They make out, and Danny is unimpressed.
Danny is generally unimpressed by most things: school, lacrosse, Jackson's angst-filled rants about lacrosse and Allison and Scott McCall, his father's opinion on pretty much anything.
But this is especially unimpressive.
It happens because Stiles corners him in the hallway after school, the rush of students barely bothering to part around them.
"Hey," Stiles says, trying to lean closer and not talking quite loud enough to be heard easily over the din, not quite softly enough that no one else could hear them if they happened to be listening.
"What do you want, Stiles?" Danny sighs. Stiles usually wants something: assurance, answers, some measure of friendship that Danny is just not prepared to give, because just because they're on the same team and in half the same classes doesn't make them friends, doesn't make them anything more than two bodies passing through the same space at almost the same time. In a few years, Danny won't know Stiles, won't know anybody here if he doesn't want to. And he doesn't think he will.
Stiles hesitates, then squares his shoulders in the way that Danny knows from constant accidental observation means he's about to go over all self-righteous. "I saw what happened outside chemistry," he says. "I just wanted to make sure you're okay."
Danny shrugs. "It wasn't anything." This is true: in a school as accepting as this one, a shove in the hall, a laugh stifled behind a fist, that's nothing. Danny knows he could have it a lot worse.
But Stiles obviously doesn't agree, if that weird demented fire in his eyes is anything to go by. "It wasn't nothing! It was bullying! It was homophobia." The rush of people has lessened enough that Stiles is able to lean closer on the last word, give it the proper whispered reverence that Danny personally thinks is just as much bullying as a shove in the hallway.
Stiles obviously means well, though. Danny rolls his eyes, but the guy is harmless.
He should know, though. "Everyone knows I'm gay, Stiles," Danny says, "Trying to elevate my sexual orientation to some other level or whatever you're doing, making me different than everybody else, it's just as bad, you know."
Danny doesn't know if he's entirely making sense, but Stiles seems to get the drift, because his eyes widen. "I'm sorry," he says immediately. "I didn't mean it like that. I don't think you're different."
Danny looks at the ceiling. "I know, Stiles," he says. The hallway is totally empty now, and Danny's father will be getting impatient, waiting for him in the parking lot. "It's fine."
But Stiles obviously isn't done. He opens his mouth then pauses, face working, obviously afraid to say whatever it is he wants to say next.
Just as Danny is about to tell him to spit it out already, Stiles takes a deep breath and blurts. "I know you're not, like, different. But you see things differently than other guys, right? I mean, you find guys attractive, right?" His eyes are going a bit wild now, and Danny is starting to see where all this is going. He guesses he shouldn't really be surprised. But Stiles presses on, as though physically incapable of stopping now that he's started: "So I was wondering if you could tell me whether or not I'm attractive. Because some days I think….But then sometimes…And Scott won't tell me. But your opinion would be better than his, anyway, I think."
Danny waits a beat. "You done?" he asks.
Stiles nods. "Done. Sorry. I know it's…" He looks away, off down the deserted hall.
Danny shrugs. There's no harm in it. And Stiles isn't bad, as far as people go. Actually, after Jackson and a couple of the other guys, Stiles is probably the least annoying person at this whole school.
So he can give Stiles this. "Yeah, you're attractive."
Stiles lights up, almost literally brightening, his round face perking up and mouth curving. "Really?"
"Yeah, sure. In like a cute-nerd-at-the-bookstore way, or whatever. Don't make a big deal out of it."
Of course Stiles is going to make a big deal out of it, though, because Danny is pretty sure Stiles is fundamentally incapable of doing anything in an understated manner. And he's standing there again with that I'm-about-to-say-something-maybe-a-little-bit-socially-unacceptable-but-I-just-can't-seem-to-stop-myself look on his face, so Danny crosses his arms and raises his eyebrows and waits.
Eventually, "I was thinking…that maybealsoweshouldmakeout. Or something," and Danny raises his eyebrows some more.
"Oh yeah?" Danny asks, feeling some amusement creep up at the look of utter mortification on Stiles's face. "Why should we do that?"
"For social justice!" Stiles practically shouts. "And my self-esteem!"
This is a very bad idea, Danny knows. Still, he cocks his head and looks at Stiles standing there in the hall, all uncertainty and anticipation and lip biting, and yeah, he's a little curious. He wasn't lying about Stiles being cute or anything, either.
He breathes out heavy. "Okay," he says. "Come here."
Stiles drops his backpack to the ground with a thump, wipes his hands on the front of his jeans approximately twelve times, and steps forward. "So how should we—"
Danny shakes his head and takes a much bigger step forward, one hand moving to Stiles's waist and tilting his head down to reach Stiles's mouth. If he'd waited for Stiles to make the move, they'd have been there for another twenty minutes, at least.
So Danny kisses Stiles. And Danny is unimpressed.
He pulls away after a scant minute of Stiles's lips working against his, Stiles's tongue probing earnestly (he can't tell because of the angle, but he guesses that Stiles's eyes are earnestly closed as well; man, that kid is so fucking earnest, and Danny half wants to ask him how he manages that, how he can be so openly enthusiastic all the time, how cynicism somehow managed to skip him over when it washed over Danny and sunk him down years ago) in empty air for half a second after Danny jerks his head back.
Stiles blushes immediately and immensely, red filling his cheeks in uneven patches. "Sorry," he says. "That was probably pretty bad, huh?"
His eyes drop and his hand goes to grip a backpack strap that's not there, and goddamn it, Danny wants to reassure him all of a sudden. "Nah," he says, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He leans back against the bank of lockers behind him, kicking up a foot until he thinks maybe that looks stupid and puts it back down again. "It was fine, dude."
Stiles glances up, meets Danny's eyes for maybe a quarter of a second before looking down again. "Yeah?" he says, and the tiniest smile begins at the corner of his mouth. "I'll take it," he says, nodding.
He looks up again, grins embarrassedly but doesn't look away this time. "Thanks, Danny," he says. "I mean, that…I mean, thanks."
He turns away, scooping his backpack up off the ground as he goes. He doesn't look back, but he does shake his head a little bit when he gets to the door, and Danny sees that that tiny smile is still on his face.
Stiles can't kiss for shit. That's just the truth. But still, something in Danny (something in that smile catching around Danny's ribs and creating a string between him and Stiles, pulling tight when Stiles disappears through the door) wants to call Stiles back, push him up against his locker, and see if kissing him would be quite so unimpressive the second time.