"You hooked up?"
These are three words Stiles has mixed feelings over – he knew they were bound to fall out of his mouth, but he never imagined they'd be directed at Scott.
Scott, who is flushed and grinning excitedly at him across the booth they're nestled in. Scott, who definitely has a few hickeys on his neck and wow, Stiles really wants to try that (with another person, preferably not Scott). Scott, his best friend – only, now he is the iceberg to Stiles' Titanic. Or maybe it's the other way around….
Either way, Stiles is left gaping at his friend, both proud and surprised, but also unsurprised because – well, he knows Scott, and he's a good guy. Good guys deserve pretty, funny girls that are also definitely kissable. And they deserve handsome, funny guys that are also definitely kissable, too.
"Say something!" Scott says, pushing a forkful of hashbrowns into his mouth.
"I just… It's fast, isn't it? To be doing that kinda stuff? Shouldn't you court her for a year first?" Stiles blurts, distracted by his thoughts. A beat later, he's saying, "I mean, good for you, Scott. I'm happy you're, uh, happy." He smiles, and he means it, and Scott looks a little less disappointed and a little more self-satisfied.
Inwardly, though, Stiles is having a mild panic attack. He knows he's not the average teen. The average teen goes out and gets drunk and smokes some weed, or at least that's what the media says. Stiles… he gets off on How It's Made, and while he watches porn like every other soul in the nation, he watches porn and reads groundbreaking science discoveries, and he's okay with that. But maybe – maybe he skipped something, or maybe he was born with something missing. Some fundamental desire to get raging drunk and/or high and go rut against someone else's thigh or – no, he definitely has the latter, but the thing is…
The thing is, no one in the history of the world has ever been interested in him.
Genim Stilinski. Stiles.
He's eighteen years old, and his sex life (past, present, and future) is as bleak as the Gobi Desert. Bleaker, actually. Maybe like Darth Vader's sex life, post-amputation.
It's not that Stiles is consumed with thoughts of sex or concern over his lack of potential suitors, it's just that occasionally it worries him. He's eighteen years old, and his sex drive is clearly indicating that he should be procuring a few STDs.
The king of virgins.
Ugh, he hates Jackson Whittemore.
"Has anyone caught your eye?"
He blinks, looks up at Scott and shrugs, sighs. "We've barely been here for two weeks, and you want to put me and sex in the same sentence? We went to high school with the same exact people for four years, and no one even glanced at me!"
Okay, so he's definitely letting the whole no-sex-thing consume him. Whatever, it's his life.
Scott just laughs though. "Yea, well, those people also saw you with five hundred zits and, like, go through puberty. You're in college now, and you look good."
Stiles' head jerks up at that; one second, he's mentally beating away his frustration, and the next he's completely diverted with the potential that Scott may think he's… what, cute, handsome, daresay even ruggedly handsome? He's touched.
"Dude, no. Sorry, but no," Scott says as soon as he spies the look in Stiles' eyes, raising his palms as if to ward him off (it's not like Stiles was going to launch himself at Scott, please – he's not that desperate). "I'm just saying, college is a different ballgame. People just wanna play ball. Why can't you be one of them? So tell me: has anyone caught your eye?"
Another defeated sigh pushes through his lips and he grudgingly asks, "Do you know who Derek Hale is?"
He gets to the count of four before Scott's eyebrows hitch up his forehead and he leans a little closer, hissing, "You like Derek fucking Hale?!"
Stiles winces and pinches his forefinger and thumb together to signal that Scott needs to lower his fucking voice. Never mind that his best friend is already whispering. "He's my RA and he's gorgeous. I know it's hopeless. I have the wrong gear between my legs and, like, every girl on campus has to be crushing on him."
"Let's be honest, even I have a crush on Derek Hale."
Scott receives a glower for the comment.
"Well, don't give up. You gotta try everything once, right? And, anyway, there are plenty of hot guys on campus that'd love to shove their tongue down your throat."
Stiles winces at the phrasing, says, "You don't know that. And, anyway, I can already begin the count to prove you wrong – Jackson Whittemore ranks, like, at the top."
"Jackson Whittemore? Wait, that assholeis your roommate?"
"Duh! Who the fuck else would I be talking about?"
"Well, I dunno. You didn't mention that his last name was Whittemore until two seconds ago. Anyway, he can't be totally bad. Like, he's already the douchebag of the lacrosse team, but still…" Scott waggles his eyebrows and Stiles is tempted to throw egg at him; instead, he refrains, settling for a dramatic groan as he leans back in his chair, hiding behind his fingers.
"Next time we eat together, can you try to look presentable? I don't need you of all people to be flaunting your evolutionary success in front of me." He gestures at his own neck, the expanse of pale, virginal skin that's a painful contrast to Scott's hickey/leopard-print flesh. Jesus.
Scott seems to acquiesce, but it doesn't prevent him from quipping, "Let's hope I'm not evolutionarily successful for at least ten years, yea?"
"I can't decide whether I hate essays or math more," Jackson muses. He's on his bed, leaning against the wall, laptop cradled between his two knees. Stiles doesn't need the details to know that Jackson's talking about his history essay – the one that is due in approximately four hours, the one Jackson was griping about a week ago and the same one he just started.
"Both of them only illuminate a fundamental weakness in your repertoire as an academic," Lydia breathes. She's sitting at Jackson's desk, her math text, notes, and a notebook sprawled across the tabletop; she's slumped over all of it, hair tossed over one shoulder as she writes out equations and solves them without even trying.
That's what it looks like to Stiles, anyway, who keeps tossing sidelong glances at the pair. He has his own essay pulled up in front of him – actually, it's a draft of an oral argument he has to present tomorrow – and it's nearly finished, so he grants himself this one distraction (iTunes, Wikipedia and Reddit don't count as distractions at this point; he likes to think of them as mental nourishment and creative brain boosts). Neither of them seem to notice, and if they do, they insist on ignoring him.
"And I should be grateful for this opportunity to improve myself, right?" Jackson finishes for her; she sits up and offers him a wry smile. Every time Stiles has encountered them, they're bickering, but he's quickly deciding it's how they communicate.
"Well, if you say so." Her smile grows into a toothy grin, and then she leans back into a stretch, back arching and arms reaching upward. Stiles feels his mouth grow dry and he flushes, noting the curve of her breasts and the tight line of her stomach. Jackson catches his eye and Stiles hastily ducks his head down and swallows.
"Freak," his roommate mumbles.
Stiles glowers at his screen but doesn't comment. He listens to the creak in Jackson's chair as Lydia shifts – presumably to get back to work, or maybe to look over at him. Not that there's much to look at. Sweatpants and a plain, baggy t-shirt is his typical homework attire; it's also his sleep attire, too, but hey, it's eight o'clock on a Wednesday night and he isn't going anywhere anytime soon.
Actually, he might go to the café on campus real fast and grab a BLT sandwich or something, because man, he could really do with a snack.
"Are you going to the party on Saturday? I think rush week is happening soon, and like, all the frats and sororities are gonna be hosting."
"Probably. Sounds like fun, y'know? They'll be a bunch of cute, drunk guys there, for me and you both."
Jackson laughs once, but then says, "I dunno, Lydia, Danny's actually, uh…" His tone changes, almost gets shy, and Stiles holds his breath – does Jackson actually have feelings? For another person? Other than himself? What? "He's pretty great. It's unexpected."
"You mean he's a pretty great kisser," Lydia teases.
"That, too." Jackson laughs; it sounds a little breathless, and Stiles is dying. He casually pushes his laptop so it's angled, the screen facing beyond his shoulder, and clicks onto his internet browser, pulling up a darker webpage; it grants him a reflection of Jackson, biting his lip as if to ward off a smile.
The usual hard anger in his eyes isn't present (at least, that's what it looks like), and for once, Stiles actually sees why people find Jackson attractive – right now, soft and caught off guard, he looks cute.
"Does that mean you're serious about him?" she pushes, lowering her voice.
And just like that, Jackson snaps back to himself. He wrinkles his nose and casts her a dubious expression. "Please. I still have half this campus to wreak havoc on, starting with the RA."
Lydia snorts. "Good luck with that. You sure he bends that way?"
"Everyone bends over sometime or another," Jackson retorts. "He's varsity basketball, which means he's gotta be at the party. He's basically already mine."
It sounds like something the bitchy antagonist would say in a bad teenage drama. Going with the motif, that apparently makes Stiles the homely protagonist with the hots for the same guy. Which is kinda true. Regardless, Stiles almost wishes he had his camera out to record the whole exchange, because with a few additional clips, he could totally make some cliché movie trailer. Wouldn't that be amusing?
A smile doesn't upturn his mouth though. It shouldn't matter whether Derek Hale is getting freaky with Jackson Whittemore (or anyone, for the record), but Stiles can't help but think that… if Derek is going to be bending over for anyone, it should definitely be him.
Actually, if Derek is going to be bent over anyone, it should definitely be him.
Does that mean the competition is on?
He snorts at that, shaking his head, and returns to pounding out his concluding argument, mouthing the words as he goes, feeling the rhythm of them on his tongue. When the last period finally comes, he hits save and jumps up from his chair, scooping up his student ID and keys.
Without a word, he jams his feet into some sneakers and hits the stairs. A quick jog across campus to the café (ten minutes 'til closing, score!) and he makes a quick purchase of that BLT he was craving. Or, at least, he intends to make it quick, but once he gets to the cash register, he recognizes the dark wavy locks and big, brown eyes.
"Allison, right?"
"Yea." She smiles at him warmly, ringing up his sandwich. As he swipes his ID to pay, she squints at him, then adds cautiously, "You're Scott's friend – from high school?"
Best friend, before you came along. The thought is unbidden and he pushes it away, instead nodding and grinning back at her. He can't screw this up, knowing how happy Scott is. "Yup, that guy. We met over dinner a few weeks ago?"
"Mhmm. You had some good jokes up your sleeve. Scott loves you."
As he scoops up his sandwich, he laughs, "Well, tell him I said hi."
"Actually. I haven't seen him in a while."
Her words stop him, or maybe it's the look on her face – teeth digging into her lower lip, uncertainty in her eyes. She was made to laugh, with her dimples and white teeth and dancing eyes, and this doubt makes Stiles want to find Scott then and there and wring his neck. "Oh," is the only thing that comes out of his mouth though, a breathless little sound.
Allison swallows and reaches up to tuck her hair behind her ear. "Like, it's only been five days, but…" One shoulder reaches her ear in a shrug, and then her brows furrow and she stares down at the counter. "I know, it's not your problem, I was just wondering if maybe… maybe he said something to you? About me?"
Five days ago, Scott had been smiling and giddy and definitely covered in some bruises. When he spoke about Allison, it wasn't in a triumphant way – okay, it was, kinda, but it's not like he spoke of Allison as if she were simply a conquest. Of course Scott was a little breathless with the fact that he made out with a girl, but he was also wound up with puppy love.
He glances up at her and holds his breath. He should lie and say Scott's just busy or something, but he doesn't know why Scott hasn't spoken to her and it's not his business. In high school, Stiles would shove his nose in Scott's life without a second thought, but back then, Scott had always told him everything going on in his life. It's different now.
The thought causes his stomach to twist painfully, and he sighs. "I wish I could say so, but he hasn't talked to me in a while either, Allison. I'll call him though, see what's going on. Don't worry, Scott's a weirdo," he says, hoping the words will comfort her in some capacity. A beat after they come out, though, he blinks and then hastily adds, "I mean, he's a weirdo but he's not, y'know, a weirdo. He isn't… he isn't…"
She's laughing though, shaking her head. "No, I get what you're saying, Stiles, don't worry. Hey, are you coming to the frat party Saturday?"
"They aren't really my scene."
"You should. You should come."
Stiles is taken aback by the invite, by the sincerity in her tone, but then he grins and nods. "I'll think about it, how 'bout that?"
They part ways and Stiles takes his time walking back to his room. It gives him an opportunity to dial Scott's phone; his best friend doesn't pick up until Stiles calls him for the third time.
"Stiles! Hey, sorry, I'm just, like – there's this test I have tomor–"
"Don't worry, Scott. I just wanted to talk to you real fast."
A pause, then, "Okay…"
"What's up with you and Allison? I just saw her and she said you guys hadn't spoken in a few days."
His voice changes, softens. "Oh. Allison. She said that? Did she seem worried?"
"Duh, dude. You haven't called her or anything?"
"No!" Scott wails, and then he huffs and Stiles knows he's thoroughly distracted his friend. "I've made a mess of everything. I felt so good afterwards, and then I thought it'd be a good idea to wait to text her because I didn't want to seem too eager but then time kept going by and I kept thinking that she hadn't texted me either and what if she regrets it, Stiles? Because, like, I'm me and she's her and…" He sighs miserably.
It instantly makes Stiles feel bad for all the negative feelings he's been harboring against Scott for abandoning him. "Hey, Scott. Ignoring your failing logic, I think she totally digs you. Text her, man."
"You think so?" he asks in a small voice and Stiles wants to clobber him and hug him and, Jesus, he misses Scott.
"Yes!" Stiles practically shouts, and when Scott laughs, so does he. "Okay, I'll let you get back to your studies."
"Yea, okay. I'm gonna text her, and then study. But I'm gonna text her first. Thanks, Stiles. You're a lifesaver."
Or a sex life saver, really, but whatever.
"No problem."
"I'll talk to you later, then."
Stiles is about to drop the phone and end the call, but then he verbally lunges, figuring he has nothing to lose – "Scott. Wait. Wait. Uhm. Can… Do you think we can hang out? I miss you, man, and someone needs to keep you in line."
There's a pause on the line, and for a second, Stiles wonders if Scott already hung up. But then his voice is crackling in his ear: "Duh. You're the one who hasn't been talking to me! I thought I, like, pissed you off or something."
Stiles wants to throttle him, but he's smiling with relief all the same. "No. No way, bro. I'll text you and we'll work something out. Good luck on your exam."
When he finally hauls himself up the stairs (sweet Jesus, why did he have to be assigned to the third floor?), he's a little out of breath. He pauses, leaning against the wall, and his eyes slowly creep down the hall toward Derek's room.
The door's open and Derek's visible at his desk, biting the end of his pencil. After a while, he brings the graphite down and scrawls something into a notebook, hesitates, then lifts the eraser back to his lips. After a moment, as if he's able to sense Stiles' gaze, he glances down the hall and his eyes find Stiles and he grins. A hand raises, waves, and Stiles does a nod of acknowledgement, then mimics wiping sweat off his brow. Derek laughs, and it's audible down the hall.
He can't manage the confidence to go down and talk to him, so instead he ducks his head and goes to his room.
Jackson is still there, typing away and complaining, and Lydia is still calculating her math problems. Neither glance at him, until he phone jingles with a jolly little tone and Stiles fumbles into his pocket to pull it out.
He forgot that, as an RA, Derek has his number.
still too pretty for sports?
we should go for another walk sometime
just sayin' – a fifty year old man could beat you up those stairs
Stiles heart stops beating and he has to bite his lip to keep from smiling too hard.
The sun finally dips below the horizon on Saturday night, and it's as if the moon is the DJ, because the more it illuminates the night, the louder the subwoofer gets. Bubbly pop music is thrumming through the speakers and there's a mash of bodies. The lighting is kinda crazy (at least in the bigger rooms, like the living room and basement), a spray of colors that flash around and turn eyes to red and mouths to blue.
He's sweaty just from being inside, the heat is so intense. Initially, he'd come along with Scott and Allison; they'd worked things out, it seemed, and at first, it wasn't awkward. But then the music got louder and their bodies got closer and, well, Stiles has a weak stomach. So he bounced around on his own, tossed down a beer, and another.
And another.
Being honest, he's mostly been drinking and standing in a corner, nodding to people that walk by and opening his mouth as if to speak. Words never come out though, and no one seems to really want to talk to him.
He finishes his third beer and winds his way through the hallway to get to the kitchen. The windows are thrown open and it feels so much better; he runs his fingers through his hair and scrubs, then looks around.
And there, in the corner, is Derek.
Except, it's more like Derek is being corralled into the corner, Jackson pressing close. It's like watching a predator hone in on its prey, but Derek doesn't quite seem into it – he's looking at Jackson, but he's not really looking at Jackson. That's what Stiles' drunk brain says to himself anyway.
At least until the two are suddenly kissing, and Stiles can see the way Jackson's fingers ruck up Derek's shirt.
For the record though, he can't see Derek's hands anywhere on Jackson. Actually, they're clutching the edge of the counter, tightly enough to turn his knuckles white.
Stiles opens his mouth without a second thought and crows, "Eyyyy! Derek!"