His bed is made, which is the first and probably last time in the coming months. His desk is relatively clean – books stacked on the overhead bookshelf, pencils and pens and markers tucked into a plastic cup, notebooks bare of writing. There is no dust; there is no underlying gym sock scent. The floor is definitely visible. His shirts are hanging in the closet, with a few hoodies and some jackets. His socks are paired up and nestled in a drawer, next to new, clean underwear. The walls are still barren, excluding two posters: Star Wars, the original trilogy, and Harry Potter.
The sheriff sighs and glances down at his watch, twisting it on his wrist to squint down at the time. His mouth is tight, his movements a little too fidgety, and Stiles can hear the words his father is loathe to say: It's time.
Just thinking about it makes his throat close, and he hastily glances away and scrubs at his hair. It's grown out since graduation and now he can actually style it. Scott has told him repeatedly not to pull it up into a faux-hawk, but it's just so fun.
"Stiles," his father finally says, gripping Stiles' shoulder and turning him around. There's already tears in John's eyes; Stiles feels his lower lip quake. They embrace, clutching at each other, and Stiles allows himself a little sob, squeezing his dad's shirt and breathing in his musky dad-smell.
He's been waiting for this day, but now that it's come, he couldn't be more terrified.
"I love you. You already make me proud, but – make me prouder, I guess."
A choked laugh and he nods, withdraws to swipe at his face, try to pull himself back together. The sheriff imitates him, rubbing his palms into his eyes, and then they grin at each other, nervous and unwilling to say goodbye.
Stiles says it first though, because he feels like he has to. He's adult now, after all. Whatever that means. "I love you, Dad. I see you during fall break, yea?"
"Of course, son. Don't wreck the car, and please, don't drag Scott into any trouble. Melissa will kill me."
He nods, ducks in for another quick hug, closes his eyes and feels himself let go. "Bye, Dad."
It's easier, knowing Melissa will be there to make sure he's eating well and his bottle of scotch lasts for at least a few months. Maybe they'll bond over the 'loss' of their two sons; maybe they'll actually do something about that sexual tension that always made Scott and him exchange exaggerated glances.
Without his dad around and his eyes surprisingly dry, he's not sure what to do. So he fidgets, fixing this, adjusting that. He figures out how the internet works and grumbles over how slow it is; he skims a quick BBC article, but refrains from Wikipedia. He stares at the opposite side of his room and wonders when his roommate is going to show up.
Jackson Whittemore. That was his roomie's name, and it struck Stiles as painfully pretentious. He'd facebook-stalked him, previewing as much as facebook would allow him to without actually sending a friend request; he'd been tempted to add Jackson Whittemore, but he felt too awkward and inadequate after seeing the kid with his six-pack of abs, laughing on a yacht.
He tells himself he's going to get up and go be social, or at least talk to his neighbors, but he doesn't. Instead, he cracks open the bag of chips he picked up from Target and starts gorging himself.
It's the knock on his door that rouses him. A glance at the alarm clock on his desk informs him he's been doing nothing for at least an hour; he winces at that, especially once he realizes it's probably Jackson, moving in. A slice of panic slits his belly, but then he shrugs it off – better that Jackson realizes he's a loser sooner than later.
When he opens the door, though, Jackson Whittemore is definitely not standing in front of him.
No, it must be Jesus or some demigod or something. Maybe he's finally having that crazy good wet dreamdream he's always wanted.
"Hi – are you Gen… Genim? I'm not saying that right, am I?"
Six foot tall.
"Stiles," his mouth says automatically. "I prefer Stiles."
Muscled, but not grossly. Definitely toned underneath that v-neck shirt of his.
"Ah, okay. I'll keep that in mind, Stiles." His smile is toothy, white, and straight – hopefully he isn't though.
He's sporting some heavy stubble, thick and black, just like his hair. It's gelled back, or at least it was – now it's more than a little tousled and sweaty. Stiles wants to reach up and run his fingers through it, wonders what it'd be like to grab handfuls of it.
He's wondering half a dozen things before he realizes he should probably be speaking.
The words that tumble out of his mouth don't make sense, and instead just sound like a helpless little noise. Stiles flushes immediately, hotly and probably vividly, and tries again. "U, w-who are you?"
The guy's laughing though, glancing down at his clipboard and glancing up almost shyly. "Derek Hale, your RA. I was just checking in, see how you're settling in and whatnot."
Better, now. You wanna come in? his slutty alter-ego wants to purr, but Stiles just blinks and swallows and does something with his shoulders that is supposed to convey he's-okay-but-kinda-nervous-and-wow-can-I-squeeze- your-bicep.
Derek seems to interpret it pretty well though (excluding the bicep part), nodding and flashing yet another award-winning smile. "I know what you mean. Move-in day is kinda crazy. Have your parents already left?"
"Yea, my dad left a few hours-minutes ago."
His hazel eyes glance past Stiles' face into his room and he nods, saying, "Well, it definitely looks like you're settled in. Your roommate – Jackson, I think? – hasn't checked in yet, but I'm guessing he'll be here before the day's over. No one wants to miss those first big parties." Another laugh, and Stiles wants to drool.
That's probably a cue that he needs to stop staring, but everything about Derek Hale is stare-able.
"Anyway, I gotta see how everyone else is doing. You should definitely talk to some people around the hall; you're going to be living with them for the next year, so make friends now, y'know? If you have any questions or worries or if you just wanna talk, I'm in the room at the end of the hall. Okay?"
Derek flashes him one last smile, and then he's walking away.
His ass is definitely as great as his smile.
Stiles is just considering whether he can get away with a quick jerk-off session when another boy shows up at the door. He's blonde and built and the first words Jackson Whittemore utters to him are, "You gonna move or what?"
Orientation lasts for four days. There are at least three inspirational speeches, two picnic-buffet things, and a lot of being herded around. Stiles chats with whomever's beside him, enlightening the world with his sarcasm and cynicism. A few actually laugh, some smile, and some even toss back witty shit that makes him crack a smile. Mostly, though, he's just on edge, babbling to comfort himself.
He misses Scott, truth be told, but his best friend is busy with his own orientation group and newfound brother-in-arms (AKA: the lacrosse team). It's not that he feels left out, but he feels left out. They've seen each other once since arriving, and that was to grab some dinner; halfway through the meal, some girl dropped down beside him, all doe eyes and smiles, and Stiles realized why he hasn't seen Scott like, at all.
Jackson Whittemore is just the asshole Stiles imagined, but at least Jackson doesn't linger around the room. He already has a posse that Stiles has seen marching across campus, and obviously a stuffy dorm room is Jackson's equivalent to a cesspool. He's already made comments about the faults in their room: the flooring is hideous, the walls have a weird smell, the wardrobes aren't big enough, the beds suck. Apparently, one of the biggest flaws is Stiles though, if Jackson's conversation with his mom is anything to go by.
The last night of orientation (Saturday), they're allowed and encouraged to grab some blankets or check out a sleeping bag and sleep on the lawn, staring up at whatever stars are visible. It seems kinda stupid to Stiles, considering they're in the middle of a city, but that's before he comes back to the room after eating dinner alone and finds Jackson heavily preoccupied.
That is to say, Stiles opens the door and only a desk lamp is on and it smells like booze and wow, okay, he's pretty sure there are two bodies in that bed but the way their mouths are connected, you would never know they were two separate entities.
He hastily shuts the door (as quietly as possible, praying Jackson doesn't hear to yell at him later) and wonders if there are still sleeping bags available. And pillows. And pajamas. And maybe some nightshade, because he's not sure he's going to be able to forget what he just witnessed – for better and for worse (admittedly, it was a little hot).
He rests his forehead against the wall, chewing at his lip. It's these kinds of times that he misses Scott, these moments where he feels a little overwhelmed and very lonely. He's heard it a million times since arriving; if you feel alone and are worrying about making friends, just remember that everyone else feels the same way.
True or not, it doesn't change the fact that it's his first Saturday night of college and he's one-hundred-percent alone.
"Throwing yourself a pity party?" The voice is closer than anticipated and definitely directed at him; Stiles flings himself away from the wall and stumbles back. "I guess that would be a yes."
The girl speaking smiles a tight, judgmental smile and turns to the door in front of her – his door. Jackson's door. She knocks once and sighs, tossing her red hair over her shoulder and knocking again, louder. Still no answer, and her wide, hazel eyes dart back toward Stiles. "Can I help you with something?" she asks impatiently.
"Uh," Stiles intones, before shaking his head, "no, I just – I literally just stepped in there and Jackson's pretty busy."
She wrinkles his nose at him, then bangs on the door. "Jackson – Jackson! Open up, you whore."
It's another minute, but then the door opens and Jackson is smirking through the crack. "Hey, Lydia. What's up?"
"The party, Jackson. We're going to the party, remember? Now put a shirt on and fix your hair."
From this angle, Stiles can't see his roommate, but he's willing to guess Jackson is shirtless and has some crazy make-out hair going on. Briefly, he wonders if Lydia and him are together, but that seems absurd – if they were a couple, wouldn't he have seen Lydia sooner? Wouldn't she be the one suction cupped to his face?
"Give me, like, two minutes, fuck. Not like you're going to leave without me." The door starts to close, but then Lydia slams a hand against it and pushes it back open.
"Wanna bet?" she says, arching a brow.
"Lydia, c'mon, I have company, give me a second," Jackson repeats under his breath, his voice edgy with agitation.
Stiles briefly wonders if he should leave, because this definitely isn't any of his business and he's seriously just standing there, staring at these two beautiful people arguing. Of course, that's before Lydia reaches out and grips his wrist like a kraken, yanking him to his side. "So do I," she retorts, smiling sweetly up at Stiles. Her fingers slide up his wrist to the inside of his forearm and she squeezes gently, leaning against him. "Now get your ass out here, or we're leaving."
There's a moment of dead silence, and then Jackson is laughing. "Stiles?! He's a fucking freak, Lydia, please."
"You don't know what his mouth can do."
The comment makes Jackson freeze and Stiles is blushing and wow, this Lydia girl has one of the most seductive smiles on earth. Should he bend a knee to his queen now or later, he wonders, but then that gets him thinking about how much Song of Ice and Fire he's been reading and, yea, he should definitely curb that.
Jackson swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat, and he eyes Stiles before sighing. The door shuts and Lydia releases his arm.
She doesn't thank him, or explain, or anything. Stiles just stands there for a minute, then asks, "That's – that's it?"
Lydia shoots him a hard expression and crosses his arms. "Don't talk to me," is the only thing that she says and Stiles turns to go down the hallway. As he turns for the stairs, he hears a door open and Jackson's voice: "You're such a liar; that kid has to be the king of virgins if there ever was one."
He wonders what he ever did to make Jackson hate him, but whatever. He tries to shake it off, wondering if he should text Scott again (for the tenth time) or if he should try to find his party himself. Frankly, he was hoping to just go back to his room and turn on some Colbert, read a few Wiki articles, edit some of his short films and post them to YouTube.
At this point, he can, of course – the room is empty – but he'd feel even worse if Jackson happened to forget something and came barging back in, only to find Stiles already wormed up in his bed. He grimaces at the thought and reaches up to tousle his locks, then turns for the exit door and slips into the night air.
He's halfway down the sidewalk when someone calls out, "Stiles!"
It's tempting to just keep walking, not turn around, but his feet do it anyway and he's whirling. Maybe it's because the voice is familiar, dark and sultry, and Stiles' head has been full of it.
"Hey!" Derek comes jogging toward him, a lopsided grin on his face. "What're you doing right now?"
"I was just gonna, uh – go for a walk. Around the neighborhood. I guess." It's a better excuse than I don't want to prove to Jackson that I am the king of virgins and losers.
"Oh. By yourself?" Derek glances past his shoulder, as if trying to see his invisible crowd of friends.
Stiles flushes and fidgets with his phone. "Yea, but like, I've been around people for so long I kinda just wanna get away."
It's as if neither of them know what to say; Derek seems like too nice of a guy to push for details, but Stiles doesn't want to be rude and just walk away. That's what he's considering doing, though, before Derek finally asks, "Mind if I come with? It'd be nice to get out for a little while."
His heart stutters and, yea, it's Derek Hale, the Hottest Man Alive, but he's not sure if he can handle any more embarrassment for the night. Stiles hadn't actually been considering going on a walk, but now that the idea's there, it sounds good. Being alone, even for twenty, thirty minutes, with no judgment or pressure digging into him – it may be the medicine he needs.
Derek seems to sense his hesitation, or maybe Stiles is as obvious as ever, because he says, "It's okay to say no."
Stiles shakes his head. "No, it's – it's fine, you can come. Sorry, I'm just a little, uh, foggy right now. What've you been up to?"
And just like that, Derek falls into step beside him. The sidewalk is neither narrow nor wide, so they're close, shoulders and hands almost touching but not quite. Stiles can just begin to feel the heat of the other boy's body, and it makes him bite his lip.
At first, it's idle chatter about school. Derek is a junior, it's his first year being an RA, he's majoring in biology, because like 94.78% of the world's population, he wants to be a doctor. He isn't sure exactly what kind of doctor, but a doctor. "Actually," he mumbles, "I might just be a nurse. I want my patients to know me, y'know, but I wanna make my parents proud." He shrugs, looking down at the pavement. "I don't know."
"Are they hard on you?" Stiles asks slowly, carefully; he's not sure if he's invited to get personal with Derek, he's not even sure if he's allowed to.
Derek snorts at the question, a wry smirk twisting his mouth, but there's something off in his expression, in the way he holds himself. He's too tense to be amused, his mind elsewhere. "You could say that."
It's a note to drop the topic and Stiles does with a nod; he understands not wanting to talk about parents and politics, considering his mother passed away a few years ago. So, when Derek falls quiet, Stiles fills the silence with his own goals. "I'm really into film, so I want to try my hand at that. I guess we'll see how the semester goes, but like – I'm really excited. I don't know if I want to be a director or a producer or, like, one of the lighting guys, I just wanna get my hands dirty and get in the business. Dad's not too happy about it, because how many people actually make it into the industry, but it's my passion and it's worth the risk."
Derek doesn't seem to be listening, which is a little disappointing, considering Stiles is talking about his passion but he tries not to let it get to him – after all, Derek Hale is just another hot guy, it's not like Stiles actually has a shot with him.
Still, Stiles can't help but try to get the guy to smile, so he nudges Derek with an elbow and says, "I can say that now, because I'm not unemployed and starving."
He receives a small grin in reply, followed by a light sigh. Ten seconds later, Stiles is getting shoved into the empty street. He accordingly stumbles, almost falls, and then there's a parked car right in his face; luckily, his hand juts out and he halts himself, breathless and a little panicked. Derek is laughing, and as Stiles to him, the guy just shrugs. "Don't nudge me without considering the consequences. I'm on the basketball team; I can beat your ass."
Brow quirked, Stiles boasts, "Yea? Well, I'm a fucking black belt. I'll taekwondo your ass right back."
"Are not," Derek scoffs, rolling his eyes.
Stiles grins at him, laughing. "No, but I might take a class just for kicks."
The next push he gets is gentler and Stiles is grateful it's dark out – that way Derek can't see the blush on his cheeks, or the smile he can't quite wipe off his face.
"But, for real, you play basketball?"
"Yea, totally. I'm varsity, starting lineup, shooting guard."
Stiles blinks at him. "So… so, like, you're good?"
Derek laughs, shrugs. "You can decide for yourself, I guess. If you want."
"I hate sports."
That's when Derek stops in his tracks, looking affronted. "Take it back?"
"No. Dude. Gross. Sports are like – the bane of my existence. Walking is a struggle for me, don't even talk about running. Do you know how many scars I have from gym class?"
"Are we talking emotional or physical? And do they have to do with gym class, or the locker room?"
Stiles bursts into laughter, ducking his face behind the crook of his elbow. "Wow, that's so mean."
Derek shrugs and waggles his eyebrows. "I never said I was a nice RA."
"Obviously I got the short end of the stick."
"Hey, you sleeping under the stars tonight?"
The abrupt change in topic doesn't quite phase Stiles; he shrugs, squinting down the road. They're almost back to the university, and he can see people starting to gather out in one of the big fields. A part of him actually is exhausted and wants to curl up and break down beneath his blankets – he misses home, he misses his dad, he misses when Scott was literally his best friend and the only person Stiles ever wanted to hang out with. The other half of him wants to stand up to Jackson's remarks and actually, like, be out of the room for more than three hours.
"Mmm, I might. Haven't decided. Don't you think there'll be a shit ton of mosquitoes, though?"
"Nah, we're in a city. You can't even fucking see the stars, it's just an excuse to get all your newbies outside so we can dump water on your faces in the morning."
"Well, now I'm definitely not coming."
"But seriously. You should." Derek's voice changes, sobers, and when Stiles looks over at him, he's staring back. "Bring your warmest blankets and your shittiest pillow and come outside. You'll be surprised by how much fun it is."
Stiles swallows. It's hard to say no with Derek looking at him the way he is – like Stiles is the only thing that matters right now, like Derek actually really wants him to come. His lips part and he exhales shakily, breaking the contact as he reaches up to rub the back of his neck; he's gotta be as red as a tomato.
"Yea, okay, fine. You sold me."
Derek cheers, and Stiles smiles. Mostly, he's just sad their walk is over.
