and it’s bonkers, that of all people on earth, it’s Derek f*cking Hale getting onto his knees and using his hands to spread Stiles apart, and Stiles sort of panics. His heart pounds and his mouth goes dry and he tries to repeat again, that he does not have to do this, but then, Derek’s tongue is on him, and Stiles goes totally f*cking silent.

All words escape him.

He really has watched a lot of p*rn. And he has watched a lot of videos of men eating out other men and women eating out men and feeling very jealous, because, obviously, yeah, he’s a bottom, so he likes ass play, and no one had ever done it to him before. He was always too f*cking shy to ask Theo to do it, because he could just imagine Theo saying absolutely f*cking hell no, he would not do that, because Stiles has it on good authority Theo hated Stiles’ body to some extent, and Stiles would never be able to recover from that humiliation. Case and point, he’s spent a lot of time just only imagining what it would feel like to have someone’s tongue down there, and boy, it does not f*cking disappoint. Especially because it seems like Derek knows what he’s doing. Or, maybe it’s impossible to f*ck it up.

Because it feels so, so good. Stiles grips his fingers into Derek’s sheets and closes his eyes. He breathes. It’s dead silent, to the point where Stiles can hear the others downstairs talking, but he tunes it out, focusing just on the sound of Derek’s tongue lapping. He circles the rim with it, and Stiles shivers, the pleasure so oddly specific and intense, hands gripping Stiles’ cheeks to spread them wider so he can go at it with more access.

Stiles co*ck twitches. He moans, can’t help it, and bears down on his arms to arch his back more, pushing himself back to meet Derek’s tongue more directly, his shyness gone in the face of this much pleasure.

After a moment, Derek’s mouth is replaced by two fingers, pushing inside of him, Derek’s spit the only lube, but it feels good, and he stays stock still, afraid to move, afraid to have the feeling taken away if he does something wrong. Derek pumps them in and out, in and out, and then he fondles Stiles’ balls gently in his palm, squeezing them just enough that Stiles’ eyes roll back in his head. He picks his head up out of his arm and gets back up onto his hands, spreading his legs wider and murmuring, “oh, f*ck…”

Derek takes his fingers out and licks some more, one hand on Stiles’ lower back, soothing circles around and around, the other gently pulling on Stiles’ dick, and Stiles is done for. Totally lost in the sauce. It feels so good Stiles forgets where he is, forgets other people are in the house, and he moans, loud, body shaking. Derek does not tell him to shut up, so he doesn’t mind either if anybody hears them. Maybe the thought will embarrass Stiles later. Right now, he can’t be f*cking bothered.

Stiles tightens up and he knows he’s going to come, but he can’t find his voice to warn Derek that it’s coming, and before either of them know it, he’s spilling all over Derek’s bed, coming in stripes, harder than he has in his entire life, and whining into Derek’s sheets.

Immediately after it’s done, he’s apologizing. “Oh, f*ck, I’m sorry, I came on your f*cking comforter –“

“It’s okay,” Derek laughs. “It’s fine.”

“Oh, f*ck,” he repeats again. He goes all jelly, collapsing face first onto the bed, stomach in his own come, and just breathes. In and out. He feels Derek come up onto the bed beside him, putting his hand on Stiles’ back, his fingers, scratching up and down. It feels sinfully f*cking good and Stiles shivers. “That was so, so…”

“I have such good toys to use on you,” Derek says this seemingly out of nowhere, and Stiles is all sex dumb from the org*sm, enough that he barely reacts to it. “Next time, I’ll show you what I have, and you can pick. It’ll be so fun.”

This comment reminds Stiles, even through the haze of everything else, that he and Derek are really just sex friends. You know, when Derek used to sit and stare at Stiles in history class, he was just thinking about Stiles’ mouth, of course he was, and how nice it would feel wrapped around his co*ck, of course. Derek is sexually experienced and he likes to f*ck and have fun and use toys and all that, and Stiles just happens to be around and he’s a bottom and that works for Derek who’s such a top it’s not even funny, and – it just works. They’re sexually compatible.

As friends. You know? Stiles gets himself situated, moving to sit up, and he wipes sweat off of his forehead and he smiles, weak, and tired. “Okay. Yeah. Next time.”

“C’mon. Let’s brush our teeth. Wanna stay over? You can borrow my clothes,” he is up off the bed and moving around the room, to his dresser, which he pulls open, tugging out a pair of green sweatpants and a big old t-shirt, tossing them to Stiles. Stiles catches them, holding them in his hands, and he watches Derek go digging around for clothes for himself to wear, and his heart pounds.

He really, really likes Derek.

And it’s humiliating. Because he knows Derek doesn’t really think of him like that, and never has. Derek thinks Stiles is a neurotic weirdo who color codes his notes, and likes weird music, and has no friends, and is all emotionally abused and f*cked up because of his last relationship. Stiles is a fun thing that Derek does.

But Stiles is falling in love with him. All Derek can f*cking think about is his sex toys, and Stiles wants to be with him. It’s so embarrassing he swears he feels tears prick his eyes, all crazy and in his head from the euphoria of the org*sm and everything else, but Derek does not notice. He grins and he says, “get dressed, come on.”

Stiles should say he’s going to go home and be done with all this, put his own clothes on and drive away and just not humiliate himself any more than he already has.

But he doesn’t. He’s in too deep. The thought of sleeping with Derek in his bed all warm and safe is way too enticing, so he puts on Derek’s sweats and Derek’s shirt, brushes his teeth right alongside him in Derek’s bathroom, and he does the stupid f*cking thing.

He stays.

Chapter 8: The Early Years

Chapter Text

Derek is used to being made fun of for the sh*t that his mother packs him for his lunch. Honestly, he thinks everyone else is just jealous, because none of their mothers still hand make their lunch for them every single morning – he always defends it this way, saying hey, my mom is the best, she wakes up earlier than anyone to make lunch for me and my siblings, who else can say the same?

Though, cutting his sandwiches into shapes when he’s f*cking sixteen years old feels a little cruel. He would never in a million years say a word to her about it, or say it’s embarrassing, or any of that sh*t. He would sooner rake himself over hot coals than make his mother feel bad.

Still, here he sits, with his Christmas tree shaped mini sandwiches, getting mocked for it. f*ck it. Everyone else is eating the disgusting school given spaghetti and he’s got a homemade brownie and ham and cheese sandwiches and some of her weird granola that he hates but eats all the same so it won’t hurt her feelings when he comes home with the bag still full of the stuff.

He’s halfway through one of his trees when Isaac nudges him hard in the side and says, “Derek, your boyfriend is here.”

Derek knows who he’s referring to even before catching sight of him. Every one of his friends knows who Derek is obsessed with, and mercilessly mocks him for that, too, but Derek can’t be f*cked. He sits up and scans the room, and he isn’t terribly hard to find; he’s wearing his bright red hoody, again, his neck bent, nose pushed so far into his book he can’t see where he’s walking, nearly knocks into a girl with a full lunch tray. She swears at him and calls him a jackass, but he isn’t even listening. He just keeps walking, pen in his mouth, eyes scanning the pages of his book, and Derek watches him.

The girl and her lunch are not the only things that Stiles has no f*cking idea exist. Derek swears, Stiles doesn’t even remember his name.

“Why don’t you go try to talk to him?” Boyd suggests. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

“He says, who are you again?” Derek supplies, and his friends all laugh. Probably because they know it’s a very real possibility.

“We’ve been going to school with him since Pre-K,” Isaac shakes his head, and nudges him yet again. “He knows who you are.”

Well, that might just be worse. Who knows what Stiles thinks about him? In the few interactions they’ve had since high school started, Stiles has been short and sort of irritated, like Derek isn’t even worth the time of day. In middle school, Stiles was a bit friendlier, though he was teased mercilessly for having glasses and braces at the same time, for always knowing the answer in class, for constantly raising his hand, always being the teacher’s pet. Derek didn’t really talk to him then, either, because Stiles and his even nerdier friend Scott were like pariahs.

Something occurred, though, in the summer between eighth and ninth grade. Derek swears Stiles went through puberty overnight. He got contacts. His braces came off and revealed a set of perfectly white straight teeth and an even better smile, when he would dare to smile at all. He got tall. And Derek’s brain sort of clicked at the mere sight of him at the assembly, that he liked boys, and he liked that boy in particular, and so, the obsession began.

Derek always liked Stiles. In elementary he was strange and kind of funny, and nice, in his own way. He was really shy. He had a hard time making friends. He and Scott found each other and sort of stitched themselves together at the seams, and mostly, Derek just remembers that Stiles was very kind, as a kid. He shared his lunches, and he helped Derek pick up his books one day when his backpack fell apart in the hallway. They were never really friends, no, but Derek always remembers liking him, even when everyone else thought he was a massive freak, and a nerd, always reading comic books, ignoring everyone to live in his little fantasy land, especially after his mom died. Which is when everything changed, in general. Stiles’ mom died, and he became very quiet, and reserved, and then the braces came, and well. Middle school wasn’t great for Stiles. The point is, Derek noticed him. Even as kids.

Then, he got hot. And Derek really f*cking noticed him.

And Stiles does not know what f*cking planet Derek is on, sincerely. Derek has always been classically popular, even in elementary school, because he’s athletic and his family is sort of renowned for owning half the town, so he has money, and girls like him because he’s polite and holds the door and sh*t. When Derek does catch Stiles looking at him, it seems mostly with detest. But that might just be his resting bitch face problem. Seriously. Derek has never seen someone with such a bitchy face before – his serious pout, his bored eyes, his thousand yard stare, like he sees straight through everyone’s bullsh*t.

“I think he’s just kind of in his own universe,” Isaac goes on, peeking over his shoulder to see Stiles standing in the lunch line, book on top of his empty tray, eyes glued to it. “He’s never going to notice you if you never talk to him.”

“Yeah,” Derek agrees. He looks at his little Christmas trees. He can just imagine Stiles taking one look at them and doing his mean little laugh. He really is a bitch. Derek can’t help himself.

“You know he likes boys,” Isaac is nudging him some more. Honestly, he is the biggest proponent of any of Derek’s friends for Derek and Stiles to get together. Maybe because he’s Derek’s closest friend, and has heard Derek wax poetic about the exact colors in Stiles’ eyeballs before, too many times, and is sick to f*cking death of it.

“I haven’t really come out, yet,” he mutters, shoveling a tree into his mouth all at once and chewing on it hard. This is a sore subject. Stiles “came out,” if you wanna call it that, about two weeks into freshman year. One of the asshole basketball players called him a fa*ggot and Stiles had laughed that mean f*cking laugh and said, “yeah, and?”

Derek was standing right there watching it happen, at his locker, and his mouth went dry. He had never seen someone just, like, be who they are, even in the face of being made fun of. It was so funny, watching that kid sputter and trip over his words, in front of everyone, because Stiles just f*cking stood there with his eyebrows up, like, and what about it? Derek was jealous. And turned on. And he watched Stiles walk away like nothing had even happened, even though everyone just up and heard him announce himself as gay, or whatever. He didn’t care.

“If you started dating Stiles, then you’d be out.”

“He will not date me.” This, also, is a sore subject.

“You never know if you never try.”

“He will not date me,” Derek repeats, shaking his head with a little unfunny laugh. “I think he thinks I’m stupid.”

“Uh, he thinks everyone but him is stupid,” Boyd points out. “It’s really unattractive. I don’t get it.”

“What’s there to get?” Derek demands, sort of irritated. Whenever anyone says anything even slightly disparaging about Stiles, even the true things, he gets defensive.

“Well, he is kind of abrasive,” Isaac agrees, though hesitantly, because he knows how Derek gets. “But, no, yeah, the – like, for a boy, he is very cute.”

Even straight men are well aware of the fact that Stiles is good looking. It’s hard to not notice it. The only person alive who may not know that Stiles is attractive is Stiles himself, which is criminal, because how do you wake up every day looking like that and have no f*cking idea? Girls always say he’s cute, too, and Stiles is oblivious. What does he see when he looks in the mirror?

“He’s coming this way,” Isaac nudges Derek for the thousandth time, and Derek turns, nearly snaps his neck looking over his shoulder, and there Stiles is. He has his lunch, and he has his book open in front of him with his other hand, the tray precariously balanced like it’s going to fall at any second. Derek has a split second, as Stiles approaches, to decide whether he’s just going to sit here and let Stiles walk past or talk to him. Attempt to talk to him.

It’s at the last millisecond that Derek leaps up out of his chair and trips over Isaac a little bit in his haste, busting out into the aisle between the tables, meeting Stiles right there. Stiles keeps walking like Derek does not exist, but Derek is undeterred – he matches Stiles’ long-legged strides easily and he says, “what are you reading?”

Stiles stops walking. He looks up, blinks, surprised at being spoken to. And he makes this face that he makes, whenever he sees Derek. It’s hard to describe. It’s not quite hate. It’s not indifference, either. He sort of pinches it together. His lips purse. His eyes narrow. And his nose crinkles. It really should repel anyone who tries to speak to him, but Derek can’t help that he finds it endlessly adorable, the stupid way his nose wrinkles up.

“What does it matter to you?” Stiles asks him, and he’s being mean. “I didn’t think you could read either way.”

And there he goes. Leaving Derek staring after him with his mouth open, shocked at the frankness with which Stiles speaks, and how f*cking venomous he can be, but Derek is like a glutton for punishment or something, because his heart pounds in his chest.

He goes back and sits down. Boyd is pointedly averting his face so Derek won’t see him literally shaking with laughter, but Isaac pats him on the shoulder a few times. “That was rough,” he says.

It was rough. Derek should’ve washed his hands of Stiles right then and there, but he couldn’t stop. There was something about him, you know? Derek would swear sometimes, alone in his room at night staring at his ceiling and thinking about him, that somehow, someway, they were literally meant to be together. Somewhere along the way. Stiles is just going through a phase, that’s what he’d tell himself. One day Stiles will grow out of it and stop being such a little f*cking asshole and get over himself and he’ll look up and Derek will be there and he’ll realize. It was all a waiting game.

The thing is, the day never came. Stiles never looked up. His nose stayed in his books. He sat alone at lunch. He never came to parties, though Derek would look for him, thinking maybe a couple of beers and some weed would loosen him up enough to give Derek the time of f*cking day for once. It never happened. Stiles was a shadow in the halls, all books and pens and ink and straight A’s. All through sophom*ore year, he ghosted. Sometimes, Derek wouldn’t even see him for days at a time, and then suddenly there he would be, leaning against the lockers and furiously reading something with his brow furrowed.

Of all the faces that Stiles would make, his reading face was definitely top tier. He just looked so f*cking serious all the time.

In Junior year, the tides sort of turned, and suddenly, Stiles was in a couple of his classes. Derek was not as smart as Stiles, it’s true, but he grew to really enjoy history and to really like old classic books, so they found themselves together in AP History and AP Literature, both. Stiles was a creature of habit. He always picked the same seat, in both classes, and he’d show up early as hell to each just to ensure his place was set in stone. As if anyone would try to steal his seat, anyway. He was like a f*cking rattlesnake. People gave him a wide berth.

Stiles would always sit by the window. But he wouldn’t look out. He kept his eyes on his work, the board, the teacher, his notebook, his pens. Derek would sometimes come early, too, just to get the seat right next to Stiles, just to be ignored, like he did not exist.

One Monday, Derek plucked up the stones to speak to him. There Stiles sat, book in front of his face, long elegant fingers holding it, and Derek cleared his throat. They were alone in the room. Who else’s attention would Derek be trying to get? But Stiles kept reading.

Derek spoke anyway. “It’s supposed to rain, today.” He could come up with nothing else. No wonder Stiles thought he was an idiot.

“You a weatherman?” Stiles was deadpan. He didn’t even look up from his book. “Here’s Derek Hale with the five o’clock forecast.”

Well. At least now Derek was sure Stiles knew his name. But Derek never again managed to speak to him in history. He just sat a couple of desks over and behind Stiles so that he could safely stare at Stiles all class without being noticed by him, watching him shove those pens into his mouth, chew, chew, frantically write, go back to chewing. He would sit ram rod straight and copy every single thing that the teacher said verbatim, Derek could just tell, from how fast he wrote.

“Don’t you think it’s sort of pathetic, at this point?” His sister Cora asks him one day, chewing on an apple at lunch. “He literally hates you. And all of us. Might as well throw in the towel and find a new boy to fixate on.”

“The fact that he might hate me only makes me want him more, that’s the f*cked up thing,” Derek tells her. “Why am I even talking to you about this? You’re even worse at relationships than I am. I should be talking to Laura.”

“Oho, yeah,” she rolls her eyes heavenward and snorts. “She’s the expert. Miss daddy issues.”

Well. Yeah. Laura has spent every waking second since dad died trying to replace him, going through guy, after guy, after guy. Derek swears she has serious trauma from some of these sh*tty men, and it pisses him off when he thinks about it, because it feels like they all just see her as emotionally fragile and damaged and crazy, and they just use her up.

“Like, love her, but she’s useless in this situation. Hm, I don’t know. Let’s try another angle,” she taps her chin, thinking hard with her brow crinkled. “What if you were just as mean to him as he is to you. Yeah, that’ll get him.”

“I can’t be mean to him.” He says this very succinct, and it is true. No matter how mean Stiles is to him, Derek just can’t give it back to him. It feels like being mean to a puppy, really, like a little unruly puppy who keeps chewing on Derek’s shoes. Something about Stiles’ lashing out has always felt like there was something more to it, and that Stiles isn’t really mean, not at all, but is actually just very sad. And lonely.

“Ugh,” Cora rolls her eyes again, fake barfing. “You need to get a real relationship and stop fantasizing about a boy who literally would watch you get crucified like Christ on the cross and laugh about it.”

Stiles would really laugh at Derek going up on the cross. He would. Oh, f*ck it. He should find something else to obsess over, really, he should. Stiles is nuts. He has more books than he does feelings. Sometimes it genuinely seems that way, like Stiles is this ethereal being who feels nothing, is barely a part of the world around him.

Derek only feels that way because Stiles will not speak to him.

“Maybe you should just go for broke and ask him out. You never know,” she lifts one shoulder. “You know, you do share my general good looks, being my twinsie. We’re good looking. You could bag him. It’s all about the element of surprise.”

“I think the fact that I’m good looking means nothing to him,” he says this sort of dismally, because if his hotness can’t get Stiles’ attention, he’s got nothing else going for him.

“He’s a boy. A teenaged boy. Sex is king. Maybe he can’t stand talking to you, but he could stand to sleep with you.”

Oh, if only. The sheer idea of sleeping with Stiles makes Derek’s hands sweat. Cora may be right – playing to Stiles’ sensitive side is not working, because apparently, he does not f*cking have one. Maybe Derek should lean in and just, like, hit on him very very hard. Openly. And directly. No beating around the bush. Derek can do that. He has no shame.

“Go over and be like, hey, let’s f*ck. Or something.”

“I’m not going to say hey, let’s f*ck.” He furrows his brow, staring at Stiles’ back across the room, where he’s bent over a book and not touching his lunch. “Maybe something along those lines.”

“Go,” Cora nudges him, hard, and Derek stands up. Here he f*cking goes. He keeps his eyes on Stiles as he walks, past other kids and their lunches, conversations, loud laughter, someone dropping their lunch tray, but Derek ignores all of it. He’s got tunnel vision. He imagines himself sitting right down next to him and throwing caution to the wind, and saying, hey, Stiles, look, you’re really hot, I’m really hot, maybe we should just f*ck and get it over with, or maybe I could take you out and get you to look me in the eye for the first time since middle school, or we could just have an actual conversation, or f*cking anything, but all of it does not matter. It doesn’t matter what Derek imagines. The conversation never happens.

When Derek gets halfway across the room, he gets a front row f*cking seat to Theo Raeken walking right up to Stiles, putting his lunch tray down, and sitting next to him on the bench. He straddles it, facing Stiles, and Stiles looks up from his book. He does his mean face. Derek is certain he’s going to tell Theo to go f*ck himself, as he should, because that guy is a stain of black mold on this entire school. He’s terrible.

But Theo says something. Who knows what it was? Derek always wonders, and would go on to wonder for months and months, what Theo had said to him to make him actually laugh. Stiles does. He laughs. He scrunches his nose up and his neck goes red, and he puts his book all the way down and talks to him.

Derek stands there and watches it happen.

He knows that Theo is interested in boys only because he’s on lacrosse with him, and the guy is like a water tap that never fully shuts off. He just brags and brags and brags about the people he sleeps with, and boys have been included, and everyone on lacrosse is pretty chill about that sort of a thing, unlike football or basketball, where the hom*ophobes go to circlejerk. Derek despises him.

Everyone on lacrosse also knows that Derek likes Stiles. It’s like, a topic. Theo knows it. And he does not care. Why would he? Stiles is attractive and everyone knows that, and Theo is a f*cking asshole, so he did what he does, which is to take. Right in front of Derek’s face, no less. Stiles laughs again, covering his mouth with his hand, an old habit that Derek knows he got from having braces, and being mocked for it, and he thinks Theo doesn’t f*cking know that about him, but I do. I know why he’s shy, and why he’s mean, and why everything about him.

All Theo cares about is f*cking him. Which, yeah, okay, Derek wants to f*ck him, too, but still.

It’s the worst day ever on earth. Derek maintains that. It’s anyone’s guess how precisely Theo charmed Stiles enough to get into his pants, but Derek refuses to talk to Theo, so he never finds out.

He goes back to the table, with Cora. She saw it happen, too, and she’s sucking on what’s left of her iced coffee, so it grates, and she’s making this face, like, f*cking yikes, but she says not a word. She does not have to.

At the time, Derek had figured, like, okay, sure, Stiles might sleep with Theo. Or maybe he’ll reveal his true colors like a Scooby Doo villain being unmasked and Stiles would shuck him away like yesterday’s school lasagna, in the trash. That did not happen.

They started to actually honest to god date, and Derek had to just sit there and watch it happen. They would sit together every day at lunch, and Stiles would not read anymore, he’d sit and talk to him, and laugh, and put his chin in his palm and look right at Theo as he’d talk, like he had anything f*cking interesting to say. In AP history, Stiles would sometimes look out the window, like he never used to, and drum his fingers on the desk, spacing out, neglecting his notes. Derek knew what he was thinking about. Or, he assumed. Once, Derek saw Stiles walking down the hallway with a book, reading it line by line, and then Theo came out of nowhere and tore it out of his hands to get his attention, and Derek thought, why didn’t I just do that?

Though, watching Stiles frown and say he was in the middle of something, having the book closed and taken away under Theo’s arm to keep it away from him, he thinks, well, that’s f*cking why. Because it’s rude.

The locker room becomes Derek’s personal hell on f*cking earth. Really, he tries to just keep his head down and get changed and mind his own f*cking business like Theo does not exist, but it’s impossible. It’s neverending, or at least it feels that way to Derek.

“…maybe if any of you had sex regularly, you’d play better,” he says, shirt half on, grinning from ear to ear. Isaac slams his locker closed particularly hard, maybe to distract Derek or drown out the sound of that annoying little f*cking voice, but it doesn’t work. Derek keeps his eyes on his shoes, tying them slowly.

“Oh, really?” Theo’s little lackey James presses. “The ice bitch puts out regularly? You’re kidding.”

Derek stays silent, but his jaw clenches. Tying his shoes, tying his shoes, tying his shoes…

“He can’t get enough. He begs for it, swear to god.”

“It figures a good f*ck would make him nicer.”

“Oh, he’s very nice in bed, trust me,” he laughs out loud and closes his locker and Derek straightens, and Isaac sees it happening, sees the look on Derek’s face, tries to stand in front of him and corral him away to stop it, but Derek is on a mission.

“You talk about your f*cking boyfriend like that? I’m sure he’d love to know that,” he barks, and Theo smiles at him. Like he got exactly what he wanted, which was a rise out of Derek, and here they go.

“What’s your problem, Hale?” He co*cks his head to the side. Derek wants to snap his neck. “Jealous?”

“I don’t know what weird f*cking voodoo you pull on him to get him to tolerate you, but coming in here and talking about him like that will surely lift the f*cking spell.”

“Go tell him,” Theo shrugs, this languid motion like he could not care less. “He’ll believe you. He thinks you’re swell,” he snickers some more.

Oh, great, So now, Theo is in Stiles’ ear saying horrible things about him. Oh, f*cking great.

“Just – can we not have lewd f*cking conversations about classmates in the f*cking locker room?” He raises his voice and calls over Theo’s shoulder, “Coach?”

Coach would accidentally staple his hands to his ass, so he’s clueless. Wasn’t even listening. “Yeah, sure,” he waves this off, staring down at the playboard, and Theo smirks.

“Since when can’t we talk about sex in the locker room?” James scoffs like this is so ridiculous, and some of the other boys agree.

“What, is it just weird because Theo has a boyfriend and not a girlfriend?”

Derek bristles. “No. That is not it.”

“Yeah, Derek, are you a hom*ophobe?” Theo taunts, which is absurd, because half this f*cking team knows that Derek is not a hom*ophobe, is frankly not even f*cking straight, and the other half should just know better, but they all blink at him.

“I am not a f*cking hom*ophobe,” he bursts out, enraged. “I just don’t think it’s appropriate to –“

Derek has lost this battle. You cannot tell teenaged boys they’re not allowed to discuss in detail their sexual encounters, you just cannot, he sees it in all their faces, as they turn away and laugh or just shake their heads like it’s stupid. Like it’s their god given right to hear Theo talk about Stiles Stilinski like he’s a toy, or something.

Isaac stands up for him. “I think it’s gross, too,” he insists, though it falls on deaf ears. Nobody gives a f*ck. It doesn’t help that Stiles is prickly, so no one feels really bad for him, all these days that Theo comes in here and talks about him like that. They think it’s funny, because Stiles really is the f*cking ice bitch, so hearing about him in a different way, especially a sexual way, is interesting to them. It’s just teenaged boys being teenaged boys, but it makes Derek so mad, sometimes he has to skip practice, just to avoid it.

It feels perverse to see Stiles after these encounters, too. Theo will stand in that locker room holding court with the perverts describing in f*cking detail how Stiles likes to be f*cked, and then Derek walks off the field to see Stiles standing there, books in his arms, waiting for Theo to take him home. He’s clueless, too. Sometimes they meet eyes and Stiles has nothing there, not even interest or curiosity, just waiting for his boyfriend. And Derek can’t help it maybe like the other boys can’t, imagining him on his back.

He feels like sh*t about it. He averts his eyes and keeps walking, like Stiles will be able to read his mind. He can’t, he’s actually quite enamored by Theo, so the thought of him doing something like that doesn’t even occur to him. The other boys are of course never gonna say anything. Derek thinks maybe if he did, Stiles would get pissed and break up with him.

But then, also, he’d be upset, and humiliated, and heartbroken. Derek keeps his mouth shut.

It sucks, because Stiles does everything with Theo, now. They come to school together and leave together. They go through the halls together. They eat lunch together. Stiles is never alone, not ever. They even sometimes argue, in the hallway, hushed voices hissing at each other, leading to Theo saying something with finality and storming off, leaving Stiles standing there looking like he just got slapped in the face, before blinking rapidly and shoving his face into a book.

“I think standing there staring at someone and their boyfriend is serial killer behavior,” Lydia Martin is his lockermate, directly next to him, and she’s applying lip gloss in a mirror she has up in her locker. It’s anyone’s guess how she knows just what he’s looking at. Or, not really, because she goes on to say, “I’ve noticed you staring. Like, all the time. Lunch. History. Lacrosse practice.”

“What are you doing at lacrosse practice?” Derek demands.

She pops her lips in the mirror. “Good place to study. Anyway,” she slams her locker closed and smiles at him, sort of condescending. “Do you like him or something?”

“Who?”

“Stiles,” she folds her arms across her chest and taps her foot on the ground. “Do you like him? You could tell me. I’m a steel trap,” she mimes a key locking her lips up.

He looks at Stiles opening up his locker and keeping his head down, putting his books inside and sniffling like he’s upset.

“It’s moot,” he says. “He thinks I’m an invisible jackass.”

“Well, I know him,” she shrugs. “We’re study buddies, sometimes. Less often, now, ever since he got with dipsh*t.”

“What’s your point, Lydia?”

“I just mean, I could ask him about you, see what he says. Honestly, ever since he and Theo started going at it, he’s legit miserable. All they do is fight.”

This is an interesting little nugget. Theo talks about him like all they do is f*ck. Derek always thought he maybe exaggerated, but this is too funny.

“How well do you know him?” Derek asks, as Stiles closes his locker and keeps his neck bent, head down, going through the halls, not even reading his book.

“I guess barely. Enough to snoop. Or, I could prey on his dumbass best friend Scott.”

“Why do you even give a sh*t?” He inquires, suspicious of her – Lydia isn’t exactly the nicest person on planet earth, so it’s hard to imagine her altruistically being interested in Stiles’ relationship or Derek’s hopeless crush.

She flicks a red curl over her shoulder. “Being nice to you seems like a good way to get in your sister’s good graces.”

Oh. Derek blinks. He had not known Lydia was a lesbian. Or that she would be interested in Cora. “Oh,” he repeats this out loud. Seeing as how Cora has tried in the past to help Derek get in with Stiles, the least he could do is return the favor. Now that he’s thinking about it, he can sort of see the two of them together, anyway. “Uh, yeah. If you want to do a little snooping, I’ll put in a good word.”

“Okay,” she agrees readily, turning and going without another word. Derek watches her go and figures nothing will come of it, because Stiles is renowned to be impossible to talk to, especially since Lydia admits herself she barely knows him.

All the same, two days later she’s sitting down next to him in their shared free period, outside under the big maple tree he favors studying underneath. She crosses her legs and sets her purse down on the table, folding her hands like she has some serious sh*t to reveal to him, and Derek immediately straightens. “Hi,” he says.

She grimaces at him. “Bad news. He thinks you’re a f*ck.”

“Oh, that’s not surprising,” he sighs. “Disappointing, but not surprising. What exactly did he say?”

“Well, from my observation, Theo is an expert at mind control,” she rubs her lips together, like she’s making sure her lipstick is still on right. “I think he’s just planted it in Stiles’ head that you’re evil. And also, Theo controls his entire life. So. Good luck.”

Derek frowns. “Controls his entire life?” He repeats this like the words simply do not make any sense.

“Who he hangs out with,” she begins counting things down on her fingers, “what colleges he should apply to, his read receipts, his relationship with his dad, his friends, what he eats –“

“What he – eats?” Derek repeats, again, louder and more shocked, eyes big in his head.

“I guess he’s obsessed with Stiles being very thin, I don’t know, it’s so f*cked up,” she observes her nails. “I told him, Stiles, he sounds horrible. He got very defensive. I think he’s really in deep. Sorry. I didn’t want to piss him off so bad he wouldn’t talk to me anymore, so I kinda dropped it. I feel badly for him, though. I know what it’s like to never feel good enough for a partner, it can be really isolating.”

Derek looks at his books in front of him. He looks at the sky. He sighs. “Okay…so what should I do? You know about relationships and stuff.”

“Yeah, but I think like, there’s nothing to do. He does not know or like you. I think you should probably hang up the towel and wait for them to inevitably break up. Trying to move in on him would just confuse him or make him mad. Again, sorry.”

Yeah, Derek is sorry too. Sorry he didn’t make a f*cking move sooner, and now Stiles is trapped being emotionally manipulated by a psychopath. Just f*cking great. Lydia is right, too, any attempt to hit on Stiles or come in between him and Theo would just end badly. Looks like he has to wait, then, because they will break up. They will.

They don’t. Junior year ends and Summer begins, and Derek thinks to himself as he walks out the doors on the last day, that the Summer will break them up. They will come back for Senior year and Stiles will be done with that piece of sh*t and it will all be over – Cora and Lydia wind up getting together, and then she’s not around so much anymore, but that’s fine. Derek spends his Summer helping his mother fix up the yard, getting a garden going, and then they obsess over their plants and vegetables, celebrating when they get their first tiny pepper out of it. He does on occasion find himself wondering what Stiles does all Summer long, because that’s truly when he f*cking disappears, like the ghost he can be.

Once or twice, Derek spots Stiles skateboarding downtown, zooming by on his board. He is very good at riding that f*cking skateboard. Derek would never admit it, but honestly, it’s one of the sexiest god damn things he does, because he does it very elegantly. He knows how to do that curb-hop thing that Derek doesn’t know the name of, and he can flip it in the air, and he never falters on it, never looks awkward, just skates by like he and the board are one unit.

Derek goes to parties, summer events hosted by high school royalty that he goes to just for the free weed of idiots, mostly, and Stiles is never there. Sometimes, Theo is, so that leads Derek to the conclusion that he and Stiles are done. What would Theo be doing at a party hooking up with someone else, if he and Stiles were still together? Derek imagines that Stiles will be all wounded bird-like, in the wake of his bad relationship with Theo, and Derek will be extra nice to him, and not treat him like sh*t, and not control what he eats, or any of that sh*t. He does sleep with other people, because why not?

But he does think about Stiles. He does. A lot. He looks forward to the school year, because Stiles will be single and also wounded, not that Derek is trying to actively take advantage of his vulnerable state. It’s more that, Derek wants to help him, that’s all. Stiles could have a relationship with someone, like Derek, who actually makes him feel good about himself and is nice to him and takes him on dates and sh*t.

On the first day, he’s riding high. It’s Senior year, and he’s ahead, so he doesn’t have a full class schedule, more free periods than anything else, and he foresees himself getting into Beacon because he put the work in, and he’s captain of the team this year, and everything feels like it’s going his way. He pulls into the student lot, and parks, climbing out and slinging his bag on.

He nearly gets run over by a shiny silver car, scowling when he sees that it’s Theo’s. Derek is happy he ate a hash brownie before school. Dealing with that f*cking guy when he’s high is a lot easier.

Theo parks. His driver’s side door opens. Then his passenger side.

Stiles emerges from inside of it and Derek’s heart sinks deep into the pit of his stomach. Stiles slams his door closed and puts his backpack on. He has a coffee, and a frown, and he looks thin. Like, more than usual, which is saying something, because Stiles seems skinny by nature. He has dark circles under his eyes and when he catches Derek staring at him he does his bitch face and looks away, walking side by side with Theo, their legs in tandem like they’re so intune to each other they just walk the same, now.

Derek is now unhappy with the fact that he took an edible. His mouth is dry and he has this insane thought, like the world is out to get him, bad guys always win, being sh*tty is the only way to make it, on and on, all these paranoid thoughts that make him feel miserable.

He goes to homeroom, and Stiles is there. This may be the only class they share this year, so Derek sits next to him, even though he plans to say nothing. What’s there to say? Stiles is not reading. He’s looking out the window and looking miserable, his eyes far away, his hands limp on top of the desk. His skinny wrists. His pout.

Unfortunately, Scott McCall is also in this homeroom. In he comes, bounding like a f*cking dumbass into the room and plopping right down in front of Stiles, who sits up and smiles at the sight of him. “Hey, my mom made muffins,” he says, and he is, indeed, holding two muffins in his hand. He drops one onto Stiles’ desk. “Her famous cinnamon swirl. Your favorite.”

“Awesome, thanks, man. It’s been forever since I’ve had a Melissa muffin,” his voice is raspy. Derek has half a mind to think he had been crying. He picks at his muffin like he barely wants it, in spite of the fact that it’s allegedly his favorite, and Scott watches this like a hawk. He doesn’t comment on it, but Derek sees the gears churning in Scott’s head.

He, too, perhaps notices that Stiles has lost a good fifteen pounds.

“Compare schedules?” Scott asks, taking his out. Derek pretends to be texting, but he’s listening.

Stiles mirrors him, and they lean over and observe each other’s critically.

“Hey, what the hell? I thought we were going to have the same lunch this year?” Scott bursts out, shaking his head in confusion.

“Oh, uh – I switched to share with Theo.”

Scott’s lips purse. It’s a weird expression to see on him, of all people. He’s normally always grinning like a dope. “Okay. At least we have a couple of the same frees.”

“Yeah, but, with off campus privileges, I bet Theo will want to not be around here.”

“We can go off campus together sometimes, too.”

Stiles picks at an invisible spot on his desk. “Yeah, of course.”

They keep talking, mostly about video games and classes and the normal friend stuff, and Derek decides then and there, it’s a lost f*cking cause. He spent all Summer thinking about coming back to school and finally getting Stiles to see reason, the light, all that, and now here he is, stoned as a f*cking rock in homeroom, listening to Stiles give one word answers to his best friend and mope and not eat.

“I’m throwing in the towel,” Derek tells Isaac out by the dumpsters during their shared free period, sharing a blunt and glowering at his feet. “It’s over. Stiles and I are never going to be together, I f*cking quit.”

“Man, that sucks,” Isaac tells him, coughing a bit. “He is really cute. And smart and all that. Not that smart, I guess, getting lured in by Theo.”

“Yeah, it f*cking sucks. Just – I really thought.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m just done. It’s exhausting, wanting someone who has no clue you f*cking exist. You have no idea. I mean, I know you’ve heard me bitch for years. But this time I mean it. I’m over him.”

Isaac snorts, passing the blunt back and shaking his head. “You’re not, but okay. You gotta move on. With college next year, it’s pointless pining over an old school crush, anyway. There are going to be so many other people to sleep with in college.”

“Yeah,” he agrees.

“It sucks though, I saw him earlier this morning,” he frowns, deep. “He looks, uh, skinny.”

“Lydia Martin told me Theo likes him extra thin, so, there he goes, starving himself.” Derek rubs both hands down the front of his face after giving Isaac the blunt back, because he barely wants to even f*cking smoke, which is, like, for him, insanity. “I keep thinking, things could’ve been so different. I had to be a puss*. I just had to be a f*cking puss*. Next time, mark my words, I am not going to f*cking puss* out.”

“Totally,” Isaac agrees. Oh, he’s useless. When he gets too high he’s f*cking useless.

It doesn’t matter either way. Derek means it. Stiles can go on the back burner for now, because clearly, he’s going through his own thing, and Derek can’t help him with that. It’s one of those things in life sometimes you just gotta go through. Seems unfair, but Derek knows how that goes.

Senior year goes well. Derek gets into Beacon, and so do his best friends, and they throw a party and get really drunk and Derek pukes in Isaac’s mom’s rose bushes and gets in the biggest f*cking trouble of his entire life, even though his own mother finds it funny. Theo is still around, still on lacrosse, but at least he mostly pipes down about Stiles anymore. The relationship doesn’t seem like the fun sexy time he had made it sound in Junior year, and he does not brag about it with the same verve that he used to. Occasionally, sure. But Derek just…can’t give a f*ck. He can’t. For his mental health.

Plus, Theo does not get into college. Derek cracks open a cold one when he hears this and pours it the f*ck out on the concrete behind Boyd’s house, just cackling. It’s sh*tty to laugh at the misfortunes of others, his mother says, but hey, some people deserve to be laughed at, and he needs to take his wins where he can get them.

Stiles gets into Beacon, too. Derek is supposed to not care, is supposed to not stare at him when he goes by in the halls, but sue him. He eavesdropped. He and Scott got into Beacon and excitedly chatter about rooming together and going to parties and being cool, finally, and then Scott looks directly at Derek and says, “hey, man, you got into Beacon, too, didn’t you?”

For the first time in what feels like eons, Stiles is looking right at him. He does not have his bitch face. His brown eyes are direct and calculating, his book face down on his desk, his posture stiff.

Derek sits up. “Uh, yeah. Me, Isaac, Boyd. My sister.”

“It’ll be like a f*ckin’ reunion!” Scott bellows, holding his arms out wide. Derek laughs.

Stiles says nothing.

“Are you going to live in the dorms?” Scott asks him, interested, and Derek shakes his head.

“Um, I think me and my friends are going to join a fraternity.”

Stiles snorts. He picks his book back up, like Derek just became chopped liver. “Of course you are,” he mutters under his breath, and Scott looks at Stiles, then gives Derek an apologetic little smile.

“Well, it’ll be really cool to see familiar faces,” Scott says, nodding at him. “I know we’re not really the same social class, or whatever, but –“

“You guys know I don’t give a sh*t about that kind of thing and never have, right?” He says, to both of them, though Scott is the only one who will look at him. Stiles is reading his book. Or he’s pretending to. His eyes aren’t moving. He’s listening. “I don’t care. I just want to get high and pass my classes, it’s all I’ve ever cared about.”

“Oh, yeah, duh,” Scott plays this off. He is tragically uncool, but he tries, and hell, he’s dumb, but he’s never been anything but nice. Derek regrets all his sh*tty thoughts about him. “Getting high and all that, totally.”

Derek suspects that Scott has never even seen what marijuana looks like except for in movies, and it makes him laugh, so he does. Stiles’ lips quirk, just the faintest ghost of a smile, but he stifles it down, like he doesn’t want Derek to see it.

“Well, congrats on getting in,” Scott says.

“Yeah, you too,” his eyes slide to Stiles.

They meet eyes. Holy sh*t. It feels like it’s been years since the last time Stiles has even deigned to f*cking look at him so directly, let alone speak to him, but speak he does. And for the first time, he does not make a little bitch comment. He says, “congratulations.”

Derek’s heart pounds. He has to say something. Something other than just thank you. Really. The best he comes up with is, “heard your boyfriend didn’t get in,” and he wants to kick himself. Wants to f*cking punch himself in the face.

Stiles scowls at him, going back to his book. “He’s not currently my f*cking boyfriend, actually, and no, he did not,” he barks at him, and Scott is again doing his little apologetic smile. “The fact that I did made him break up with me. So.”

Jesus Christ.

Well. Yay?

Not for Stiles. Derek works very hard to stifle his grin.

“Sore subject,” Scott says. “But, we’re over it. Right, Stiles?”

“Over it,” he says this succinctly, though the words do not sound true.

“Hey, getting high would make you feel better,” Derek offers, and Stiles puts his book down yet again just to give Derek his trademark bitch face. Oh, Derek loves him so bad.

“Do you f*cking do anything else other than smoke?”

“No.”

“I could get high,” Scott interjects, and Derek is so whatever at this point, he’s just like, sure, okay Scott, come get high. So long as Stiles comes, Derek could give a f*ck. “Stiles, let’s go get high with Derek.”

“Do what you like,” Stiles deadpans.

“Well, I’m gonna go,” he says, and gives Derek his big dumb grin. “If that’s still okay.”

“Sure,” Derek waves this off. He’s still clinging to this hope that Stiles will tag along after all, because he and Scott really can be inseparable, so long as Theo isn’t in the picture, at least.

Free period comes, and Derek is waiting out by the dumpsters with Isaac, glancing at the time on his phone again and again, waiting to see Stiles come out that back door. The sheer idea of getting Stiles high has him on cloud f*cking nine, just, getting to actually spend time with him, be around him, without the pall of that jackass hanging over their heads, the whole thing. He cannot f*cking wait.

The back door opens. Scott emerges. Stiles is not there.

He comes over and he says, “I’ve never done this before,” like Derek needed to be told that.

Isaac and Derek share a look. “No Stiles?” Derek clarifies.

Scott does his self-deprecating smile. “He’s not in the Derek Hale fan club, sorry.”

Well, that makes Derek want to f*cking kill himself. Instead, he heaves this great big sigh, pulls the blunt out of his pocket, lights it up, and smokes. Oh, hell. f*ck it. He passes it to Scott, and Scott holds it like he’s holding an alien spaceship in his hands, and hits it, and coughs like mad, and Derek finds it funny, so he cracks right the f*ck up.

“I can’t believe it,” Derek says this mostly to Isaac, “not even weed will make him come out and spend ten seconds with me. God, he hates me. I’ve never done a f*cking thing to him.”

In spite of not being spoken to, Scott pipes right up. “Well, you are Theo’s enemy, big time. And Theo’s word is like gospel to him.”

Well, hello. Derek hadn’t considered that getting high with Scott McCall means access to the inner machinations of Stiles’ very soul. Derek turns and faces him head on, Isaac suddenly completely non-existent to him, and he says, “you don’t say.”

“Yeah. It’s so f*cked. I mean, can I share stuff with you guys? Like, is the dumpster a sacred space?”

“Straight up, it’s a scared f*cking space,” Derek insists, and then when Isaac is mute because he’s smoking, Derek elbows him hard. Isaac coughs.

“Holy space,” Isaac agrees, voice strained.

“Yeah, whatever is said by the dumpster, scout’s honor, I will not repeat. We will not repeat.”

Isaac nods. He’s along for the ride.

“Just so long as you don’t tell Stiles.”

“I wouldn’t say a word to him.” Derek is handed the blunt, but he skips his turn, and passes it right to Scott, to get him more stoned, and thus, more loose tongued. Scott hits it, coughs, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes.

“I really wish I could kill that guy with my bare hands,” he says. “He’s so f*cking miserable. Like, really, I can’t imagine why else you’d work so hard to make someone else feel as bad as Stiles does all the time, other than, because, like, you yourself are so miserable. Straight up. He’s so manipulative. Stiles will break it off with him and then he’s like, a stalker, for real,” his eyes go big as he explains, big hand gestures, and both Isaac and Derek are silent, listening. “Calling all day, texting all day, at his house, begging for forgiveness, I love you, I’ll do anything, and then a week later it’s all miserable again. I think the Sheriff wants to arrest him just to get rid of him.”

“Huh,” Derek says, narrowing his eyes.

“He’s so awful, you should hear the sh*t he says to Stiles. Holy sh*t, sorry, just, I have no one else to talk to about this sh*t, I’m like, unloading.”

“It’s fine.”

“Sometimes, Stiles won’t even eat all day. I don’t f*cking get it,” he throws his arms out, shaking his head, “like, really? We’re gonna starve ourselves? For this f*cking clown?” Derek has noticed that sometimes Scott uses the term we, even when he’s really just talking about Stiles. It speaks to how close they are, that Stiles’ pain is in turn Scott’s pain, Stiles’ anger is Scott’s anger, on and on. It endears Derek to him, because it’s nice to know Stiles at least has one person in his life who really does care about him and loves him. “I had to start doing a challenge with him to get him to eat regularly, where we go to every restaurant and try their food so we can rate it. Otherwise, he just…and the fighting, on and on and on, it’s like all I hear about are these massive fights. And I can’t even really say anything, because then I’m the f*cking enemy. He’s cut me off before. Seriously. Can you believe that? He didn’t speak to me for a week because I said Theo treats him badly.”

“This is so f*cked up,” Isaac interjects, shaking his head. He’s as glued to this as Derek is. “You know, Derek loves him.”

Oh, holy sh*t.

Derek palms his face. Scott is stoned, but still, he heard that.

He blinks. “What?”

“I mean, Derek loves gossip,” Isaac corrects very quickly, looking at Derek with huge eyes. “Sorry, I’m so high. Whew, I’m so f*cked up.”

“Oh, right,” he laughs, shaking it off. “Anyway, yeah, I’m so happy they broke up. But watch, they’ll be back together in a week’s time, I think sometimes, Stiles is like – like he has to be miserable. I don’t know. I can’t explain it. It’s like it’s what he really thinks he deserves. You know when someone gets in your head like that?” He points to his own temple. “It’s hard to get them out. I feel like the worst friend in the world because it’s like I just sit and watch. I’ll just sit and watch him eat nothing. I don’t know. I’m sh*t. This is some – crazy f*cking stuff…”

Oh, hell. Derek got Scott so stoned, that he’s having a total spiral. He reaches his hands out and puts them on Scott’s shoulders, patting him again and again. “Hey, man, you’re cool. It’s cool. It must be a tough situation.”

“Yeah.” He looks upset. He looks at Derek, then at Isaac. “I should not have said all that. If Stiles knew –“

“Well, he won’t. Scout’s honor, remember?”

“Right. Scout’s honor,” he repeats.

That day behind the dumpsters lives in infamy, in Derek’s mind. First of all, Scott is like, probably the greatest keeper of secrets that Derek has ever met – because he has never once mentioned it. When they see each other now, Derek has half a mind to think that Scott has just forgotten about it entirely, the way he acts like it never happened. Stiles probably to this day doesn’t know it happened. He probably knows that Derek and Isaac smoked Scott out, because he likely went back to classes high as a f*cking kite and Stiles noticed, but he must have just rolled his eyes and went back to his book, not a care in the world.

But it’s bothered Derek for months, and months, and months. Just like Scott said, Theo and Stiles were back together the next week, but that was the last time. Derek would watch Stiles and Theo at lunch, and he’d watch Stiles to see if he was eating or not, and most of the time, he was, just not very much, and he’d look so unhappy, sitting there with Theo, always talking at him, and Stiles would mostly just sit and say not a word.

Graduation comes. Theo and Stiles break up for the last time, and Derek only hears about that through the grapevine, because Derek does not see Stiles again until college. First day, actually, because of course, on this massive campus with tons of people, Stiles sticks out to Derek. He’s getting a coffee, first day of classes, and there Stiles is, leaning in and observing the cupcakes and muffins in the case. The girl asks if he wants anything and Stiles says no thanks, turning and walking out with his head down, hands stuffed into his pockets.

Derek must have his invisibility cloak on, again. Stiles goes right by him.

And he must never f*cking take it off, because again and again, Stiles goes right f*cking by him. Nose in the air. Derek thinks it’s almost worse, here, because Stiles is really going out of his way to pretend they don’t know each other, at all. Other kids he vaguely knew from high school will say hi to him, chat with him in classes, or in line for coffee, and some of them he’s even become friends with, even though they never spoke back then.

Stiles skates everywhere on campus. Derek learns to react to the sound of the wheels going over cracks in the pavement, turning around and seeing him, expertly dodging other kids and people on bikes and trees, breezing by everyone and everything.

“It’s like I never left those f*cking hallways,” Derek says to his friends over a game of cards one night, scowling and downing a beer. “He’s so infuriating. Oh, so now I don’t even exist at all, really?”

Boyd runs his hands up and down his face, exasperated. “If I have to hear about this one more time I’ll blow my f*cking brains out. Seriously. Derek. He does not like you. He will never like you. Should I do hypnotism on you to get it to work?”

Isaac laughs, and does spooky hands in Derek’s direction, chanting, “he will never like you, he will never like you, he will never like you –“

“I can’t help it,” he pushes Isaac’s hands down, and he shakes his head. “He’s so f*cking hot. Every time he treats me like I don’t exist it makes me want to f*ck him. It’s an illness.”

“It is,” Boyd agrees. “It’s sick. You could have anyone, and you’re still hung up on this kid from high school.”

“It would be romantic, if it weren’t just so damn sad,” Cora agrees, shuffling her cards over and over, over and over. “Your pride is in the gutter.”

“Well, it’s been there since sophom*ore year, where Stiles is concerned.”

“I don’t even think he’s that hot,” Cora insists.

“You’re not a good judge,” Derek barks at her.

“Well,” she scoffs, but can’t deny it. “At this point, I don’t even think you should be near him. He does something to your brain. I think we should get him expelled.”

“Oh, Stiles would never get himself expelled,” Derek waves this off immediately. “Nothing is more important to him than his scholastic success. If he got expelled, he’d kill himself.”

“Then stay away from him. Seriously. I can’t take another year of this sh*t,” Cora begins dealing the cards out, and Derek watches them all hit the table, sighing through his nose.

He knows they’re all right.

It’s gotten beyond pathetic.

It’s gotten just plain sad. It’s like Derek has a self-destructive streak, to want someone so badly, someone like Stiles, who’s all, like, emotionally damaged and f*cked up and sh*tty and is on a total mission to act like Derek isn’t even there. For whatever reason.

He should stay away. Far the f*ck away. Mind his own business. Hook up with other people. Get over it. Move right on. Maybe he is the best looking person on planet earth, but it’s moot, because Stiles is never going to want to sleep with him, let alone be with him, like that, like how Derek has always thought about. It’s sad as sh*t. Derek should drink himself to death, for real.

Instead, he resolves to be done. He packs it up neatly in his head and he allows himself one last blowj*b fantasy, before turning in and going to sleep.

A week later, Stiles is puking on his own skateboard outside Derek’s house.

Chapter 9: Honesty

Chapter Text

Derek, 3:45 PM : Hey. Where you been? I haven’t heard from you.
Me, 4:01 PM : I’m infirmed. Deathly ill. Not even kidding. I got the flu at the f*cking Modern Baseball show.
Derek, 4:05 PM : No sh*t?? You’re sick???
Me, 4:07 PM : Very. I’m noottt kidding I literally couldn’t even get out of bed yesterday.
Derek, 4:08 PM : Oh no. Jesus.
Derek, 4:09 PM : You want me to bring you soup?
Me, 4:11 PM : Thanks, but if you didn’t already get it, trust me, you want to stay away from me. It’s deadly. And Thanksgiving is coming up, I don’t wanna ruin your break.
Derek, 4:13 PM : Okay. Well, when can I see you again?
Me, 4:17 PM : Few days, maybe?? Well, that’s break.
Derek, 4:19 PM : We live in the same town, you know?
Me, 4:23 PM : I’ll text you when I’m feeling better, how’s that?
Derek, 4:25 PM : Okay. Feel better soon.

Stiles is, actually, and really, sick.

Like, very sick. It hit him the day after Stiles came home from Derek’s place, and it hit him very hard. One second he just felt a little tired and lightheaded, and the next, he was puking in the dorm bathrooms as some guy washed his hands and glared at him in the mirror, and running a fever, and physically incapable of getting up. Scott had to baby him, with gloves and a face mask on, heating him up Campbell’s soup and easy mac in their microwave and helping him collect his assignments from the classes he was missing. Miraculously, maybe because he’s a major germ freak and kept sanitizing his hands and every surface in their dorm room and slept at his new girlfriend’s place, Scott does not get sick.

But Stiles is down and out for like, four days.

So, yeah, he really is sick. And it is not just an excuse to not see Derek for a little while. But it really did come at the most perfect time, because Stiles is feeling very confused about the entire Derek situation. He needed a few days alone in his bed to come to terms with what exactly is going on between them, which is meaningless sex, and he accepts it. He also banishes any deep feeling that he may be feeling towards the guy, because while Stiles is sick, Derek is probably out there f*cking anyone and everyone.

Well. Derek really isn’t like that. But he could be, that’s the point. They are not together. They will never be together. It just is not in the cards.

He does all his schoolwork wrapped up in his blanket, sweating the fever out and guzzling Dayquil like his life depends on it. He eats his microwaved food sparingly and thanks Scott when he comes by with more medicine and ginger ale. And just to add insult to injury, Derek doesn’t even text him or call him or anything for two entire days.

Of course not. They’re not dating. Derek is not his boyfriend. f*cking wake up call. Reality check. It’s like Stiles sweats the fever out and sweats Derek out at the exact same time, getting himself over whatever mini episode he had the other night after the show.

He reasons, well, he loves that band. And he was feeling really euphoric. And the sex really was spectacular, call it what it is. But come on. It’s Derek f*cking Hale. He has more bongs and pipes than he even does his beloved old books.

By the time Stiles is feeling like a human being again, it’s time for him to leave the dorms and go home for Thanksgiving. He packs just a single bag of clothes and his laptop and his phone charger, leaving everything else behind, and he left his Jeep back at his dad’s place, so his dad has to come and pick him up for the weekend in a squad car, which is just as humiliating as it was when he was in high school, thanks.

He gets in and buckles up. “Thanks for picking me up.”

“Well, of course,” he pats Stiles on the shoulder. “I’m surprised you didn’t just want to skate home, like you normally do, even though it’s a ways away.”

“Well, I’ve been sick, so I’m kind of exhausted,” he puts his sunglasses on and stares out the window, frowning. Sometimes, conversations with his dad can be like pulling teeth. It’s always uncomfortable, and stilted, especially when they haven’t talked for a little while.

“You were sick?” He clarifies, eyebrows up, pulling out of the parking lot and onto the main road, away from campus. Stiles can honestly say he’s glad to be out of there for a long weekend. As much as he loves school, it has drained him. The sex, the emotional god damn rollercoaster, and the reading, too.

“I had the flu.”

“Oh,” he nods. His blinker clicks at the red light, and they sit in silence, until the radio starts buzzing all muffled with familiar voices. Stiles knows everybody on the squad, by first name at least, and many of them have known Stiles since before his mom died. Weird to think about. “You haven’t heard from that ex-boyfriend of yours, have you?”

Here. We. f*cking. Go. “No, dad,” which is a lie.

Theo texts. Stiles has blocked and unblocked his number about five times, always feeling guilty immediately after banishing him, because for the most part, he hasn’t really been all that inflammatory. When Stiles was sick, he actually called and talked to him for like, half an hour, just catching up, not being weird and manipulative like he is prone to do.

His dad does not need to know about that. He’d go nuts.

“Now that you’re in college, you really don’t need to be –“

“Yeah,” he cuts his dad off. “We broke up. You won.”

“It’s not about me winning,” he insists, tone low. “He was really bad news, Stiles. It looks like you’ve put on weight, at least.”

Well, isn’t that just a really f*cking awesome thing to be told? Stiles crosses his arms over his chest to hide himself and he feels oddly ashamed, staring out the window with his lips pressed down hard.

“I meant that as a good thing.”

Stiles doesn’t say a word. Sometimes he wishes his mom were alive so f*cking bad he could just scream out into the void, and that feeling is never worse than when he winds up alone with his father, trapped in a car, being lectured about one thing or another.

“Let’s just start over,” he waves his hand, shaking his head as he stares out the windshield, eyes on the road ahead of them. “I shouldn’t have even brought him up, I’m sorry. Let’s start over. Have you met anyone new at school?”

Stiles would not technically count this as strictly “starting over,” because it’s still snooping into Stiles’ personal life, but his dad is making an effort, so Stiles sits up and clears his throat, and does the same. “Not really. I’ve been busy with schoolwork. No time for dating.”

“Well, that’s good.”

Stiles taps his fingers on his knee. You know, before he had a horrible boyfriend who made Stiles cry all the time, he and his dad could actually hold a conversation. It’s like Theo seeped into every crevice of his sh*tty little life and made it worse, without even hardly trying at all, and Stiles thinks about blocking Theo’s number again, even though he’s been silent all day, just because. Sometimes Stiles gets mad at Theo for even existing.

He really should go to f*cking therapy, or something, he thinks bitterly, then smiles at his own thought.

They go home, and Stiles goes right up to his kid bedroom and turns on the light. Oh, yikes. It’s just as small and blue as he remembered it being, his bed, his empty dresser, his half empty closet. His book shelves only half full, most of his collection at school, because he can’t bear to even be half a town away from his most beloved books. He sets his bag down and sits on the edge of his bed. Then, he gets on his laptop and clicks around for a while.

This isn’t quite the vacation away from school he was thinking it would be. He mopes up there for a couple of hours, by himself, and then he figures it’s him who’s sucking the life out of this house, and out of his own break, so he goes down and suggests they go to the store together to get some stuff to make dinner together. His dad leaps at this, always desperate to have something to do with his son, something to talk to him about, on and on.

It makes Stiles feel bad. They’ve never had a shiny perfect father/son relationship. Lately it’s been particularly sh*tty. It may be more Stiles’ fault than his dad’s, at this point, so Stiles resolves to work harder at fixing it. Stiles picks through the fridge to see that as usual, his dad is eating like sh*t, and he frowns, but he makes no comment on it. He just goes through the cabinet and sees what’s available there, and starts making a list.

At the store, his dad pushes the cart and Stiles glares at his list, going down aisle after aisle picking things out. “I don’t think you should be the one in charge of picking things out,” his dad pipes up suddenly, watching Stiles pick the low fat sour cream instead of regular.

“If you had it your way, we’d eat pizza every single night of this break,” he raises his eyebrows, and his dad smiles, all his teeth.

“You could stand to eat a few pieces of pizza, Stiles.”

Would it absolutely f*cking kill him to not make comments about Stiles’ weight? Like, really. Would he drop f*cking dead? Sometimes Stiles thinks so. It’s been this way for years. Stiles does not know where it comes from, this fixation he has on what Stiles is or is not eating, but it drives him f*cking insane, and it makes everything worse.

“I’m the one cooking, I’ll pick the stuff,” is what he chooses to say, just to keep the peace. “We’re still eating tacos.”

“With carb friendly shells, yeah,” he mutters under his breath, and Stiles wants to blow his brains out. Instead, he keeps right on shopping, picking vegetables, shoving peppers into plastic bags and what have you.

When they turn down the boxed food aisle, he gets the jump scare of his f*cking life, because Derek Hale is there. And he is looking spectacularly bizarre in fluorescent lighting, surrounded by packaged food, and worst of all, he is there with his mother. Stiles actually backs up to escape the situation, right into his dad’s chest, but Derek has already seen him, and beyond that, Talia Hale has seen them, too. Derek might have read Stiles’ reluctance to be put in this situation, but Talia doesn’t, and even if she did, she doesn’t care.

Being the Sheriff’s son, and being there with the Sheriff himself, doomed Stiles from the start.

“John, hi, how are you?” Talia asks. She is pushing her cart right for them, faster than is entirely necessary, and Derek trails along beside her, a sardonic little smile on his face.

“Hi, Talia, good to see you,” he greets, and then they’re both right there, and all four of them are standing there, hovering, and Stiles feels so f*cking uncomfortable he wants to make an excuse to duck out, but he can’t come up with anything. There he stands. He looks in their cart because he’s being nosy, and he sees that Talia has a tiny chihuahua type of dog in a bag sitting in the spot where a baby would normally go, its head poking out and observing Stiles sort of critically. He blinks at it. Okay?

Stiles looks at Derek, next.

He is very visibly, very incredibly, stoned. Like. Beyond stoned. It’s a miracle he’s even got his eyes open.

“What are you two up to?” She asks, but before either of them can answer, she keeps talking. “Derek and I are doing the Thanksgiving shopping. We always do it together.”

“It’s sort of our thing,” Derek supplies, still smiling that dumb smile. Holy sh*t, is he high.

“Nobody else in the family got the cooking thing, just me and Derek. We have our own garden, and the other kids make fun, but it’s our little thing,” she laughs, and the dog is still staring at Stiles with its big bug eyes. This feels distinctly insane.

“Neither of us got the cooking thing,” his dad says, and Stiles looks away, pointedly, into Derek and Talia’s cart, and he sees they really are stocking up. It’s a lot of food. There’s probably a lot of people that sit at their Thanksgiving table, so this stands to reason. “We just sort of make do.”

“But you guys cook on Thanksgiving, don’t you?”

Stiles and his father share a look. “Uh, well –“ they both start talking at the same time, sort of hemming and hawing, as the Hales stand and watch them trip over themselves to come up with a good answer. In the end, Stiles finally manages to get out a solid sentence – “we don’t really do the Thanksgiving thing. Uh, I mean, sometimes we go to Melissa and Scott’s house, but they’re going to LA to his grandmother’s house, so it’s just us this year. We’ll probably just have a frozen pizza or something.”

From the way Talia reacts, you’d think Stiles just said they hunt and kill other human beings for Thanksgiving dinner. She gasps and moves forward, gripping Stiles’ arm, and she says, “you are not eating a frozen pizza on Thanksgiving day.”

“We’ve done it before,” he says, a frozen smile on his face, flicking his eyes over to Derek, who’s just there.

“Not. On. My. Watch. You’ll come to our house. Right, Derek?”

“Oh, no, we couldn’t possibly –“

“You’ll come to our house,” she pats him on the shoulder like it’s been decided. No more discussion to be had, that is simply what’s going to happen. “I insist. We have plenty. Two grown men can’t eat a frozen pizza on Thanksgiving. Derek makes the best turkey, really.”

Stiles looks at Derek. They meet eyes. “You make turkey,” he clarifies, and Derek shrugs, languid. He’s f*cking useless. It’s amazing to Stiles that he’s just standing there allowing this to transpire. He’s literally just f*cking there, watching, as his own mother invites his f*ck buddy and his f*ck buddy’s father – who is a police officer – to his home for Thanksgiving dinner. It’s blowing his mind.

“It sounds great. Thanks for inviting us, really, that’s so kind of you,” his dad is saying, and then they’re talking amongst themselves, about food, and what can they bring, this that and the other thing, leaving Stiles and Derek nearly alone for a second or two.

Derek rubs at his eyes. “Hi, Stiles.”

“Hi.”

“I guess you’re coming for Thanksgiving.”

“I guess so.”

He gives Stiles a weird look. It’s like he’s trying to read Stiles’ vibe, or mood, or just something, and cannot for the life of him figure out what’s going through Stiles’ head.

Whole situation feels bizarre. Stiles wants to disappear.

Eventually, Talia and his dad wrap up their endless conversation, and then she’s taking her son and turning around with some waving and see you soon’s and this that and the other thing. Derek looks over his shoulder at Stiles, one last time, before he’s being carted off by his mother, to keep right on shopping for Thanksgiving.

When they’re in the car, Stiles’ phone buzzes in his pocket, and he is surprised to see of all things on earth, a text from Derek Hale. And it’s an annoying one, to boot.

Derek, 5:45 PM : Thought you were going to text when you were feeling better?

Stiles palms his face. Holy sh*t. What is this?

Me, 5:48 PM : Well, I had to pack and sh*t to get ready to come home. And, it’s not my favorite thing in the world.
Derek, 5:50 PM : Coming home? To your dad’s house?
Me, 5:52 PM : Yes. Also, it’s clinically insane we’re going to your house on Thanksgiving.
Derek, 5:55 PM : What’s clinically insane is eating frozen pizza on Thanksgiving, really. What’s up with you? You annoyed at me? Wtf did I do?

The truth is, Derek has done precisely nothing. Literally. He hasn’t done a f*cking thing. They haven’t even seen or spoken to each other in over a week, now, and Stiles knows he’s being prickly, again, like Derek says he is.

Stiles doesn’t respond until he’s back at home and all the groceries are unpacked, and he goes up to his room and lies belly down on his bed, staring at the texts and chewing on his index finger to come up with a response.

Me, 6:34 PM : You didn’t do anything, I’m sorry if I’m kinda snapping at you. And I’m sorry I didn’t text when I said I would, trust me, I know how annoying that is.
Me, 6:35 PM : It really does suck to come home and hang out with my dad. Our relationship really took a f*cking nosedive after Theo. Sucks. Literally sucks. It makes me really irritable just being around him.
Derek, 6:40 PM : Oh, I’m sorry. I know it’s sort of weird my mom invited you guys. But it’s your fault for saying you’re going to eat a frozen pizza.
Me, 6:42 PM : I just can’t even imagine being there with your whole family. And like, at least a few of them know we’ve had sex.
Derek, 6:45 PM : Just Cora and Lydia. It won’t be weird.
Derek, 6:55 PM : I really want you to come. Not just my mom.

Stiles palms his face. Well, he has no f*cking choice, now.

Me, 7:01 PM : Okay. Ummm she carries a dog in a purse?
Derek, 7:05 PM : Disparaging comments about my mother will land you in such f*cking hot water. But, yeah. She carries a dog in her purse. Coconut. That’s the dog’s name.
Me, 7:07 PM : Not making fun. No disparaging comment. Just questioning. Interested.
Derek, 7:09 PM : She’s sort of crazy. You’ll see.

Stiles is sure he will f*cking see. People have always talked about how Talia Hale is a little odd, but seeing as how she’s rich and the family is a big deal, it’s mostly hush hush stuff said under people’s breath. And aside from that, odd she may be, she has never been anything but nice to Stiles, so he keeps his mouth shut.

Derek, 7:11 PM : We can hang out before Thanksgiving, too, if you want?
Me, 7:14 PM : Okay, maybe you can come over tomorrow. I’ll be alone in the house, my dad works a double.

He puts his phone down on his desk after that, turning over onto his back and staring up at his ceiling. Well. So much for avoiding Derek during break. He should’ve known better – the Hale house is only like, three streets down from Stiles’ house. Of course he’s f*cking everywhere, including the closest grocery store to their houses.

Stiles does not quite know what to do about this situation, yet. It all feels really messy at the moment. One second they’re all over each other, the next they can barely make conversation in the grocery store, then Stiles is having to apologize for not texting him.

It was the most vague thing Stiles could’ve possibly said. Sure, I’ll text you. He meant for it to be like a brush off. Derek took him at his word, instead. It makes Stiles feel badly, because Theo used to pull that sh*t on him all the time, and it would hurt Stiles’ feelings so bad – but the thing about that, is that Theo and Stiles were boyfriends.

Derek is some guy Stiles has sex with every now and again. So, what the hell?

As if summoned by Stiles’ thoughts alone, there’s tapping at Stiles’ bedroom window. There has only ever been one person alive who has ever come tapping on Stiles’ window, rather than using the front door, and for very good f*cking reason. The Sheriff would shoot him. Stiles hastily sits up straight, turning to see Theo crouched in front of his window, and he smirks, tapping rhythmically with the pads of his fingers when he meets Stiles’ eyes through the glass.

Stiles hesitates. He looks at his wide open bedroom door, and then charges across the hardwood floor to quickly shut it, locking it behind him, and then he goes to the window.

He throws it open and squats down. “What the f*ck are you doing here?”

“Coming to say hi. I knew you’d be coming home today,” he moves like he’s going to climb inside, but Stiles blocks his path. Theo raises his eyebrows. “What’s the matter? It’s just like old times.”

“My dad will f*cking kill you if he finds you up here.”

“Relax, I saw you lock the door,” he ignores Stiles’ concerns altogether, and when Stiles tries to block him again, he just comes in anyway, shoving Stiles out of the way.

He comes inside. He stands up straight, and he smiles, with all his teeth. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Stiles says back, folding his arms over his chest. “What do you want?”

“What do you mean what do I want?” He unzips his hoody, and reveals that he has a bottle of wine, grinning as he sets it down on Stiles’ desk. “I came to talk. I haven’t seen you in forever, I miss you.”

Stiles grits his teeth. He should’ve pushed Theo off the edge of the roof.

“How’s school going? I’m sure well, for you,” he looks around at Stiles’ barren bedroom and he makes a face. “Wow, it looks weird in here without all your books and sh*t. High school really is over, huh?”

“Beyond over.”

Theo ignores that little comment, and he unscrews the wine, taking a big sip of it, handing it to Stiles to do the same. Stiles looks at it hovering there in between them, looks at Theo, and sighs. He takes it, and sips.

“Ah, it really is just like old times,” he laughs, watching Stiles swallow. “What’s your dad doing? Drinking?”

“That’s really f*cking funny,” Stiles snaps at him.

“I’m kidding.”

“Look, is there a point to this?” Stiles gestures around the room, their situation, Theo even existing to begin with. “You want to talk to me about something? I can’t imagine you’d come here and risk life and limb just to stand here and drink cheap sh*tty wine with me.”

Theo takes another big sip. The wine sloshes around in the bottle. “I did not come here just to drink sh*tty wine with you, no.”

“Then, what?”

“It’s crazy now I need a reason to come see you,” he sits down on the edge of Stiles’ bed, shaking his head in disbelief. “You know, I used to just come over whenever.”

“Right, when we were dating.”

He shrugs. “Maybe we should get back together.”

Stiles puts both hands over his eyes. “Absolutely not. Theo, no. Get out. I’m not doing this with you again, this same f*cking bullsh*t –“

“What’s f*cking bullsh*t?” He demands, angry. “Our relationship? That was two years of my life, it wasn’t bullsh*t to me!”

“You’ve obviously been drinking more than just this,” he rips the wine out of Theo’s hand and takes his own massive sip, you know, just to f*cking tolerate this conversation, and then pointedly sets it down on his desk. “You cannot seriously think showing up here –“

Theo stands up, and he gets close, in Stiles’ personal space bubble, and Stiles tries to back up, but Theo grips him. Both hands on both of Stiles’ upper arms, and Stiles goes still. He frowns, and their faces are close. “You know I f*cking love you so bad,” he says this like it’s almost a threat, and Stiles looks away.

“I could tell how much you loved me when you broke up with me and then acted like I didn’t exist for six months.”

“Well, we were toxic back then, I just had to cut it off.”

Stiles rolls his eyes.

“Baby, come on, after all the time we spent together, you’re not just going to throw me out like that.”

“I don’t see why not,” he jerks his arms out to get Theo’s hands off of him, “you had no problem throwing me out of your f*cking life, none whatsoever! So sure! Get out!”

“What do you mean I had no problem throwing you out of my life?” He points at his chest, all angry with his brow furrowed. “That sh*t was hard. Okay? You were my entire world for two years.”

“Yeah, controlling me!”

“Why do you always say that?” He shakes his head, like it just makes no sense. “You always say I somehow, uh, controlled you,” air quotes and a scoff.

Stiles rubs his temples. Theo denies ever doing these things, that in hindsight Stiles will swear were true, but then Theo is always like, what? I never did that. Stiles, I love you baby, I never did that, what do you mean?

It f*cks. With Stiles’. f*cking. Head. And it works. Every. Single. Time.

“I’m not doing this,” he shouts, and he opens up the window again, and points outside. “Get the hell out. You’re doing that f*cking thing you do where you –“

“Because I’m always doing something so f*cking evil, aren’t I?” He rolls his eyes and refuses to budge, not moving an inch, not going for the window. “That’s what your friends tell you. Or, no, your friend. Singular. This is why you have no f*cking friends, because you’re so god damn difficult to deal with.”

Stiles blinks at him. He lowers his arm and his chin wobbles because that’s so f*cking mean of him to say, and just unnecessary, but he always does that. He just comes out swinging, when Stiles does not deserve it, or he swears he doesn’t deserve it – but the thing is, Stiles really does only technically have one friend. He’s always only technically had one friend.

He can be really difficult to deal with.

“You know I’m the only one who ever sticks around, but you’re always trying to push me away.”

Stiles folds his arms over his chest. He says nothing. He has nothing to say. There is something to that, after all. Theo really does always come back. And Stiles is always trying to get rid of him. It feels bizarrely ungrateful in this exact second, and it settles in his gut, like he’s the worst, he tells all these lies, and only one person has ever really loved him, and Stiles works his god damned hardest to be rid of him all the god damn time.

“Let’s just not even –“ Theo sighs, long and loud, shaking his head, “let’s just not even fight. Come on. Come here. You know you’re my f*cking everything, come on,” he takes Stiles by his hips and pulls him close. Stiles thinks about what his dad said earlier, about how he’s gained weight, and he hopes and prays that Theo does not notice it, feeling the extra skin there by his stomach.

Feels like he should be thinking about something else when someone who claims to love him touches him. When Derek touches him, he never thinks about his weight. Never.

Then it feels wrong to think about Derek when Theo has his hands on him. It all feels wrong. Stiles is confused.

“Have you slept with anyone else, since you and me?” Theo asks him, and his voice is low.

“What does it really matter?”

“What do you mean what does it matter? It matters, because,” he touches Stiles’ face, presses their foreheads together, “when you and I got together, no one had touched you like me. Like, you’re all mine, no one’s ever been inside of you like me.”

Stiles closes his eyes and he breathes in and out. “No, I –“ it’s on instinct that he lies. “…no. I haven’t slept with anybody else.” It’s the worst thing he’s ever done. To tell this lie. It feels horrible immediately like he wants to cry, is a massive lying lecherous snake, and he has to keep his eyes closed, because he can’t look Theo in the eyes and lie. He just cannot. It feels rotten enough as it is.

He feels rotten to his f*cking core, worse still, when he lets Theo kiss him.

Stiles pushes him away after a few seconds and he shakes his head and he says, “no, you have to go. No, I don’t want to do this again, I don’t want to –“

“What, what’s the matter?” Theo grips him, keeps their faces close, won’t be moved. “You don’t want me to touch you, what’s the matter?”

“I just –“ he chokes up and looks away.

“What’s wrong? It’s okay, come on, it’s okay.”

“I don’t want to,” he repeats, more forcefully. “You’re being – you’re just – you don’t know what I have to do, to get over you, every f*cking time, and it isn’t fair, you just –“

“What do you mean? It takes me forever to get over you, too, I never get over you, I love you, you know I love you.”

Stiles hates himself. Really, truly, deeply, f*cking hates himself, but he lets Theo kiss him some more, pull their bodies close, and he feels so gross doing it. He wants to take his entire body off like a skin he wears and just bundle it up and throw it into the corner of his room like a dirty shirt, something to just get off of him, be rid of, send through the wash. Theo feels him, and Stiles recoils, just knowing he’ll make a comment, just knowing he’ll feel Stiles is eating too much again.

“What’s the matter with you?” Theo demands, feeling Stiles pulling away.

“Just – I’ve gained weight, I don’t want you to touch me when I –“

“It’s just freshman weight, you can lose it.”

Stiles flinches. He hugs his arms around his body again. “Can we just not?”

“Come on,” he grabs the battle of wine and thrusts it at Stiles. “Drink more. You’re being f*cking tense again. I hate when you get like this.”

“You wanna get me drunk so I’ll sleep with you?” Stiles accuses, and Theo gives him a look.

“Don’t twist sh*t around the way you do. No, I’m not trying to f*cking rape you, Stiles, I’m trying to get you to calm the f*ck down. Why are you crying? You always do this like you’re the victim of something, it makes me f*cking –“

“I know, I’m sorry, I just –“ he wipes his tears away, mad at them, and shakes his head. “I wasn’t trying to say – just – I’m feeling confused, like, you break up with me, and then you want me back, over and over!”

“I know, I feel confused, too,” he unscrews the cap on the wine, again, and hands it to Stiles, and this time, Stiles takes it. He drinks. “When does your dad leave for work?”

This feels incredibly random of him to ask. Stiles answers him anyway, after swallowing. “Uh, he doesn’t until the morning.”

“Is he being sh*tty to you again?”

“Well,” he fiddles with the label on the wine, that’s coming unglued from the condensation, and he shrugs. “We just don’t have a lot to talk about anymore.”

“Well, he’s always ignored you,” Theo tells him, rubbing at Stiles’ arm as if to comfort him. “You know, I’m surprised you even came back here for the long weekend.”

“I was getting tired of being at school,” he murmurs. “It’s very exhausting. And, I was sick, remember?”

“Yeah,” he watches Stiles drink the wine, sort of intense, his eyes tracking Stiles’ every move. “I think about you every day, you know? Sometimes it feels like you’re just off at school doing your smart sh*t and not even thinking about me at all.”

Stiles is guilty. “That’s not true.”

There’s footsteps coming up the stairs, and maybe Theo does have some modicum of self-preservation, because he clears his throat, and he says, “well, maybe I’ll come by tomorrow when he’s not around. How’s that?”

“Uh, okay –“ he starts to say, but Theo is already going for the window, as the footsteps get closer, diving out and gently closing the window behind himself, leaving Stiles standing there blinking after him, wine still in hand, and then there are two knocks on his door. Stiles hastily caps it and hides it in his bag from school, going to his door and unlocking it, opening it up just a crack. “Yeah?”

“I think we should wait till tomorrow for dinner, it’s gotten late,” his dad says, with his hands on his hips. He peers around Stiles’ shoulder as if he’s looking for evidence of something, his brow furrowed. Stiles is irritated at the suggestion that he’d really be up to something, even though he sincerely was up to something, depending on how you look at it. “Nice to have you home.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. They blink at one another. “Well, goodnight.”

“Okay,” he says, and then he turns and goes, step by step down the hall.

Stiles shuts the door. He stands there. He looks at his empty bedroom. He can still feel Theo’s hands on his body. He goes to his bed and sits on the edge, hands in between his legs, frowning at the ground.

Abruptly, he’s bursting into tears. Big tears. Big hard sobs, lying down on his side and cradling his pillow, crying his f*cking eyes out, so miserable he can’t even believe someone can feel so sh*tty, but he does. He feels abysmal. He feels dirty. And he feels gross. And he hates himself. Just hates himself.

In the morning, he wakes up with crusty eyes, still in his clothes, because he had cried himself into exhaustion and fell asleep like that. His head hurts, and he’s unhappy, and he doesn’t even want to get out of bed. If he didn’t have to piss, he wouldn’t. He’d happily just lie there all day in the dark with the curtains drawn, hiding from everybody, Derek most specifically.

It feels insane that less than two weeks ago, he was with Derek having fun, and having the time of his life, at Modern Baseball, and they had sex and held hands and all that, and now Stiles is having the worst f*cking Thanksgiving break of his entire life. All because Theo felt like coming over to rattle Stiles’ f*cking cage a little bit.

And worst of all, he likely just wanted to sleep with Stiles. It wasn’t even about any of that sh*t that he said. He would’ve f*cked Stiles, too, if it weren’t for Stiles’ dad haunting the premises. He really would have. He would pumped Stiles full of wine and gotten him all emotionally vulnerable by preying on his insecurities, and he’d have had sex with him.

That makes Stiles feel worst of all. That he’s so easy to f*ck with. He has no spine.

He gets up and goes to the bathroom, and brushes his teeth, avoiding his own reflection in the mirror. He’s puffy eyed and fat and he just can’t even stand himself. He showers and tries to wash the f*cking stench of yesterday off, but he can’t, it follows him around, even in fresh clothes downstairs, finding his dad’s note on the kitchen counter.

Stiles, great to have you home. Miss you. Eat the burrito in the fridge.

Stiles will not eat the burrito in the fridge. He makes it seem like he did by throwing it out and then burying the evidence underneath a used coffee filter his dad forgot to take care of before leaving for the day. Stiles drinks what’s left of the coffee in the pot, and it’s bad and old and sort of cold, but he drinks it anyways, all of it, and then stands in the kitchen feeling utterly horrible. Just…he can’t repeat it enough. He just can’t. It sinks into him. In his pores.

He’s still hovering in the kitchen staring out the back window to the yard when his doorbell rings. He assumes, mail carrier, or a package for his dad, because when top secret police stuff shows up it always needs a signature. Maybe his dad just forgot to mention it, like he is prone to forget most everything, so he slumps his way to the door and opens it up without checking to see who it is first.

Is jump-scared for the second time in only two days by Derek Hale. “Hey,” he says, hands in his pockets. “You said I could come over. You just get up?”

Stiles is surprised. And also, in a very fragile mental and emotional state. The sheer sight of Derek standing there in his cozy looking green shirt and his sunglasses and his everything makes Stiles upset, all over again, like Derek will know, just from looking at him, what happened here last night, and he’ll know how terrible Stiles is and how he lies and schemes and all this sh*t, and instead of saying a single word, he goes for Derek’s middle, grabbing him with both arms and holding on for dear f*cking life, hiding his face, so Derek won’t see him.

“Whoa, Stiles, hey,” he says, when Stiles cries into his chest. “Hey, hey, whoa, what’s the matter? What’s the matter?”

“Can we leave?” Stiles asks him, in between frantic breaths. “Can we go, I just have to get out of this house –“

“Okay, yeah, let’s go, get your stuff –“

Stiles already has his phone and keys, doesn’t need his wallet, just wants to f*cking leave, like, twenty minutes ago, because he has it on very good authority that Theo will be materializing at any moment to come back and finish what he started, and Stiles is afraid of himself, and his stupid f*cking feeble head, and how easy it is for Theo to climb back inside of it and take up space. And control Stiles’ every f*cking move. And then claim he doesn’t control Stiles, not at all.

He pushes Derek all the way onto the porch and closes the front door behind himself, hastily locking it with shaking hands, and takes Derek by the hand to guide him to where Derek’s truck is parked out front. Derek just follows his lead, quiet, maybe waiting for Stiles to explain this. Stiles doesn’t say a word. He gets into Derek’s passenger seat, and he rubs at his eyes to try and stop crying, but he can’t, and then Derek is in the car with him. “What’s the matter?” He asks again, tone soft, gently rubbing at the back of Stiles’ arm with his fingers. “I’ve never seen you so f*cking upset, what’s wrong?”

“Just –“

“Did you and your dad fight?”

“No, no, just – can we go?”

“Okay,” he agrees, starting his engine with a roar, peeling out of the driveway and onto Stiles’ street. The houses go by and Stiles sniffles and he shakes his head at himself. He knows Theo will come and knock on the door and try to get inside, but no one will be home. He feels bad just like, hiding from him like this, but he has no other choice.

Communication with him is dangerous. Theo will wheedle his way in.

It’s quiet. Derek drives with no particular destination in mind, eyeballing Stiles every now and again, waiting. Stiles is silent. He looks out the window.

“I’ve never seen you like this,” Derek repeats this same sentiment from before, his voice quiet, like he’s talking to a spooked animal. “Did something happen? Huh?”

“Yeah,” he agrees, dismal. “Something happened last night.”

“…okay,” he starts. God only knows what’s going through his mind. That’s a very ominous statement to make, and Stiles knows he can’t just let it hang there, because Derek could likely come up with all kinds of scenarios, all kinds of events, horrible events, that might have taken place last night, and Stiles has to explain himself. He just has to.

Words come slowly. He’s humiliated by this. But Derek is so honest. He says the truth, and Stiles should do him the f*cking courtesy of offering the truth back. “Um, it’s just that, last night, Theo like, showed up?”

“Oho,” he does a quiet little unfunny laugh, turning his blinker on and frowning. “Theo made you this upset?”

“Yeah,” he nods. “He can be so – you don’t even know. You have no idea. I’m – I’m not the kind of person who like kisses two people at the same f*cking time, or, is actively kissing two different people at the same time, or any of that. Okay? He just gets inside of my f*cking brain and he says terrible things, like, how I victimize myself, and he had wine, and he tried to get me to drink it all –“

Derek’s eyes are big. He listens. He says nothing, driving along with his lips parted like he almost can’t believe what he’s hearing. He does not get angry. He just drives, hands on the wheel. Eyes dead ahead.

“…because he said I was being tense, or, like, because I didn’t just immediately get undressed and f*ck him I’m nuts, you know what I mean? And he did his usual bullsh*t. Then I said it was his usual bullsh*t and he did that f*cked up thing! Where he’s like, huh? Stiles, you think I control you? You think I manipulate you? How could you say that? Like, in the midst of f*cking with my very brain cells, he says, how could you think that? Evil f*cking rat!”

Derek, inappropriately, snorts. “Evil f*cking rat,” he repeats, syllable by syllable.

“It isn’t funny, Derek,” he moans, though a smile cracks his face anyway, and he hides it behind his hand. “Stop. It’s not funny, I’m really upset!”

“You’re right, no, go on. Tell me more about the evil f*cking rat.”

“Stop,” he laughs, in spite of himself, and he feels so insane, crying his eyes out, and then laughing. “Just…he can be so horrible to me. He said I have no friends because I’m difficult. He told me I’m fat. I don’t know.”

“He said –“

“Not in those exact words, or really at all, but you don’t get the way he is,” he shakes his head, looking out the window. “…it’s how he makes me f*cking feel.”

Derek works his jaw. He is clearly trying to come up with the right thing to say, and failing to put the sentence together in his head, but it’s okay. It’s really okay. He doesn’t have to say anything. Just having someone to talk to about it makes it so much f*cking better already.

“And he told me he was going to come back over today because my dad wouldn’t be home, so I just had to go. It’s so pathetic. I’m literally running and hiding from him because once he gets me alone I get scared he’ll be able to…”

“…he tried to get you to drink all the wine?” Derek has cherrypicked this detail out of Stiles’ entire rant, maybe because it’s the most incriminating thing that Stiles has said.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. Shame bubbles up inside of him. “…yeah. He does that. Then, when I call him out on it, I’m paranoid. Tch.”

Derek is stone-still in the driver’s seat. He puts his sunglasses back on so that Stiles can’t see his eyes, and his jaw is firm and hard. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, and Stiles wonders what he’s thinking. True to form, Derek tells Stiles precisely what he’s f*cking thinking. “I think you should come over to my house and not go back there today until your dad is home.”

“Nothing would really happen –“

“Maybe not,” he agrees, though there’s disbelief in his tone. “I think you should come to my house, Stiles. If you’re worried about everyone knowing we’re f*cking, I’ll sneak you in. Seriously. I’m not taking you back home until your dad is there.”

Stiles stares at his legs, and his ripped up old jeans, and he doesn’t look at Derek when he says, “…aren’t you mad?”

“Aren’t I mad?” He repeats, eyebrows up, like this is an insane thing Stiles has said.

“Because we kissed.”

“I am not mad at you,” Derek says this firm and succinct, and he does not lie – but he is working his way around the truth.

He said he’s not mad at Stiles.

Not that he isn’t mad at all.

“I just felt so f*cking gross after, like, I don’t do sh*t like that,” he starts crying again, big fat tears, and he hides his face by looking out the window on his side. “I know we’re not like boyfriends, but I don’t f*ck two people at once. He wanted me to – I might have done it. I don’t know.”

“It really does not matter, Stiles,” he is making his way back toward the neighborhoods, toward his own street, and Stiles clams up. “I’m not mad at you. I know you don’t have random sex all the time. Okay? I don’t think you’re gross. I don’t even get the thought process.”

Stiles draws his knees up to his chest in the passenger seat.

“I’ll sneak you in. It’ll be fine.”

Derek lives in a nicer neighborhood than Stiles. The houses start to get bigger and farther apart and Stiles knows they’re close and he feels nervous, because he has no f*cking concept of how Derek intends to get him into the house without being detected by one of his half dozen siblings, or his mother, or whoever the hell else might be lurking around the property today. They go up a long driveway, and Derek’s house is big and green. It has a yellow front door and a huge porch and there really is a garden, Stiles can see the little picket fence guarding it off from deer and raccoons and anyone else who might try to sneak in and steal carrots or whatever, but Derek goes into the four car garage. Not every slot is full, so not everyone is home.

He closes the garage with a button above their heads. Then Stiles is here with him, in the garage. There are bikes and gardening tools and a hose, all that stuff, and Stiles takes it all in.

“Come on,” he unbuckles and gets out, and Stiles follows suit.

When they’re out together, Stiles presses against his back like he’s hiding. Derek laughs. “I promise you, it’s not that serious.”

“I really don’t want to have to explain this to anyone else.”

“Fair enough,” he opens up the garage door into the house, and in they go. There’s jingling approaching them, multiple sets of jingling and skittering paws on kitchen tiles, and before Stiles knows it, there are three entire dogs there, wagging and sniffing, and he’s overwhelmed. “Shhh,” Derek says to the dogs, who blink at him, and continue wagging and sniffing like mad.

It’s pretty silly, actually – they have three labs. One yellow, one black, one chocolate. They all have on a different collared bandana, a corresponding collar with tags on, the jingling in question, and they keep quiet, other than sniffing at Stiles’ legs.

“You have lots of dogs. I don’t think I ever knew that about you.”

“Oh, yeah, we’re a dog family. Come on,” he takes Stiles by the hand and goes away from the kitchen, down a dark hallway the opposite direction.

Derek’s house is very nice. The carpets are pristine, even though they have dogs and all, and it’s big. Stiles can tell it’s even bigger than it had looked on the outside. The dogs are following, jingle jingle jingle, and Stiles looks over his shoulder to see them all lined up, coming after them.

They come to a set of stairs that Stiles thinks isn’t the main stairs, more like a back set, which blows Stiles’ mind – who has more than one set of stairs in their house? – and up they go. There are pictures on the wall, the Hale kids, what looks like a dog birthday party that Stiles is dying to get a closer look at, on another day, and the dogs are still behind them.

“Sorry, they get obsessed when someone new comes over.”

They come to the second floor, and it’s big. Stiles can just make out the other stairs at the other end of the hall, where the front windows all are, and it’s brighter, but Derek takes him down the opposite way. There are lots of doors, some opened, some closed – one of the open doors is just cracked, and Stiles can hear Cora Hale’s distinctive voice, but they go past fast.

“What are the god damn dogs doing?” Cora snaps, and Derek stifles a laugh, but says not a word. Stiles is mute, too. “Derek? Who’s with you?”

“Uh, no one.”

“No one, right,” she mutters, sounding irritated.

Well. At least it’s just Cora.

Finally, they get to the end of the hall, and a wide window overlooking the garden from before, and a door on the left. Derek opens it, beckons Stiles inside, and then he hastily closes the door behind them before the dogs manage to come along inside with them.

“See? I told you I could get you in here without being seen.”

Stiles nods his head, and he’s quiet. He looks around, and he realizes that he’s in Derek Hale’s kid bedroom, can just tell by the state of the walls and the things left behind on his desk and his shelves and inside of his open closet. It’s big, way bigger than his room back on campus at the frat, maybe by double, and there’s a lot more sh*t in it. He has a massive television with consoles hooked up to it, controllers all over the place, games stacked up, and a couch, with blankets a pillows all over it, and also, an honest to god display case where he has dozens, if not more, pieces of glass. Bongs. Pipes. A hookah, too.

And he has crate after crate after crate of records. Stiles observes them all sitting on the floor by the window that has blackout curtains over it, and he wishes he felt up to going over and looking through them. At the moment, he really doesn’t. He goes over to the couch and he sits down on top of it, winding up leaning back up against a tie dye pillow, folding his arms, sitting criss cross. Derek comes and sits next to him. He puts his hands together in between his knees and he looks serious, which is odd for his face, so Stiles looks away.

“What are you thinking?” Derek asks him, and Stiles shrugs one shoulder up.

He’s not entirely sure what he’s thinking. Lots of things, all at once, and very loudly.

“My dad isn’t going to be home until, like, way later, so I could be here all day,” he says, “so I don’t really think I need to say until he –“

“You do,” Derek insists. He sounds very no-nonsense. This is, again, odd for his personality, so Stiles blinks at him. “You told me he tried to get you drunk so he could have sex with you.”

“Sometimes I think I read too much into sh*t,” he waves this off, rubbing at his puffy eyes. “I don’t think he – well.”

“What were you going to do if I hadn’t come over?”

“I hadn’t thought about it. I don’t know,” Stiles scratches at an imaginary itch on his arm just for something to do with his hands. “Sometimes when it comes to him, I just sort of go numb. It’s hard to explain.”

Derek heaves out a great big sigh, and he pinches the bridge of his nose. “You should probably smoke a little weed.”

“Right, that’ll cure me,” Stiles snorts.

“It won’t, but it’ll make you feel better,” Derek is already leaning forward, picking up the pipe he has on his coffee table, surrounded by evidence of many other bowls smoked before it, lighters and old rolling papers that got torn and discarded before they could be used, a grinder. He flicks his lighter and takes a big old hit, handing it off to Stiles quickly, gesturing with his hand as he holds the smoke in.

Stiles takes it. Thinks getting high is perhaps the only thing he could possibly do at this given time, so he hits it, too, and coughs hard afterwards.

There’s some scratching and whining at Derek’s door. Derek swears under his breath and gives Stiles an apologetic look, “they will not go away until I let them in.”

“They can come in,” Stiles says.

“I’ve never been able to tell if you’re a dog person or not.”

“I like dogs,” he insists with a shrug, watching Derek stand up and go over to his door, cracking it open enough that the dogs can file in one by one, panting in glee as they all trot right over to where Stiles is sitting. With his hands buried in the black one’s fur, he asks, “what’s their names?”

“The yellow one is Bailey, the brown one is Sasha, and the black one is Ghost. They’re so f*cking annoying sometimes, because they travel in a pack everywhere they go.”

“I think that’s pretty cute,” he argues, as Sasha licks at his fingers.

“Because you don’t have to live with it. You’ll see what I mean on Thanksgiving when everyone is here on top of the dogs and they keep getting underfoot.”

“I like Ghost best,” he decides out loud, patting the dog on the head a few times.

Derek sits down beside him again. He watches Stiles petting all the dogs, one at a time, and he smiles.

“I’m sorry that I like, I don’t know,” Stiles keeps his eyes on Ghost as he scratches under his chin. “…you came over probably to hook up and instead I was a total f*cking psycho basketcase. Sorry.”

“Who says I came over to hook up?” He repeats the phrase like it’s dirty somehow, furrowing his brow. “I just came to see you, because you seemed really weird last night, and we hadn’t spoken since the show. I thought maybe you were pissed.”

“Pissed about what?”

“I don’t know,” he laughs and ruffles his own dark hair, “that’s why I came over. You acted strange towards me. Uh, you and your dad don’t get along?”

“It’s not even that, we just – I just think, things got all f*cked up over time. And he’s such a man of his, like, generation and his profession. He can be really hard to talk to. It’s not like he doesn’t try, but I don’t know. I get really tense when I’m around him because he just always seems to say the wrong f*cking thing. Plus, you can’t tell him a god damn thing. He asks me if I’ve spoken to Theo and I have to lie, because if he hears that I have, he’ll go f*cking nuts.”

“Can’t really blame him for that,” Derek says this more to himself than anything else, but Stiles hears it all the same. “Why have you even been talking to him in the first place?”

“He’s – it’s not like he’s just some f*cking guy,” Stiles defends, a bit hotly. “We were together for two years. I can’t just never speak to him again.”

“I would never tell you what to do,” he begins, and his tone is cautious, like he suspects what he’s about to say is going to piss Stiles off really badly, “but it seems like every time you do talk to him, it makes you f*cking miserable. Like, I get the desire to keep him around, because he’s familiar, but, seriously. He is f*cking sh*t. And it doesn’t seem like he really cares all that much about the consequences of messing with your head.”

Stiles knows that he’s right. And he knows that if he had stuck around at his house, Theo would’ve come over and f*cked Stiles and that was all he really wanted. He would’ve disappeared again after making all sorts of bullsh*t promises. It’s his move, the only play in the book, but Stiles never learns.

“My self-esteem is in the f*cking sewers,” he puts his arm up, leaning his chin in his palm, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. “He makes me feel like I’m the ugliest person on planet earth. How’s that? Sometimes I feel like…I don’t know. He’s the only person who’s ever cared about me, but then he doesn’t, and that realization always comes like the curtain coming down. And it feels so f*cking bad. It feels like no one loves me. It’s so f*cked, sorry - I’m just –“ he puts both his hands over his face and wipes his tears, humiliated by them. “We’ve been close, so I’m just…it’s nice to talk about it.”

Derek is smoking. He’s taking a massive hit off his pipe and breathing out, rubbing at his eyes with one hand when he finishes. “Stiles, he is not the only person who’s ever cared about you.”

“I think I should go to therapy. Honestly. I mean, you’re cool to talk to, but seriously. I need a detox.”

“Dog therapy,” he gestures to them all sitting at Stiles’ feet, and Bailey has her head in Stiles’ lap, her big brown eyes looking up at him, because dogs can always tell when humans are sad and need attention. It makes Stiles laugh. “Can I tell you something?”

“Sure, why not?” He gently pushes Bailey away, patting her head. “I’ve just told you my deepest demons, you can tell me yours, now.”

Derek blinks at him, his lips pursed. “My deepest secret ever?”

“Yeah,” Stiles shrugs. “That would make me feel better.”

Derek frowns, and he looks away. He looks serious again. It’s funny to see him with that face on so Stiles smiles.

They’re interrupted by the door opening without warning, and Talia Hale sweeping right inside and calling out “knock knock,” instead of actually knocking. She has a tray in her hands, with food and glasses of what looks like chocolate milk, and she smiles with all her teeth.

“Mom, Jesus Christ,” Derek says to her, though it lacks any real venom.

“I saw you sneaking him in on the cameras,” she says by way of explanation, moving in on them. Stiles is embarrassed, turning to look at Derek with mutiny in his eyes, but Derek just smiles sheepishly.

“What’s the big secret?”

“No big secret, Stiles is just having a bad day and didn’t want to be bombarded by my overbearing mother,” this is said pointedly, but Talia does not read social cues, or chooses not to.

She sets the tray down on the coffee table, seeming to not care at all that Stiles and Derek are in here getting high, the evidence all over that table. Stiles looks at it. It is chocolate milk, after all, in glasses with happy cartoon dogs all over them, matching little plates holding croissants.

The dogs eyeball the living hell out of the food on the plate, and Bailey actually makes a move like she’s going to shark one of those croissants right off the tray, but then Talia is shooing at them with her arms waving. “Away, away, go on!”

The dogs go with their tails between their legs, off toward the door, hovering in the hallway with their big eyes peering in at the food some more.

“Well,” she puts her hands on her hips and observes the boys sort of critically, like she’s trying to do a math problem in her head. She looks at Derek. “Just don’t sneak boys in the house anymore.”

“It wasn’t like that,” he says this with every syllable very firm, like he’s trying to drill the point home to her. Stiles sinks deep into the couch like he could disappear.

“I don’t get what the big secret is,” she repeats this same thing from earlier, and Derek rubs his face, up and down, exasperated.

“There isn’t one.”

“Stiles, you’re looking so thin,” Talia sets her eyes on him, now, leaning down to pat him on the knee. “They don’t feed you at college?”

“Okay,” Derek stands up, and begins herding his mother like a sheep, out of the room, using his broader shoulders and taller body to shepherd her toward the door. “Thanks, mom.” He closes the door behind her once she’s in the hallway, over the sound of her protests and an aborted wave goodbye to Stiles, who just sits on the couch and blinks owlishly at the display.

When Derek comes back and sits down, Stiles glares at him. “You didn’t mention cameras.”

“She doesn’t normally watch them like a hawk,” he argues in his own defense, shrugging apologetically.

“That was humiliating.”

“Was it?” He questions, leaning down and picking up his croissant, immediately taking a gigantic bite and chewing it, crumbs falling down the front of his shirt. “She just gets so bored sometimes, I think she treats our lives like television shows to watch for entertainment.”

Stiles stays leaned back in the couch, watching Derek eat, bite after bite.

“Eat yours,” he commands around a mouthful, reaching out to pull the plate closer to where Stiles is sitting.

Stiles shakes his head. “I don’t really –“

“Hey, don’t insult my mother,” his tone is very serious, so Stiles sits up. “Just eat it. If the tray comes back and it’s untouched, she’ll be upset.”

Well, f*ck it. Stiles rips a piece off and dutifully puts it into his mouth, chewing it, and then raising his eyebrows. “Oh, my god,” he says, giving Derek a look. “This is really good.”

“She’s a really good cook.”

“Yeah, I’ll say,” he eats another piece and has a big sip of the chocolate milk, though he sort of feels like a little kid being fed an after-school meal or something. In the silence, just the two of them chewing, he keeps catching Derek looking at him, but neither of them say anything, not for a full two minutes. Derek finishes his croissant and his milk quickly, but Stiles is barely a third of the way through his own, ripping it apart with his fingers more than anything else.

“Hey, uh, what were you going to tell me earlier?”

Derek wipes his hands off on his jeans. “What?”

“Before your mom came in, you were going to say something? Remember? Since I like trauma dumped on you, you were going to tell me your big dark secret? I’m curious.”

There’s a beat. Derek licking his lips. Looking at the coffee table, and then reaching for his pipe again, taking in a gigantic f*cking hit. Truly, the longest pull Stiles has ever seen anyone take, and when he blows it out, it covers the room in a foggy haze. “Sorry,” he says, and his voice is a little strained, “I just have to be high as hell to tell you this.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, amused.

He takes another hit. Then, another, all while Stiles sits there and watches, sipping at his milk with his head co*cked to the side. Derek kills the bowl and reduces it to burnt up ash, setting the pipe down on the table and drawing in a deep breath.

When he looks Stiles in the eye, he’s immediately stoned, very much so, and his eyes are red. “We’ve known each other for almost our entire lives.”

“Yeah,” he agrees.

“But you know, sometimes I think, like, you didn’t even know I existed in school.”

“I did know you existed.”

“You probably don’t remember any of the times that you and I interacted,” he shakes his head, sure of himself. “Not that way that I do.”

Stiles furrows his brow. “I remember some of them. I remember when you tried to get me to smoke with you and Scott behind the f*cking dumpsters.”

“Right,” Derek laughs, putting one hand on his face as though in disbelief. “But you don’t remember it like I do. I waited for you to come outside.”

“Well, I wasn’t really interested in smoking weed next to a dumpster,” he says this all deadpan, because, um, duh.

“But it wasn’t about actually smoking weed, and it wasn’t about the dumpster, or any of it. It was about –“ he cuts off, and looks at his hands, and his ears are pink. Stiles thinks, what the hell? “…I wanted you to come out and talk to me, just five minutes out of your life. And you wouldn’t do it. Because you hated me so bad for, like, no reason. You’d never talk to me.”

“I thought we already went over all this sh*t,” Stiles says slowly, confusion all over his tone and his face and his body language. “No, you weren’t my favorite person in school, but that was mostly just me being a jackass. I was really unhappy with myself, so.”

“Stiles,” he says Stiles’ name, differently than anyone else has ever said it. It’s this sort of exasperated, low, helpless tone, like he knows what he’s about to say is going to change everything, and he’s afraid to say it, has maybe been afraid to say it for a very long time. “I have been f*cking in love with you since we were sixteen years old, and you’ve never bothered to notice that.”

Stiles frowns and pulls his neck back, surprised.

“I’ve been in love with you the whole god damn time. It pisses me off to hear you say sh*t like, Theo was the only one who ever paid attention to you, because I did, I paid a lot of f*cking attention. It was you who didn’t pay any attention. I would’ve licked the floor you walked on in high school, and you treated me like an asshole for it.”

“Hold on,” Stiles waves his hands, “what are you talking about? What sort of weird mindgame sh*t is –“

“It isn’t mind game sh*t,” he shakes his head all resolute. “Don’t you remember any of it?”

“I think it’s really sh*tty to pull something like this on me when you know how f*cked up in the head I am,” he snaps, moving to stand up, and be rid of this entire situation and conversation, wishing he had brought his board along with him so he could skate back home and lock the doors and windows and hide in his bedroom. Away from Derek and Theo and everybody.

Derek grabs his arm to stop him. “I’m not pulling anything on you. I want to be with you. I like you. Okay?”

“Right, you like me so much,” sarcasm is dripping from every single word, caustic and harsh, but Derek doesn’t even flinch. “That’s why all you f*cking care about is f*cking me, because you like me so much!”

“I do like f*cking you, but that’s not all!”

“You’re full of sh*t. You don’t have to lie to me to get me to sleep with you, Derek, I f*cking hate myself, it’s not that hard to manipulate me into sleeping with you!”

“What?” Derek is mad at this accusation, but he’s too stoned to really go as nuts as he perhaps wants to, just sitting there with his mouth opening and closing like he can’t believe what Stiles just said. “Is that what you think? That I just came in after you broke up with Theo and used your emotional turmoil to my advantage so I could get you in bed?”

That’s how Stiles has always been treated. It’s his automatic assumption, always has been, that Derek just saw some easy lay and took the opportunity and kept taking the opportunity because he could always get what he wanted out of Stiles.

He crosses his arms over his chest and looks pointedly away, at the floor, Derek’s clothes strewn around, a few books lying about, but he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to say anything. Derek has summed it up pretty well, himself.

“That is such a load of bullsh*t,” Derek snaps at him, more harsh than he usually is with Stiles.

“Is it?” Stiles wipes a traitor tear off of his face and keeps his eyes down. “You made it crystal clear to me when we first started talking that you just wanted to have sex with me.”

“Uh, no,” Derek snorts. “You made that crystal clear. Sorry if I leapt at the chance, I figured it would be the only opportunity I’d ever get to be with you in any way shape or form. Why is it so hard for you to believe that I’ve always liked you?”

“Because it’s idiotic, that’s why.”

“It really is,” Derek laughs all humorless and shakes his head, hands over his face. “No, it truly f*cking is. I’ve been following you around for years like I’m your god damn dog, and sometimes, you’d kick me like one, too. And fine, you felt some kind of way about me, but it wasn’t – you don’t know what it was like. To have to watch you with him, and watch you, f*cking, be miserable all the time! When it should’ve been me!”

Stiles looks at him, first time in minutes, and both of them are quiet. Breathing.

“…it should’ve been me,” he repeats this more forcefully, pointing to his chest, “and I never would’ve treated you that way, or belittled you, or anything he did to you. But you just wouldn’t even look at me. I know everything about you, I know your favorite books, and I know your favorite bands, and how much you hate thunderstorms, and that you’re afraid of the ocean, and everything! Whole time, you just walked right f*cking by me. So, no, you’re right, it’s idiotic, and it’s really pathetic, because clearly, you don’t feel the same way about me, no matter what I do.”

Stiles looks at Derek’s face, his intense eyes, his firm cheekbones, and the serious set to his brow. His breathing, up and down, his chest moving, and he can’t think of anything to say. It feels horrible, he knows that much, and it’s just one more horrible feeling to pile on to all the other horrible feelings, but it settles in him differently.

He goes back in his mind and he tries to remember, more of Derek in high school, more of their interactions, but he comes up almost entirely blank for his efforts. He was so lost in Theo for the last two years, and so lost in hating himself and trying to be perfect, he really did, never, not once, notice Derek. He remembers seeing him in halls and looking away. He remembers books and Derek looking at him once or twice, and Stiles practically baring his teeth at him. He remembers the lunchroom. He remembers standing on the sidelines at lacrosse practice and Derek walking by him, and Stiles just blinking at him, and thinking nothing. Nothing.

That’s what Stiles thought about Derek in school. Nothing. In his defense, for much of it, Theo literally wouldn’t let Stiles think anything about Derek other than what Theo wanted him to, but also, Stiles was just…up his own ass. He felt outcast, and he couldn’t let go of it, so he held on, even when people tried to be nice to him.

“Come on, I’ll take you to the station or something to hang out with your dad,” Derek says, tone low, and a little ashamed, because he just showed his entire hand to Stiles and Stiles as good as stomped all over it. “You don’t have to stay here with me.” He stands up, and Stiles shakily follows suit.

They move toward the door, to be out of this situation. Stiles is looking at Derek’s back, his tense shoulders, his tan neck, the black hair, and he could just walk out of here and be done. He could just go. And if he does, he and Derek probably won’t talk anymore, and they won’t see each other anymore, because Derek will finally be done with him, over him, moving on to someone who won’t treat him like he doesn’t exist, won’t push him away, won’t act as though he is an annoyance to them.

If Stiles walks out of here right now without saying anything, it really will be over. All at once, Stiles knows he does not want that to happen. He may not know why, and he may not understand his own feelings because they’re jumbled up like Christmas lights in the attic, but he stops dead in his tracks and he sucks in a deep breath, and closes his eyes.

He tries that being honest thing on, again. The outfit feels more awkward now than it ever has, like he’s playing dress-up, pretending to be better than he really is. “It’s not –“ he says, and Derek stops, turning around to look at him with his eyebrows up. Stiles clears his throat. His palms are sweating. “…it’s not true. That I don’t feel the same way. It’s not true.”

Derek says nothing.

Stiles’ fists clench and unclench. The ticking of an imaginary clock.

“I like you a lot,” Stiles admits this like it’s shameful. “You make me feel good about myself. And you don’t make me feel gross. And I don’t feel like throwing up after we hang out, or like you take things away from me, and I didn’t know what to do about that, because I’m not used to it. I don’t know how to not feel sh*tty. When I do feel good, I feel guilty,” his voice quivers, but he keeps speaking, and Derek keeps listening. “It felt really safe for a second to go right back to Theo, because it’s familiar, and being with you is different, but - I just don’t want to anymore. I spend every waking second of my time with you comparing you to him and I don’t want to anymore. I just thought you didn’t like me, I thought you just – just wanted to sleep with me, I don’t know, I thought…when, last time, after we were done, you just started talking about your sex toys and sh*t, I just…”

Derek furrows his brow.

Then, he does that thing he’s miraculously good at, breaking the ice, shooting the tension in the face, being funny, even when the last thing Stiles wants to do is laugh. He says, “…so, wanting to put a vibrating dild* up your ass makes me the bad guy?”

Stiles’ laugh is abrupt and fast. He covers his mouth to stifle it. “No, just. I was feeling like I was falling in love with you, and you were like, anyway, my sex toys.”

“What’s that?” Derek smiles, and he moves closer, bridging the gap between them, cupping his hand around his ear as though he needs it repeated. “You said what? Falling in love? With me?”

Stiles purses his lips.

“Stiles, I’ve wanted you for so long,” he takes Stiles by his upperarms, and it’s just like Theo had done the night before, but Stiles does not pull away, and he doesn’t feel scared, or unsure, or nervous, or like Derek could lash out any second.

Derek doesn’t do that. He doesn’t.

“The very god damn least you could do is repeat that, just for me,” he puts his hand on Stiles’ chin to tilt it up, so they meet eyes. “I’ve earned it. Can’t you be nice for ten seconds?”

They are so close. Stiles dares himself to say it again like jumping off the high rocks at the lake, going down deep, to the bottom, where everything goes dark.

“I like you so much,” Stiles murmurs. “I’ve secretly wanted you to want to be my boyfriend and hold my hand this whole time, I was just too embarrassed to say it.”

Derek smiles with all of his teeth, his big sh*t-eating grin that makes Stiles’ heart go f*cking ballistic, and he says, “you have nothing to be embarrassed about. I liked you even when you would curb-stomp me every chance you got. I’m the one who should be ashamed.”

Stiles leans forward to hide his face in Derek’s chest, clinging to his shirt, and closing his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says, quiet, unsure. “…I didn’t mean to be so f*cking mean. I was just really unhappy.”

“Truthfully, you being so mean made my dick all the more hard. I should really talk to a therapist or something about that. I liked you so much, Stiles. I’d have done anything to spend time with you,” he nudges Stiles a little, to get Stiles out from hiding, and they meet eyes again. “I hated to see you with him. I hated it. I just wanted to f*cking grab you and shake you and tell you to not lose your virginity to him because I’d have been more careful with you.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees, holding onto him.

Stiles wishes. He wishes so much. There’s nothing to do about it, now, and wishing things had gone differently is useless, but he does. He imagines that if he hadn’t gotten trapped in Theo’s spiderweb, then maybe he could’ve looked up one day and seen Derek, really seen him, and they could’ve been together this whole time.

It’s all spilled milk. Stiles just wants to hug Derek into oblivion like a big comfort object, so he does, clinging for dear life. Derek laughs and Stiles feels it more than hears it, his ear pressed against his chest like this.

“What now?” Stiles asks him, and Derek has his arms wrapped around Stiles tight.

“What do you mean, what now?” He says this like the question is ridiculous. “Now we can finally stop playing this stupid f*cking game we’ve been playing for months and just do what we both want to do but have been too puss* to admit that we wanted.”

“…you want to be my boyfriend?” Stiles clarifies this cautiously. As though he genuinely believes Derek will shove him away at the mere suggestion of it. “…even though I let Theo kiss me last night?”

“Yes, Stiles,” he sighs, long and hard. “I want to be your boyfriend. And as your boyfriend, I reserve the right to beat the ever living hell out of that guy the next time I see him.”

Stiles isn’t proud of the fact that he likes the idea of that more than he should. But, sue him. He’s been emotionally and mentally beaten by Theo hundreds of times. Maybe he should let Derek at him like letting a bull out of its cage at the rodeo.

“You know, I’m all f*cked up in the head,” Stiles informs him, looking up at his face a little sheepishly. “I might not be so nice all the time.”

“I’m in love with you, Stiles,” Derek tells him, and he f*cking means it, which blows Stiles’ mind, no matter how many times he hears it. “You can be mean all you want, it won’t make me change my mind.”

Stiles holds him close.

He has never felt so close to anyone, not in his entire life. It’s like Derek knows his body, and his mind, and his skin, and all of him, down to the bones, and it’s scary at the same time that it’s exhilarating.

He did not see things going this way.

He’s glad that they did.

Chapter 10: Finally

Chapter Text

Stiles doesn’t know why, because it’s definitely a stupid decision, but he doesn’t tell his dad that he and Derek are anything. He has plenty of opportunities to do so. He just doesn’t. He keeps it to himself. He doesn’t even text Scott the diatribe he longs to text about everything that’s been going on.

It feels like speaking it out loud will make it all go away, somehow. He seals it tight behind his lips like it’s a secret.

Even though it isn’t. It feels like it is, something personal just for the two of them, but that’s the weird thing about having an actual boyfriend and not some guy you sleep with every now and again – eventually, everyone finds out.

So, it’s f*cking idiotic, but Stiles mentions nothing to his father before going over to the Hale’s for Thanksgiving.

They sit in the car and Stiles cradles his pie like it’s his newborn child, protecting it from sharp turns and abrupt stops, but Stiles keeps his mouth shut. He side-eyes his dad and imagines saying it – like, by the way, Derek and I are sleeping together! Or, something more appropriate. Hey, dad, just so you know, Derek and I are kinda dating.

The words do not come.

It’s really hard having a dad like him. It’s impossible to know how he’s going to react. When Stiles first told his dad he had a boyfriend back when he was with Theo, he got really f*cking mad. He insisted Stiles was too young to have a boyfriend, even though he was fully 16 at the time which seems like the universally accepted age to start dating, and he tried to get Stiles to stop seeing him.

Then, over time, it was revealed that Theo was also not a very nice boyfriend, and everything got worse.

It’s anyone’s guess what his dad would do if he found out Derek has been having sex with his son, but Stiles is absolutely not dying in the least bit to find out.

When they’re outside on the porch and his father is reaching for the doorbell, Stiles considers making a break for it like a cartoon character. Just spinning his legs to charge up and vanishing in a blur before anyone can do anything about it, pie left behind.

Stiles stays put, and the doorbell rings, and it is not surprising in the least that Derek is the one who opens the door. He’s likely been waiting for Stiles all morning which makes Stiles feel like chewing his hands off or something, but instead he hovers, next to his dad, and Derek smiles at him.

“Hi.”

“Hi.” Stiles wants to kill himself.

Derek looks at the Sheriff. Who’s oblivious to the tension. He offers his hand, and they shake, and Stiles stands there watching it happen like he’s observing international peace treaties being signed, for how important it feels to him. “Thanks for having us,” his dad says. The clueless idiot.

Stiles parrots him, just for something to say, and then Derek is beckoning them inside. They step in, and it’s warm and smells like food and there are lots of voices and the occasional bark of a dog, and it makes Stiles feel very anxious. Large social gatherings aren’t exactly his thing, in case you hadn’t noticed; least of all large social gatherings featuring the family of the dude he’s been f*cking. And his dad.

As Derek is closing the door behind them, he says, “you brought pie.”

“Oh, um,” Stiles looks at the object in question and immediately feels stupid. “…I made it.”

Derek smiles with all his teeth and puts his hands on Stiles’ shoulders, guiding him forward further into the house. “You make pie?” He sounds incredulous.

“Sometimes.”

Gently, he takes the pie out of Stiles’ hands and holds it in his own, raising his eyebrows at the sight of it there. “It looks really good. You’ve been holding out on me.”

“It’s just one of my mom’s old recipes,” he rubs the back of his neck and he can feel it’s all warm there, from embarrassment. “I don’t usually bake. Or cook. Or anything.”

“Yet, it looks professional.”

“Stop,” Stiles laughs, cheeks hot, and then his dad clears his throat.

Holy sh*t. Stiles forgot he was even standing there. He arranges his face and straightens quickly, so he stops giggling and carrying on like a school girl with a crush, and his dad gives him a look.

This is why it was a stupid decision to not tell him. He knows everything. And anything he genuinely doesn’t know, he will find out. It’s what he does.

Stiles averts his eyes like he’s guilty of a crime, and Derek just stands there. He might already be a little stoned, but it’s his automatic setting, even though it’s eleven in the morning. “Come on,” Derek tells them, “there’s a ton of food.”

Stiles follows after him quickly, so as not to allow even a millisecond of he and his father being alone, and they go down the front hall, the one Stiles was never in. Derek’s house has lots of windows and lots of natural light, and the color palette is all greens and blues and yellows, bright and happy, framed pictures on the wall, tons of shoes by the front door.

They move toward the kitchen, and Derek gestures for them to go first. The Sheriff does, walking in and being greeted by Talia and a handful of others, but when Stiles goes to move ahead, Derek grabs him and ducks them back into the corner by the back doors, leading to the garden, giving him a look.

He’s still holding Stiles’ pie. “Hey, uh, so, I meant to bring this up when we were alone last night, but I got distracted,” he smiles sheepishly, and Stiles blushes, because he knows exactly what he got distracted by. Stiles was distracted by the same thing. “…I’m betting Thanksgiving isn’t your favorite holiday.”

“It’s whatever.”

“I mean, because of all the food. And being expected to eat a lot of the food.”

Stiles stares at him. He crosses his arms over his chest. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, okay, so, we’re not talking about it,” he laughs, shaking his head. “Just –“

“What do you even mean?”

They share prolonged eye contact. Derek looks like he’s buffering, like he’s gone in too far to take it back, but has absolutely no idea how to keep going, so he’s just stuck frozen still. There’s lots of noise and talking from the next room, but here they stand, staring at one another.

“…I just meant, I was just thinking - I don’t know, an entire holiday centered around food wouldn’t be the most fun for you. I was trying to make you feel better. I see now that was a bad idea, I take it back.”

Stiles’ walls go up immediately, and whenever he gets pushed into a corner, he does tend to lash out. It’s his automatic setting, his shoulders tightening as he narrows his eyes and turns on Derek more directly, and Derek watches this happen and his eyebrows go up. “Why would you f*cking say something like that?”

“Holy sh*t,” Derek pinches the bridge of his nose with his free hand, “I can’t believe I’ve pissed you off less than 48 hours after getting with you. Jesus. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize even bringing it up was – I f*cked up. I shouldn’t have said anything. I was trying to like, not be sh*tty, and instead I became extra sh*tty.”

Stiles is pissed. Also he feels like Derek is talking about something he has no f*cking clue about so he shouldn’t even be mentioning it. And he’s mad, because Derek has brought this up ten seconds into walking into this massive f*cking thing that Derek was well aware Stiles was already high strung about. And he feels all naked and weird and like Derek knows something he shouldn’t.

Derek reads Stiles like a book. He frowns. He moves closer and he says, “I’m sorry. I was trying to make it better and I made it worse.”

Unfortunately, Stiles is mad enough he can’t really see the no-harm-meant angle that Derek is coming from. And he’s just f*cking mad, period. When Stiles gets pissed off, he excels most particularly at going silent. Ice cold type of silent. Derek stands there and observes Stiles not saying a single f*cking word and he realizes that this is what it looks like when Stiles gets pissed, and he sighs. “Can we just like, start over? And can you just not be mad at me? I really didn’t mean –“

They’re interrupted by Cora coming out of the kitchen and stopping dead in her tracks when she spots them. Derek backed into a corner as though by a rabid animal, gripping Stiles’ pie in both hands, and Stiles in front of him, frowning with his arms crossed. She blinks. “You’re already arguing?” She clarifies, as though in disbelief.

“No,” Stiles says, taking the pie out of Derek’s hands. “Your brother is just insensitive. You probably already knew that.”

Cora smiles. It’s this crazy evil type of smile, that really, only a sister can make at her brother’s expense.

“Anyway,” Stiles goes past her into the kitchen proper, leaving Derek standing there watching him go, and he’s mad enough that for a second he even forgets where he is and what’s going on. He sets the pie down alongside where the rest are, and then he’s just there, alone, with all of the Hales.

Okay. Um.

He immediately regrets being angry at Derek even if he knows he was justified, because Derek was his shield and his buffer. Now he has no shield, and no buffer, and Laura Hale of all people is turning around from the table with the cheese and crackers, mouthful and chewing, and spotting him.

Stiles had forgotten, because the last time he saw her in person he was about fifteen years old, but she is famously the hot Hale sibling. And they’re all particularly attractive. So that’s saying something. She’s tall, and her hair is long, half way down her back long, and she’s in a skin tight black dress that makes Stiles nervous of her.

Nervous or not, she’s coming over to him. Stiles steels himself and he tries to look normal, to no avail, because this situation for him is far from normal. Theo barely had any family – just his sh*tty dad who was never around, who hated Stiles pretty much on principle, so he’s not exactly well versed in the art of communicating with a significant other’s family.

Especially not family like Laura Hale. She’s sort of rumor mill famous. Stiles knows far more about her than he should, considering they’ve never directly spoken to each other.

In spite of that, she greets him like an old friend anyway. “Stiles!” She says, and she’s honestly taller than him in her heels, a novel experience to get with a girl. She has to lean down a bit to wrap him in a loose hug, handling him sort of gently. “Look how big you’ve gotten! I remember when you were just ten years old falling off your skateboard outside our house.”

“I don’t fall off it so much anymore,” he says, at the same time Derek comes slinking into the kitchen. It’s like he’s magnetized. He comes right to Stiles’ side and presses up against him, and Laura smiles, with all of her teeth.

“You two are so cute together,” she says this very earnestly, clapping her hands together a bit. Stiles doesn’t even bother being surprised at the fact that everyone already knows that he and Derek are officially dating, even though it has barely been two full days. Derek probably drove Stiles home that night and came right back home and made banners and sh*t to announce it to his family. “You know, Stiles, I wish I could find a guy like Derek, really I do, you’re so lucky –“

“You need to stop saying creepy sh*t like that,” Derek informs her, shooting Stiles a furtive glance, like he’s afraid this comment will send Stiles running for the hills.

“Well, men are so disappointing,” she tells Stiles this with a severe look on her face. “It must be nice to actually find a guy who doesn’t, you know, become an utter jackass after the first few dates.”

“Let’s go check on the bird, Stiles,” Derek tells him, in a way that suggests that Stiles can’t get out of it – he puts his hands on Stiles’ shoulders and begins guiding him away, and resistance would only draw attention to the fact that they’re arguing in the first place, so he goes along with it, though Stiles keeps his arms crossed and sort of marches with his eyes dead ahead.

They go out of the kitchen into a very big pantry, with shelves full of food, and lots of counter space – on one of those counters is a contraption Stiles does not have a name for. It’s steaming and beeping. It must be cooking the turkey.

“I have to keep it away from all the commotion,” he explains to Stiles, checking on a little device beside it to see the temperature. “Otherwise, people mess with it. I don’t know how many times I’ve said don’t touch the f*cking lid on this thing, people don’t listen.”

Stiles watches him press a couple buttons on his turkey cooker, having no clue what any of them mean, but he says nothing.

Derek sighs. “I’m sorry for what I said. That was – just - I’m sorry. No excuses.”

“It was just like some sh*t my dad would say. Or Scott,” he keeps his voice low. He really doesn’t want Derek’s family to know they’re arguing, it would be too embarrassing, and too much like being with Theo, also. “Having people watch what you eat all the time makes you feel insane. Trust me.”

“Yeah, totally,” he agrees. Although his tone suggests he wishes he could say something else, but is now on eggshells, and chooses to keep quiet. Or, almost quiet. “…you know, I love your body.”

“Derek,” Stiles warns him, looking over his shoulder to make sure no one is eavesdropping.

“Well, I do. And I’d love it stuffed full of my turkey, too. That’s not a double entendre. I just want to watch you eat my turkey. Again, not a double entendre.”

“Okay, it is a double entendre and you know it,” he smiles in spite of himself. “I’ll eat your f*cking turkey, if that’s what you’re so concerned about. Even though turkey generally tastes like tablecloth.”

“Are you done being mad at me, now?” He asks, and he turns away from his turkey to face Stiles, reaching his hands out to put them on Stiles’ hips, boxing him in against the counter.

The turkey is bubbling away in its little cooker. Lots of voices just beyond the threshold of the pantry. But Derek comes in closer to him and Stiles swears, it all goes quiet, and they’re all alone.

Derek kisses Stiles’ temple, and his cheek, and his forehead, and pulls him in, hugging him to his body and sighing. “We can talk about it later. Never should’ve brought it up here to like, trigger you.”

Stiles is a bit stiff. And he feels on edge. Like a secret he doesn’t talk about is being aired out for all to see.

But he knows Derek isn’t doing it to mess with him, like Theo would. He’s not really doing much of anything. He’s just being honest.

“It’s okay,” Stiles decides only just then and there that it is. Although it isn’t. But it is. Stiles doesn’t want to be mad at Derek. Not here, of all places, so he takes in a deep breath and closes his eyes and just tries to let it go, this weird tension inside of him. It sticks around, for the most part, but he at least releases the need to carry it around like a cross.

They go back out into the actual event, and Stiles feels bizarre. Derek’s entire family is here, including people he does not know, and Stiles gets the trip of a lifetime being introduced to random cousins and aunts as Derek’s boyfriend, shaking hands and trying to be nice. He smiles and he nods and feels really clammy and uncomfortable, has to keep rubbing his palms off on his jeans so they’re not sweaty and gross when he has to shake someone else’s. Stiles also encounters Derek’s weirdo brother Rodney, who sort of looks like he just walked out of a craft brewery somewhere. He’s got a beard and paint covered pants, and he pats Stiles on the shoulder like they’re old friends, and then he starts talking about what kind of animal Stiles reminds him of.

He says, everyone has an animal they’re linked with. Stiles thinks it’s the weirdest sh*t ever, but hides it well, just nodding along, until Derek finally whisks him away, because he can tell Stiles is just one more bizarro family comment away from making a sarcastic jab at one of them.

Derek gives him a glass of wine and explains that all the underaged people are allowed two on Thanksgiving, per his mother’s rules, and Stiles is grateful for it. He downs his first one way too fast and Derek notices, but does not make a comment. He just pours Stiles another one and hands it off, and then they hover off to the side together. Derek does not leave Stiles’ side for one single solitary second, probably because he can tell Stiles is uncomfortable and nervous. Stiles always feels like such a piece of sh*t when he gets shy, because unfortunately, his shyness does not manifest itself politely.

It makes him seem standoffish and rude. He drinks more wine.

When they’re standing over by the snack table, with Derek gorging himself on these little puff pastry things one after the other, the Sheriff comes over to them. Stiles panics. He looks for an exit, some kind of excuse to flee, because he just knows what his dad is going to say, but it’s too late either way – he’s upon them, standing there all dad-like, with his hands on his hips, a habit he’s gotten over the years of always having a utility belt on.

No belt or gun today, but somehow, it’s just as scary.

Derek is mid-pastry. Stiles clutches his wine glass. His dad opens his mouth and says, “you two,” and points his index finger between the two of them, “are dating?”

“Well, dating, it’s such a weird term,” Stiles word vomits, while Derek is still chewing. “I don’t know, we’re just kinda – I mean, I wasn’t hiding it.” He was. “I was just – you know, you don’t react well when I start hanging around with someone, so –“

“You mean I don’t react well when you start hanging around with Theo Raeken.”

“Can we not talk about him?” Stiles hisses at him.

“I just mean, I don’t understand why no one told me. Everyone else knows.”

“We like, just got together. I don’t know. I didn’t know what to say,” he rubs the back of his neck, uncomfortable, and Derek is reaching for another snack without missing a beat, not even finished chewing what’s in his mouth. He might be figuring that he couldn’t say anything right in this particular instance, so he will say nothing at all. He has no idea how right he is. Silence is best from him. “It’s new.”

Derek snorts. Then quickly puts something else in his mouth to cover it. The Sheriff stares at him, because he knows exactly what that little sound meant, and Stiles palms his face.

“You’ll have to come over for dinner,” he says. It’s like a warning, Stiles swears to god.

“Okay,” he agrees readily. “Sure, I’d love to.”

“Okay.” A long pause. His father is staring at Derek like he’s got ten heads. Then, without another word, he moves right along, off to find someone else to torment Stiles is sure of it, and Stiles lets out a long breath he did not realize he was holding.

“I think he wants to hunt me,” Derek says.

“He does. Wear camo from now on.”

“That was sort of scary,” he comes around from Stiles’ back and faces him directly, boxing him in like he’s so fond of doing, maybe shielding Stiles from the rest of the room so no one can hear them or see them head on. “Why didn’t you tell him –“

“Like I said. He wouldn’t have reacted well.”

“And letting him find out from my mother, that was your master plan?”

“We don’t communicate well,” he explains further. “It doesn’t mean anything bad, like you’re thinking, like, I’m not hiding it. I’m not. Just – he’s hard to talk to.”

“Well, that I definitely collected,” he turns over his shoulder and looks at where the Sheriff is standing. Stiles looks too. He’s hovering by the couch and staring at them. Stiles looks away quickly, trying to act casual. “Why do I feel like I’m going to have to spend all of my time convincing him I’m not a sack of human garbage like Theo?”

“Um…” Stiles looks at the floor. His dirty old converse. “Sorry.” He has nothing else to say but that, because he really will have to bend over backwards to convince Stiles’ father he isn’t being sh*tty. It’s not Derek’s fault. But that’s the situation.

“It’s occurring to me in this moment that maybe having you over for Thanksgiving ten seconds into the relationship was a massive error in judgment,” he grins with all his teeth, shrugging it right off. “Like, we’ve barely had time to ourselves, and now everyone is all up our asses.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. He rubs on his arm, averting his eyes. “…I’m sort of a difficult person to be with.”

“No, you’re not.”

“You have to say that, you like sleeping with me.”

Derek gives him a look. But really, this only further proves Stiles’ point – Stiles is all f*cked up. He has weird hang-ups, like PDA, like hating large social situations, like his backwards relationship with food, like his crazy f*cking dad who owns guns, like how he can’t be friendly when he gets nervous, like his basem*nt low self-esteem, on and on and f*cking on.

“Let’s go get high,” he suggests, taking Stiles by the hand and squeezing, lacing their fingers together as they move through all the chatter and other people. Stiles catches more than one of Derek’s family members eyeballing him and he feels like they’re all thinking, really, him? Out of everyone that Derek could very easily sleep with, Derek chose him?

They go out the sliding back door onto the patio. It rained earlier today, so everything is all wet, the furniture dripping, but Cora and Lydia are out here by one of the planters, drinking red wine and murmuring to each other. They turn when they see Derek and Stiles, and then settle their eyes on them, watching their every move as they come closer.

“Hi, Stiles,” Lydia greets. She’s in a shiny gold dress. “I would’ve thought you’d rather eat your own toes than come to this, but here you are.”

“I would rather eat my own toes,” he agrees, as Derek pulls a lighter and a big fat f*cking blunt out of his breast pocket. “The crazy thing is, here I am.”

“Stop bothering him,” Derek tells her point blank. “He’s shy.”

“I don’t like things like this,” he explains more, watching Derek take a hit and promptly hand it to Stiles. He takes it, and has no reservations about taking the biggest fattest f*cking pull of his life.

“Jesus, Stiles,” Derek laughs a little.

“He needs it,” Cora defends him, patting him on the shoulder as he coughs and sputters. “I think mom is two steps away from cornering him and stuffing food into his mouth. You know how she gets when people don’t eat every single thing she makes.”

Derek changes the subject expertly. “His dad wants to kill me. Because somebody never told him we’re dating.”

“Somebody knows how he gets,” Stiles tacks on. “He hates everyone I –“

“Who’s everyone?” Cora demands, having to pry the blunt out of Stiles’ bony fingers because he hasn’t passed it on yet. “Just Theo. And, really, who can blame him after that sh*tshow?”

“Why does everyone insist on bringing him up?” Derek furrows his brow, and the girls both shrug. “Can we just talk about something else?”

Silence. The weed hits instantly and Stiles is like oh, Jesus, I’m stoned at Derek’s house on Thanksgiving.

“Well, anyway,” Lydia tosses her hair over her shoulder. “Where’s Laura’s weird date this year? I can’t believe for the first time ever she’s not dragging some poor sap along with her.”

“Right?” Cora agrees.

“She needs to be single for a while. For real. She has the worst taste in men,” Derek nudges Stiles in the side to try and include him in the conversation. “She brought home this guy last year for Christmas who seriously stole my mother’s watch.”

Stiles laughs. “Off her wrist?”

“She had taken it off to do the dishes,” Cora explains further, snickering. “It was crazy. He hawked it. Where does she find these f*cking dudes?” Stiles thinks, well, I won’t be as bad as that guy.

There’s some tapping to their left, and they all turn their heads in unison to see Talia in the kitchen window, banging on the window and gesturing kind of like get the f*ck in here. Cora rolls her eyes and straightens, giving Stiles a look. “She thinks we’re hogging you.”

“I don’t think I can save you from her,” Derek tells him as he squishes the blunt out with his fingers. “She might, uh, sincerely try to force feed you.”

Stiles is resigned to it. They all file back inside, discovering that Sasha is there, wagging her tail and pushing her head into Stiles’ hand for attention. Stiles gives it to her, pet pet pet, and when they herd themselves into the living room, Talia is also right there, pouncing the moment she can, blocking Stiles and Derek’s path and cutting them off from everybody else.

“Stiles, you’re all skin and bones,” she actually pushes on Stiles’ stomach, and Stiles recoils before he can help himself, moving backwards into Derek’s chest. “Derek obviously isn’t taking care of you –“

“Mom,” Derek warns her, wrapping his arm across Stiles’ front. “He’s fine.”

She puts her hands on her hips and assesses them, head to toe. Stiles is glancing over shoulder and wishing he could escape this so f*cking badly. “You two are being too secretive. What’s the big secret?” She looks right at Stiles. “Your father choked on a peanut when I mentioned you two dating.”

“Oh, um, well, we don’t – we don’t really talk.” It comes out before he can help himself. Derek sighs. Talia makes a face Stiles doesn’t have a name for. He starts doing the worst possible thing he could do, which is to just start babbling and oversharing, and can’t stop himself, even as he internally begs himself to shut the f*ck up, he can’t. “I just got out of a terrible relationship and he ruined my life, and, like, Derek and I just started going out and I don’t know it’s all really new and I’m confused and I don’t know how to tell my dad stuff, so, yeah. I neglected to mention it.”

“Oh,” she is surprised by all this information, eyebrows going up. She wasn’t expecting all that, it’s clear, and is now just processing it all, bit by bit. It’s like she’s just realized her son is dating an escaped mental patient.

Or at least someone who could benefit from quite a bit of therapy.

“Well, can you feed him?” She asks this of Derek, and then she turns and goes, back into the kitchen with the others tasked with cooking the meal.

Derek squeezes Stiles tight against his chest. “I am so, so sorry,” he says this very sincerely. “I did not think this through. I just really wanted you to be here and now it’s like your worst nightmare.”

“It’s not that bad.” It is that bad.

“Please still like me after this.”

Stiles snorts. It works to lighten the mood.

When it comes time to eat, they set up a big buffet style table where everyone has to go through and pick out what they wanna eat and Stiles is a little leery of it, like he generally is when confronted with his own mental demons, but luckily, Derek very pointedly says he will make Stiles’ plate for him.

Derek has no idea how much of a load off of Stiles’ mind this is. Stiles was thinking he’d be forced to choose between not putting enough on his plate and getting ridiculed for it, or putting far too much on his plate and getting ridiculed for that, and he’s already fielded enough comments today about the state of his body and what have you, so he’s about fed up.

Derek goes out of his way to ensure they’re sitting next to each other at the massive table. He’s sandwiched between Derek and Laura, directly across from Lydia who’s giving Stiles weird looks every fifteen seconds, and he feels uncomfortable.

He looks at his food. Looks at Derek’s. He starts comparing how much everyone else has on their plates, and then he takes a picture of his own, and examines it on his phone.

Derek nudges him after it’s been a full minute and a half of everyone else eating and Stiles hasn’t even touched his fork. “What’s with you and pictures?”

Stiles does tend to take pictures of his food, and then doesn’t do anything with them. Not even on instagram stories or anything. He has no idea which level of food trauma this is. “I just like to take pictures.”

“I spent all day cooking that turkey.”

“I’m eating it,” he insists, and he’s thankful, ha ha, that his dad isn’t close enough to him at the table, is all the way down there with the adults yucking it up like he’s running for re-election already, and thus cannot police what Stiles is or isn’t eating.

Problem is, now Derek is here. And he seems to have a hyper-awareness of it, even worse than his dad is. He tries to hide it, but fails, his eyes going to Stiles every fifteen seconds.

“Do you like it?” Derek asks him, watching Stiles finally take a bite of the turkey. “Does it taste like tablecloth?”

“It does not taste like tablecloth. It’s really good.”

“You’d like it better if it was surrounded by noodles, I’d think.”

“Well, nothing is better than ramen.”

“We can make turkey ramen with the leftovers,” he suggests.

It sounds really good, honestly. And his turkey is good. But Stiles hates that Derek’s family is all around him and watching him eat, so he eats as sparingly as he can get away with, feeling ashamed.

When it comes time for dessert, Derek asks if Stiles wants to share with him and Stiles leaps at the opportunity. Derek puts way too much sh*t on the plate, cookies and a brownie and a piece of Stiles’ apple pie, and then corrals him in a corner of the living room to sit together and eat it.

Derek foists a cookie into Stiles’ hand. Stiles holds it.

“Your pie is so good,” Derek tells him with his mouth full.

“It’s my mom’s recipe,” he waves the compliment off. “Anyone can follow a piece of a paper.”

Derek can tell that Stiles is in a bad mood. He’s hit his limit. It’s clear. Stiles wishes he could shake it off and be normal like everyone else, but he is miserable. So, on top of just feeling bad and ugly and annoying in general, now he has to come to terms with the fact that he’s not nice or funny or charming or anything, and everybody notices. It feels bad. Stiles feels bad. He can’t fix it.

This is in the running for worst holiday ever of all time, and it feels horrible, because it was so important to Derek that he come and he’s just ruining it.

Stiles’ dad announces he’s got to get back to the station, gesturing for Stiles to come along, and Stiles is halfway up out of his seat when Derek stops him. “I’ll drive you home,” he offers. Then, louder, “I’ll drive him home.”

It doesn’t seem like his dad likes the idea very much, and frankly, neither does Stiles, because there goes his grand escape, but he allows it all the same. He goes, leaving Stiles behind in the lion’s den, and Stiles panics a little bit watching him go out the front door. He’s still holding the cookie, and he looks at it in his hands.

Stiles had been envisioning being stuck here for another two hours or something, but Derek pulls some white knight sh*t and sneaks them out the side door into the garage, into his truck, and out of the driveway. It’s clear that he’s not supposed to leave, is supposed to stay home and help clean up and rearrange the furniture back where it belongs, but instead, he has fled, and Stiles feels like it’s all his fault for being such a massive f*cking killjoy.

“Okay, so, I’m a f*cking asshole,” Derek starts once they’re out on the main road and the lights of his house are fading out behind them.

Stiles is surprised. He turns in his seat and says, “uh, what did you do? I’m the one who acted like a –“

“No. I never – we’ve been together for eight seconds and you had my entire family foisted at you and harassing you and you’re all, like, in the healing process and you don’t eat and I just – I f*cked up.” The dashboard lights cast his face only in shadow, but Stiles can tell he’s not happy with himself. His frown. His furrowed brow. He’s dead serious.

He thinks he’s the asshole.

“And I didn’t mean to act like it was so weird you didn’t tell your dad we were together. It’s been f*cking two days.”

Stiles is quiet for a moment. Long enough that Derek turns to look at him as if making sure he’s not duck and rolling out the door.

“I could see in your face when your dad left you wanted to hang yourself. I only said I’d drive you home so we could be alone together. I’m such a dick, I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“It’s okay,” Stiles tells him. “I’m the problem, anyway.”

“Can you stop saying sh*t like that?” He yells, actually yells this, and Stiles blinks in surprise. Derek doesn’t usually raise his voice.

“I just felt like they all could tell I’m just a rude ungrateful – just – I was so awkward,” he sinks into his seat a bit. “…I didn’t make a very good impression.”

Derek looks at him, then back to the road. “Who says you didn’t? Okay, so, you were a little quiet. You were not unlikable.”

“But I –“

“Stiles. You have the face of a cartoon deer. It’s impossible to hate you. You’re not the scourge on social situations you think you are.” They’re pulling into Stiles’ driveway, the house dark because they’ll be all alone, his dad long gone for his night shift, and he parks, unbuckles, and turns to face Stiles directly. “And I’m sorry my mother is so – I haven’t been forthcoming with her about the situation. She didn’t mean to be…just – this was a bad idea. It’s my fault. Okay?”

Stiles doesn’t know what to say. He bites his lip and twiddles his fingers for a moment, and then he reaches out and takes Derek’s hand in his, and he says, “…I still like you.”

Derek breathes out. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. It was weird. But. I lived.”

“…can I come in?”

Stiles actually laughs, unbuckling and popping open his door. “Duh. I thought that was the entire reason you took me home.”

Inside, Derek looks bizarre. He takes his hoody off and hangs it up on the hook beside all of Stiles and his dad’s things, and then he’s just there, in Stiles’ house, a place he has never been before and likely never thought he would be.

f*ck it. Stiles never thought Derek would be in this house, either. It gets even weirder upstairs in Stiles’ bedroom, his empty walls and half empty shelves, his kid bed. He looks bigger in here, taller, broader around the shoulders, and he looks even more huge sitting down on top of Stiles’ twin bed.

Derek opens his arms. “Come here?” He asks, like he’s unsure if Stiles will say yes or not. Of course, Stiles does go, sits right on Derek’s lap and feels absurd doing it, but Derek doesn’t seem to think it’s so weird.

He wraps his arms around Stiles and kisses his face, holding him close. Stiles twists a little because the kissing is a bit much, but Derek does not stop – when Stiles tries to escape he just holds on tighter and laughs. Stiles laughs too, and finally frees himself, dumping himself on top of the bed and scooting away to the wall, pressing his back up against it.

Derek comes and puts his back up against the wall too. He takes Stiles’ hand in his and they sit together, just being alone, and it feels really nice.

To be with someone. To not have every second feel like walking on eggshells.

“Hey, uh,” he starts, and he plays with Derek’s fingers in his lap. He fiddles, keeping his eyes down, and he forces himself to speak. “…what you said? When I first got there? Um. You weren’t wrong to say it. Maybe wrong to say it right then, but…”

Derek is quiet. He just listens.

“…Theo was really weird about what I ate. He was like, obsessed with me being as thin as possible. He would police what I ate like you would not believe. If I ever had, like, a second piece of lasagna, he would talk so sh*tty to me. And I was getting better? For a while. Before he called me that day after I was at your house. That day when we ate all that McDonald’s I actually didn’t feel horrible after eating, even eating food as bad as that, because – I don’t know. Then he called and it was…and my dad made all those comments about my weight. Because when I was with Theo I literally just didn’t eat. He remembers. I don’t know. I’m so - I’m really ashamed of it. I try to eat. It feels bad. I got better and then worse. It gets triggered sometimes, especially when I see Theo and he... I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bite your head off. I’m just really sensitive about it.”

Derek brings Stiles’ hand up to his lips and kisses the back of it. “I’m sure my mom trying to shove food down your throat was super helpful.”

Stiles snorts. “I know I’m skinny. Sometimes I just get weird about food. It f*cking sucks, because it’s like he seeped into my – my whole life. My relationship with my dad. My friends. Even what I eat –“ he chokes up a little and looks away, embarrassed. “…I’m surprised you even noticed.”

“Well,” he hems and haws, turning his head side to side. “You said ramen was your favorite food in the world and then didn’t finish even half of what you ordered, on our date. Plus, uh, Scott sort of told me in high school.”

Stiles blinks. “You talked to Scott about that?”

“He revealed it to me,” he puts his hands up in innocence. “I kind of got him really, really high one day –“

“Oh my god?”

“Remember? When I asked you to come out and get stoned with me and you wouldn’t come?”

“Vaguely, yeah. You got Scott high? And he told you that – he told you things about me?”

“Don’t be mad at him. He was just venting. And anyway, I’ve kept the secret for him for years. That’s not the point. I really meant what I said. You could eat more, you really could. No one is watching you and making fun of you. I’m not.”

Stiles decides not to be mad at Scott. Christ, he probably had to deal with so much sh*t back then and had no one to talk to about it. So, sure, he went to the dumpsters with Derek and went nuts one day and told him everything.

He leans his head on Derek’s shoulder and closes his eyes, breathing in and out. “He just made me so sad all the time. I hated it. I hate it, still.”

“Well, I might have failed tonight, but I wanna make you happy all the time.”

Stiles laughs. “You didn’t fail. I’m just socially awkward. It feels so weird how…I was literally in love with him. It’s f*cked up. I don’t know how I got so bad that I allowed all that to happen to me.”

“I should’ve asked you out when we were sixteen.”

“I’d have said no, sorry.”

“Oho, so the truth comes out,” he nudges Stiles playfully.

“I thought you were such a dumb person. Sorry. I mean, I almost think it’s better you waited until college, when, yeah, I was emotionally f*cked enough to say yes.”

Derek kisses him on the mouth. Then some more, and more, the way he kisses when he wants to takes Stiles’ pants off, and Stiles likes it and wants to have sex because he wouldn’t mind having a great big release after a day like today, so he lets Derek kiss him like that. They move closer and Derek puts his hand on Stiles’ neck and strokes, making Stiles shiver and want him really badly.

He shoves his hand underneath Derek’s shirt and feels him, the hairs leading into his pants, his abs, and he’s seconds away from taking off Derek’s shirt and then his own, when there are three taps on Stiles’ bedroom window.

Stiles freezes. So does Derek.

Against Stiles’ lips he says, “please tell me that’s who I think it is.”

Stiles had told Derek that Theo was notorious for coming to his window, because the Sheriff hated him so bad he could never come to the front door. The blinds are down on Stiles’ window, so neither of them can see him, not from this angle, and he can’t see them. “If we just ignore it he’ll think I’m not home.”

“Uh, I’m not ignoring it,” he starts to move, sliding off the bed, getting his feet on the ground, but Stiles lunges at him and grabs his arm to stop him.

“Derek –“

Derek cannot he stopped. He’s up, on his feet, and going right for the window. Stiles panics. Theo is likely to be really, really f*cking angry already, because once Stiles and Derek got together, Stiles blocked his number for good. He’s probably tried to come over, tried to call, tried to text, and been completely ignored.

That always makes him murderous.

Stiles fumbles his own way off the bed and he tries, again, to stop Derek, grabbing his wrist and saying, “don’t, seriously, Derek, Derek –“

It’s too late. Derek pulls the blinds up, and squats down, looking Theo right in the face. Stiles can see it all happening over Derek’s shoulder and he puts his hands on his face.

He can do nothing to stop this. It’s happening.

Derek unlocks the window and throws it open with a loud bang, the noise and intensity of which nearly knock Theo clean off the roof.

They meet eyes. Derek says, “hi.”

Theo is, understandably, completely blown away by this. He doesn’t even have time to react before Derek is reaching out and using both hands to grab him by his collar, hauling him into the room and throwing him on the floor.

“Holy sh*t,” Stiles says, backing away. “Derek, don’t –“

Derek does. He stands over Theo, his surprised face, his wide eyes, and grips his hoody in a bunch in one hand, winding his other fist back, and punching him square in the face.

The connection is loud. Stiles flinches and looks away, turning back to see Derek flexing his hand like he hit Theo so hard it hurt his knuckles, too.

Theo spits blood out on Stiles’ floor and he says, “what the f*ck? Stiles, what the f*ck?”

“What the f*ck?” Derek repeats this in a mocking tone, and Stiles comes over and he puts his hand on Derek’s shoulder, pulling him back and away. Derek only allows himself to be taken a foot back, away from where Theo is getting himself up onto his feet, wiping blood off of his mouth.

He looks at Stiles. Stiles shrinks back behind Derek, just a little, because he fully expects Theo to do something horrible in retaliation.

“Are you f*cking him?” Theo demands, angry. “Were you f*cking him when I came and saw you the other night?”

“I –“

“Hey, you don’t talk to him,” Derek barks at Theo, moving closer.

Theo actually backs away. Like he’s afraid, genuinely afraid, of what Derek is capable of.

Stiles never noticed this, because they’ve never been this close before, but Derek is considerably bigger than Theo. Like, half a head taller. It’s never been more obvious than right now.

“What are you doing here?” Theo asks him.

“What do you think I’m doing here?” He says this way too f*cking haughtily. And with a sh*t eating grin on his face, too.

“Theo, you should just leave,” Stiles pipes up as perhaps the only voice of reason in the room.

“Stiles,” Derek puts his arm out and pushes Stiles back gently, shielding him a bit. “Let me beat his teeth out of his head first. Then he can leave.”

“Derek,” Stiles snaps, in surprise.

“What are you doing with him?” Theo asks, his brow furrowed, genuine shock all over him. “He, like, stalks you, don’t you know that?”

Derek moves forward with his arm up, sending Theo back a full three feet, Stiles grabbing his arm and pulling him back.

“Just get out,” Stiles tells him. “Get out. I don’t want to see you anymore.”

“He doesn’t want to see you anymore,” Derek repeats this in a taunting tone of voice. “Neither the f*ck do I. If you come around again, I’ll break your f*cking arms.”

“Stiles?” Theo prompts him. Like he seriously expects Stiles to stand up for him, in this moment. In the past, Stiles would always defend him. Always. No matter what he did or what he said, Stiles always took his side. To his dad. To his friends. Even to Derek Hale, more than once.

Stiles looks away. And he says nothing.

“All right, go on,” Derek advances on him and Theo tries to back away, to no avail. Derek grabs him and starts tugging him back towards the window, ignoring Stiles’ protests to at least let him just go out the front door, but Derek pushes him out onto the roof in a pile.

Derek slams the window, locks it, and pulls the blind down.

“There,” he says, far too pleased with himself. “Don’t think he’ll be back.”

Stiles should say not. “Derek, that was psychotic.”

“So?” He shrugs. He really is happy. “Should’ve pushed him off the roof. If you don’t beat him up a little bit, he won’t go away. He needs to leave you alone. Not just because we’re together. Also because he’s a f*ck.”

“He could’ve broken his neck.”

“One could only hope.”

“That’s not funny.”

“It is, a little bit. Come here,” he moves in close and opens his arms, and even though Stiles really does think Derek is nuts, he goes into them all the same. He hugs Stiles tight and kisses him on top of his head. “I won’t let him bother you anymore. Okay?”

“Okay,” Stiles says into his chest. Because he believes Derek. He believes everything Derek says, and he believes that Derek really does like him, because he’s put up with all of Stiles’ bullsh*t and barely even flinched, not once. It could just be because Derek is constantly stoned enough to just go with it all, but Stiles doesn’t really care.

Derek makes him feel safe. And like someone sees him. Really sees him. Even the bad stuff. And he doesn’t pull away or snap at him or neglect him. No one has ever made him feel like that before.

“Do you want to get high and have sex?” Derek asks him, pulling away to look Stiles in the face.

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees, glancing only once to the window where Theo used to come in and torment him all the time, before turning to go and sit on the edge of the bed with Derek.

Theo cannot come in anymore. Stiles knows he has a long road ahead of him, lots of unlearning of bad habits, lots of learning to treat himself kindly again. Not to mention, his dad is going to take for f*cking ever to warm up to Derek and not see him as just Theo 2.0. But in this moment, alone with Derek, he doesn’t worry about it.

“Now, I bet you’re happy you puked on your skateboard outside my house that night,” Derek jokes. “And that you gave me the f*cking time of day for the first time in your life.”

Unbelievably, Stiles is happy he puked on his skateboard. And that he finally looked up and saw Derek.