H二十六N二十六二十六十L

"Are you sure your girlfriend gave you permission to drink?" Lydia says mockingly as Stiles lifts the bottle to his mouth.

"Doesn't matter. I'm gonna do it just to piss her off." He says defiantly, gulping down the vodka and shaking his head to alleviate the burning feeling in his throat.

"My girlfriend sucks!" Stiles declares loudly, or atleast that's what he means to declare, but it comes out sounding more like, "Arr, Urrrrgh!"

"Easy there, tiger." Lydia grabs his arm to steady him because while he hasn't fallen off yet, the night is still young, the ground is still a good ten feet below them, and Stiles is still sufficiently inebriated. Really its just a question of when.

"So, what'd you fight about?" she tries to seem nonchalant, but she can't shake the feeling that she'd slip up and he'd know. Lydia hadn't wanted to ask, because she didn't think it was her place, but god she was aching to know why.

Plus, this was a really good time to wheedle it out of Stiles, what with him being sober enough to answer coherently, but wasted enough to not remember this conversation.

He blinks a couple of times, says huh a lot more times and makes several weird grunting sounds before Lydia decides its pointless. Just when she's given up, he answers.

"About Lyd-Lydia Martin." He slurs.

Her eyes widen. "What."

He nods as He sits up on the rock that she'd dragged him down to after she'd deemed the wall too unsafe especially since she was feeling a little tipsy herself.

"She thinks I'm not over you." he says ruefully.

She feels something stir in her stomach, but before Lydia can stop herself she's asking softly, as if someone will overhear them, even when there's no one for miles, "Are you?"

He looks up and meets her fearful gaze, and she sees something dark flit across his eyes. His expression is unreadable, but she doesn't have to look at him to guess what he's thinking, because the air around them knows perfectly well, charged with electricity and desire and an overwhelming feeling of an impending disaster.

So she doesn't flinch when he moves closer, doesn't dare to let out the breath she's been holding for what seems like hours while he considers the implications of what he's doing, his eyes never leaving hers. In the end though, he must decide that he doesn't care about the implications because he leans in ever so slightly, and that sends a wave of malicious glee through her.

When his face cannot possibly be closer to hers without contact and his hot breath is smothering her brain's ability to think, she whispers his name as an urgent warning.

She wants to say, "Stiles, don't do this if it means nothing." She wants to say, " Stiles, you can't go back to her if you do this." She wants to say, "Stiles, this is it." but all that comes out is a feeble 'Stiles.'

And he doesn't seem to care about that either, and she'd protest but she's so very tired of going in circles and pretending, because she'd thought that after a life of pretense, she didn't have to pretend with him but then enter Malia and everything goes to shit and before she knows it she's pretending again.

So she takes a deep breath, closes her eyes and opens her mouth to his.