The line picks up on the fifth ring, and there's a muffled, "Stiles, give me a sec." He can hear chewing, and then after a moment, the slurping of what is presumably coffee.

"Dad, tell me you're not eating donuts." Stiles sighs and reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose; he's walking across campus, having just escaped his computer science lab. His eyes feel heavy and strained, too much time spent staring at a computer screen, and his stomach is on the verge of rioting.

"Of course I'm not!" the sheriff exclaims, and Stiles squints, trying to decide whether his father is lying or not. "Anyway, can we not talk about my diet. How's school going for you? Are your classes okay?"

Diets or classes – Stiles is considering choosing the former, but he doesn't want to turn this conversation into a lecture. Instead, he shrugs, then remembers his dad isn't actually, physically, there. Which, duh, but it still is like a punch to the gut. "They're fine, Dad. I mean, some of them are interesting, and others I just need for my diploma and couldn't care less about."

"But you're working hard, right?" There's an edge in his voice, warning Stiles that there is only one right answer. They've been through this a hundred times though, and Stiles is pretty sure his father only asks the question at this point because he doesn't want to seem like a lax father.

"Of course, Dad."

"Okay. Okay. How're you? Make any friends?"

"I'm fine. And no, not yet, not really. Like, kinda. I don't know." How do you tell your dad that your RA is off-the-charts sexy and that you may or may not have propositioned them about casual sex?

Stiles isn't sure, but he thinks the answer may be very simple: You just don't.

It's one of the only things on his mind though – Derek Derek Derek. It's almost an obsession, and it's gross and wrong, but he can't get the feel of Derek's mouth out of his head. It makes him wonder if he is even capable of the whole casual-sex thing; he gets too attached, too easily.

Maybe it doesn't even matter, because it's been three days since Stiles kissed Derek in the bathroom, the taste of his toothpaste still on his lips, and nothing has happened. Which, yea, it's only been three days, but still. Stiles isn't sure if he should be the one to broach the subject, or if he should wait for Derek – part of him wishes it was just some crazy nightmare, because he's pretty sure he overstepped his bounds.

The kiss in the hallway has fueled many a masturbatory session; it was above and beyond what he expected. Why did he have to go and push it?

"Stiles? Still there?"

He blinks and swallows, switches the phone from one ear to the other. "Uh, y-yea, sorry. Got distracted. Sorry."

"Is there… something I should know?" It's not a suspicious question, fishing to catch Stiles fucking up, but genuine concern, and Stiles wishes he could teleport back home, just to give his dad one hug. One. That's it.

He reaches up and digs the palm of his hand into his eye, rubbing away the sudden burden of tears. "Not really, just kinda stressed and figuring shit out," he answers, voice tight.

The sheriff pauses, sighs, but doesn't push. "Well, I love you, son. Call me more often, I like to hear your voice."

"Roger."

A laugh, and Stiles can hear someone else speaking, his father's answer muffled. There's a rustling sound, and then the sheriff is tuned back to him. "I don't mean to cut you off, Stiles, but–"

"It's cool, Dad. I'll call more often. Love you."

They click off and Stiles shoves his phone into his jeans pocket, turning towards the café. It's kinda late for a drink, almost four o'clock, but college runs on coffee and no one judges.

He orders a sixteen-ounce and stops at the bar to add an almost obscene amount of sugar and cream. As he rips open his third sugar pack, someone says, "Are you aiming for a sugar or a caffeine high?"

Stiles glances over, and two blue eyes are staring back. Tousled, loose blonde curls. Cheekbones that hardly seem fair, chiseled as they are. Full pink lips, curled up into a smile.

His coffee almost topples, but Stiles manages not to make a complete fool of himself. "I like my sugar with coffee," he says, once he finds his voice. A small shrug and a little smirk, and the boy grins at him.

"S'that how it is?" The boy grabs a straw and pops it into his drink – it looks like a frappe – then says, "Well, I hope you enjoy diabetes." His grin turns cheeky and, when he leaves, Stiles is left smiling stupidly to himself, a half-formed laugh on his tongue, hushed by the kid's figure. He's long and lean, shoulders wide, hips tapered.

As he leaves the coffee shop, he adjusts his scarf, and Stiles doubts he'll be able to walk across campus without scoping out scarf-boy.

Really, it's unfair to tease a boy and not even offer your name.

Stiles finishes mutilating his coffee and slips back outside, noting the day and time (Wednesday, four in the afternoon). He may have to make more trips to the café – more than he already does, anyway.

The grass is freshly watered and slippery as hell, but they agreed on Thursday at seven and fuck if that's going to change. Both of their shorts are stained and soaked, and gooseflesh breaks out on Stiles' arms when a breeze picks up. He wraps his arms around himself and squeezes, watching as Scott darts out and plucks the frisbee from the air.

Scott doesn't pause, instead catches the frisbee, twirls, and Stiles is jerking himself across the grass as the disc whizzes to his left. His stretches an arm out, shouting, but manages to snatch the frisbee as his feet slip out from underneath him. He drops to his knees and rolls, laughing and a little out of breath. Scott cheers and Stiles climbs back to his feet, snapping his wrist as he sends the frisbee back toward Scott.

The kid is a ninja, seriously. It's almost supernatural. Stiles remembers high school, and how they'd both been gangly and awkward; Scott seemed to grow out of it though, whereas Stiles – well, Stiles is Stiles. Sophomore year, Scott made the lacrosse team; junior year, he made varsity; by senior year, he'd gotten a few phone calls from scouts, and went on to accept a pleasant scholarship from the state university.

The practices have honed his body, and where there was once baby fat, there's now muscle. No wonder he managed to catch a girl like Allison within the first few weeks.

Stiles almost hates him as he watches the frisbee race to the right and catch the breeze, jumping up a few feet. Scott sprints after it and leaps up, grasping the frisbee; he doesn't even seem phased, though he is wearing a shit-eating grin. Stiles groans and covers his face with his hands.

When he looks up, Scott is shouting at him. A beat later, something collides hard against his skull and Stiles stumbles back; of course, he slips and falls onto his ass. He moans, lifting a hand to his head, feeling out the tender spot where the frisbee struck. There's no blood, but it hella hurts.

"You okay?"

Stiles is expecting Scott, but instead, when he pulls open his eyes, Derek is crouched down beside him, grinning softly. "You know, I always thought frisbee was a hands-on game."

Stiles just moans again and shuts his eyes; please god, let this be a delusion, it can't be fair to let him get hit in the face and fall on his ass, all in front of the hottest guy on campus. Change Derek Hale into someone else that's less handsome and more attainable. Fuck fuck fuck.

When he opens his eyes again, though, Derek is definitely hovering above him and how is he so good looking at every fucking possible angle? Stiles wants to punch him.

"I understand why you don't do sports now," Derek says.

Stiles scowls and pushes himself up; Derek proffers a hand and helps him to his feet, and Stiles tries not to be effected by how nice his hands are – large and firm and rough with calluses, but soft all the same. "Are you dropping out to become a comedian now?" he says sourly to fill the silence, but Derek just roll his eyes.

"Stiles!" Now Scott shows up, looking a little uncertain; his gaze shifts from Stiles to Derek and back, and Stiles realizes what took him so long – he was probably having some moral battle about what to do, worried about Stiles' wellbeing but also wanting to be a bro and let Stiles have a moment with his crush. "Sorry, man – you okay?"

"Yes. I'm fine. I've just been struck by what feels like lightning, but I'm fine." He throws his hands up in the air dramatically and Scott stares at him, still looking a little lost. Derek just guffaws.

"Lightning?"

Stiles sighs and drops his head back, groaning up at the sky. "I'm starting to think you actually came over to laugh at me rather than see how I am."

"I plead the fifth." Derek puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes. "See you later." A nod towards Scott, and he saunters off; Stiles can't pretend he doesn't glance over his shoulder and watch, breathing, "Hate to see you go, love to watch you leave."

Scott snorts and Stiles snaps his attention away from the Greek-god-in-disguise (should he be concerned about how many different descriptions he has for Derek?). "Sorry."

"No, I'm sorry. I totally didn't even look before I threw the frisbee, and of course, that's when I have dead-on aim." Scott winces, looking like a kicked puppy, and Stiles shakes his head, waving him off.

There's a beat of silence, and then Scott adds, "It was pretty funny though."

Stiles tries not to smile and fails, laughing. "Jesus, and Derek had to be there for all of it."

Scott bites his lip, then turns his head and starts laughing; Stiles joins in.

"Hey, Jackson. What's up?"

Silence.

"Seriously? That's awesome!"

Silence.

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear…?" Stiles ventures, just in case Jackson's day was shitty and Stiles' is misinterpreting his silence. Jackson has various silences; there's the happy silence, and the sad silence, and the fuck-you-don't-talk-to-me silence and the horny silence and, yea, it's a pretty extensive list. Doesn't matter that Stiles totally came up with all of them.

Jackson looks over at Stiles, hand lifting from his notes, and he asks icily, "Are you done?"

"Whoa, just trying to make conversation. Roommates do that, y'know? They take a general interest in one another." Stiles tosses his backpack on his bed, yawning. "Maybe you didn't get the memo, but that's okay, I got your back."

"Oh my god." Jackson hisses and Stiles turns away to hide a smile. Ever since he started fucking with Jackson, having a grumpy roommate has been a lot more fun.

He's not fucking Jackson, but fucking with Jackson – just to be clear.

Not that he hasn't thought about it. Jackson's pretty hot, if you like ice-cold lovers and daggers for eyes.

"So, it's Friday. And you're in the room. That's unusual…" he says slowly, fishing. "Are you detoxing or something?"

Jackson sighs. That's another thing Stiles gauges his roomie by – how angry his sighs are; he's been thinking about creating something like a Richter scale to evaluate Jackson's sighs, but he doesn't have that much free time.

He may be a loser, but he's not that much of a loser.

"Stop talking to me."

"Will do."

Stiles strips out of his shirt – You stay classy, San Diego – and pulls on a black one instead, then shoulders into his favorite zip-up, snatches up his keys, wallet, and phone, and heads for the door.

"Where are you going?" Jackson's tone is accusatory and Stiles stops to look over at him, one hand twisting the doorknob.

"Uh, elsewhere," he says, shrugging. The door falls shut behind him, and he smirks to himself.

Thirty minutes later, he's standing in the movie theatre lobby, contemplating what size popcorn he should get, and does he want some candy as well? The prices are jacked like crazy, and he regrets not stopping at the gas station to pick something, anything, up.

"Hey, sugar-boy," someone half-purrs into his ear; Stiles jerks away, mouth gaping.

"Jesus Christ," he growls, running his fingers through his hair and tousling the strands. It takes him a moment to react, but when he does, he smiles. "Hey, scarf-boy." Something possesses him to reach forward and adjust the scarf that scarf-boy is wearing. (Really, who wears a scarf to the movies? Like, for real.)

"Try Isaac," he corrects, a small smile on his mouth as he watches Stiles.

"Isaac," Stiles repeats, glancing upward and grinning; he pats Isaac's chest to indicate he's finished. "I'unno, I think scarf-boy might be a bit catchier. You may want to work on sugar-boy though, because that suggests I need a sugar-daddy, which I mean…" He's babbling and not in a good way, especially since Isaac is basically a stranger and Stiles is being inappropriate. He stops himself and flushes, finishes, "Try Stiles."

"Stiles? Is that actually your name?"

A shake of his head, and he looks back toward the concessions. "Uh, no. My last name is Stilinski, and my first name is just – it's hard to pronounce, so everyone calls me Stiles."

"Mmm," Isaac intones, and there's a beat of awkward silence. Stiles considers making his excuse to leave, but then Isaac asks, "What movie are you seeing?"

"Jurassic Park, 3D. It's a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, y'know?"

Isaac grins and nods, "Yea, I went opening night. It was pretty good. I mean…"

"I'm sorry, I think I heard you wrong – it was pretty good?" Stiles bunches his brows and Isaac shrugs, shameless. That's when a girl shows up, all blonde hair and curves. She has red lipstick, and she wraps her hand around Isaac's bicep.

Straight. Taken.

Stiles automatically takes a step back and the presumed girlfriend says, "Babe, we're gonna miss the show if you keep chit-chatting."

Isaac looks like he's going to apologize, but Stiles just takes another step back, saying, "It's chill – I gotta order my dinner anyway. It was nice discovering your name, Isaac." A wave, and he turns around.

He orders a medium popcorn, a large box of M&M's, and a medium Fanta. It's almost like the volume of food is supposed to compensate for the fact that he's alone.

There's a golly little knock on the door and Stiles glares over at the door; he's twisted in his blankets, even though it's three in the afternoon. It's also a Saturday though, and he's feeling a little blue. There's an ache deep in his bones, and each time he thinks about all the homework waiting for him, he just wants to burrow further into his blankets.

"Fuck," he breathes into his pillow as the knock comes again. He shoves at his blankets and drops out of his bed, shuffling toward the door. When he opens it, no one is there.

There is a note, however, taped to the door. It's addressed to him, Stiles, in tight, neat letters, and when he opens it up, there's an invite to a masquerade-themed dance party on Saturday.

This Saturday. As in, today. A few hours from now.

Meet me by the rose bushes, it says, and Stiles can't tell whether this is a joke or like, a super sexy invitation from someone.

Maybe Derek. Fuck, what if it's Derek? What if "masquerade-themed dance party" and "rose bushes" is code for like, sex? Stiles swallows hard at the thought and hastily tucks the invitation back into the envelope, in case his inviter is watching.

"Did you just get up?"

And, of course, it's Derek. And, of course, Stiles has to jolt, flinging the invite into the air, shouting wordlessly as his limbs so some spastic motion. Two seconds later, he clutches at his chest, glaring across the hallway where Derek is, peering at Stiles with a mixed expression that's both dubious and humored.

"Why can't you, like, just make noises like a normal person?" he mutters angrily.

It's like a smile is always playing at the corner of his lips, and whenever Stiles shows up, Derek can't help but flash it – probably because it knows things to Stiles' blood pressure. "I'm a werewolf."

"And I'm the abominable snowman." Stiles rolls his eyes.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to catch you off guard. But, seriously, did you just get up? Your hair is doing some crazy shit right now."

He reaches up and rubs at his eyes, nodding. "Yes, I did. And I wish I was still sleeping."

"You realize it's almost three, yea? How're you going to be able to sleep tonight?"

"If you spent a night with me, you'd understand," he says, and he isn't sure whether the surge of confidence came from. Maybe it's his slutty alter ego, getting better at the whole mind-control thing?

Stiles isn't sure, and he isn't even sure whether what he just said was stupid or slightly clever, but either way, Derek bites at his lip and nods. Stiles wrinkles his nose and says, "I'm going to shut my door and pretend that didn't just happen, okay?"

"Wait. How's your head… and your ass?" Derek pairs it with a smirk that makes Stiles feel a little dirty, in a good way.

"Perfect," he says, quirking a brow. "Why? You interested?"

A shrug. "I gotta go. Basketball practice, y'know?"

"Oh, yea, I totally understand."

Derek wrinkles his nose and laughs, and Stiles is still standing in his door a minutes later, smiling to himself, debating whether Derek with a crinkled nose is cuter than Derek with swollen red lips.

Despite his better judgment, Stiles takes a shower and pulls on the only thing befitting a masquerade dance: fitted, dark-washed jeans, a rumpled, white button-down shirt, and a black blazer. He spends time doing his hair, and he may have snooped around Jackson's side of the room until he found his roomie's industrial-strength hair gel.

When he looks in the mirror, he doesn't quite recognize himself. Stiles doesn't make it a habit to dress up, but that's the point of masquerade – to be unrecognizable.

And, if Derek is the one who invited him, well… Stiles definitely wants to look good, if not down right delectable.

He tries not to run down the stairs, but he does, and as he winds his way across the campus to the row of rose bushes, he tries not to jog – or, better yet, sprint. Despite his anticipation, he's also incredibly nervous. What if it isn't Derek? What if it's… What, some random person?

Why would Derek be going to a masquerade dance party thing, anyway? (Why most people are going, Stiles imagines – for the dancing and the bodies and the booze and the sex.)

Still. Why would anyone invite Stiles?

His heart is thudding in his chest, and he bites at his lip as he rounds the last corner. The line of rose bushes is a few hundred feet away, but the closest lamps are farther, leaving the string of bushes in shadow. Stiles squints, hoping to distinguish a shape from the gloom, hoping to see broad shoulders and strong hands.

There's no one.

His heart sinks, and Stiles spins mid-step, looking around him. No one is there either. Still, he keeps walking forward, just in case he's not seeing everything. Maybe he's early, maybe his date is late. Maybe–

Someone crashes through the bushes and Stiles stumbles sideways; he doesn't have time to register who it is, but he does register the pain. There's a punch to his face, another, and the hand gripping his shoulder digs into his flesh, keeping him from running off or even falling. Stiles grabs the kid's hair (there isn't much) and jerks his elbow like his dad taught him; there's a dark grunt, but it only seems to motivate his assailant, because then there's a knee in his groin and Stiles doubles over. A few punches to the stomach finish him off; he's wheezing, barely able to breathe, and blood is stinging his eyes.

By the time the kid runs off, Stiles is on his knees, shaking. It starts with his fingers, digging into the hard, cold cement of the sidewalk, but it escalates, the anxiety pulling through his body like string through a puppet. The hits aren't the thing preventing him from breathing, he realizes; no, it's like something is inside of him, gripping his lungs until they can't work.

Stiles chokes and tries to stand, but he can't. His mind flashes through a hundred different things, a thousand different sights – his mother, pinned down in a gurney, lacerations coating her skin like a million paper cuts, the shallowness of her breath, the blood. There's his father, hand vibrating so much that the neck of the scotch bottle rattles against his glass. Stiles groans, tries to remember what his old therapist said – breathe in, breathe out, slow slow slow down; he starts going through his times tables and tries to recite the alphabet backwards.

The attack passes in its own time, but Stiles doesn't move, outside of his sputters and chokes. He's crying, and when he feels his heart thud back to its normal pace and stay there, he climbs shakily to his feet. He fusses over his hair, trying to keep his head cool, and he takes his time walking back to the dorm, one foot in front of the other in front of the other.

He's numb more than anything; there's the aura of pain, sinking into his skin, but his head is up in the clouds, unable to be touched. When he finally makes it to his room, he barely even hears his name; his eyes flick up, but he doesn't register the face staring at him from down the hall. He blinks, and whoever it is is suddenly lurching closer. Stiles turns away, presses his forehead against the door and just – he just breathes.

Stiles breathes while he still can.