war paint - the dangerous summer
There's a war coming. Stiles can feel it building, roiling in the air like thunderclouds, a gathering storm. He can sense it as he lies in bed at night with Jackson, sticky with sweat and more. Jackson sleeps, calmly, curled into Stiles' side. Stiles wishes he could stay like this forever, wishes that the months of peace between the wolves and the hunters weren't about to come to an end. He doesn't know what caused it this time, doesn't want to know. It's probably something else to do with Scott and Allison; it usually is. But, lying here next to Jackson, Stiles can't bring himself to care all that much.
When Jackson wakes up, he will sigh and make his usual excuses and make a hasty exit through Stiles' window. He always does, and Stiles always wishes that he wouldn't. They could be, could have, something more than this, whatever this is.
So when Jackson stirs, when he rolls over and rubs his eyes, Stiles hardens himself to the inevitable cold shoulder. But he is surprised when Jackson smiles up at him and kisses whatever part of Stiles' body is beneath his mouth. He is surprised when Jackson wishes him good morning and laces their fingers together. Stiles allows a smile to spread across his face. "I wanted to make it right, before the war starts," Jackson whispers and his breath flutters, warm and wet, against the skin of Stiles' arm. And when Jackson pulls his face down to kiss him, Stiles is okay with that.