Chapter Seven
Stiles fought the urge to rub at the handprint of paint on his right cheek. It was itchy, and he should never have let Danny put a handprint turkey on his face. No one looked remotely attractive with a fucking turkey on their face. But he'd made the mistake of mentioning the theme of Ethan's brother's party to Danny, and Danny's face had lit up, this almost manic gleam in his eye, and suddenly he was slapping a paint covered hand to Stiles's cheek and telling him to sit still and stop twitching or he would smudge it.
Stiles glanced sideways out of the corner of his eye at Danny and reflected that he should maybe just consider himself lucky that he'd escaped with only various thanksgiving shades of paint. He'd refused point blank to let Danny add googly eyes. He already had two eyes on his face and did not need another set. Danny, on the other hand, had taken the ridiculous theme to heart and was sporting a pair of tight yellow jeans, with what appeared to be a full set of turkey tail-feathers fastened above his ass, a brown t-shirt equally as tight as his pants, and a Perry the Platypus ball cap he'd painted brown to cover the green. It really should have looked ridiculous. Utterly, stupidly ridiculous, but Stiles was forced to admit that (somehow, impossibly) Danny did pull it off.
"Don't touch it!" Danny warned when Stiles's hand tried to creep up to his cheek to scratch. "It looks good, but it won't look good if you mess it up."
Stiles rolled his eyes but obediently stuffed his hands into the pockets of his red hoodie. He'd seen it in the mirror before they left Danny's dorm, and the turkey looked silly, not good. Okay, maybe the dark orange paint added a warm sort of glow to his skin. And the dark brown brought out his eyelashes in a weird way. Stiles couldn't understand how it worked, but suddenly they seemed, well, lush, which was dumb. And then there was the gold-flecked liquid eyeliner (that battle he'd lost) that Danny had used in a couple different places to 'highlight' or whatever. And yeah, he guessed the glitter—glitter, ug—made his brown eyes sort of a luminous gold when it caught the light. Which was actually kind of cool. And so yeah, fine, maybe he understood why girls liked wearing makeup.
But he still thought it was dumb that he had to have a turkey on his face.
"What's the address again?"
Stiles rattled it off, pulling his phone out of his pocket to check the Google map. "It should be just around the corner."
And sure enough, as they turned the corner they spotted Ethan's place. Even without knowing the address it would have been difficult to miss. Someone—Aiden, Stiles assumed—had found a giant blow-up turkey and stuck it on the front lawn where it bobbed gently in the cool breeze, illuminated by a large, orange spotlight.
"Awesome," Danny grinned, teasing. "Who knew your barista-boy threw such cool parties?"
Stiles elbowed him, scowling. "Don't call him that."
They crossed up the driveway to the door and when Stiles hesitated, fingers hovering over the doorbell, Danny laughed, shoved him aside, and pushed the door open.
They'd been able to hear the throb of the bass from the end of the street and, now that they were inside, Stiles could feel it in his bones. Everywhere he looked people were sporting multiple shades of orange, feathers, and there was at least one girl wearing what looked like actual turkey drumsticks on her chest. Danny whooped and pulled a beer out of their six pack before shoving the rest at Stiles. Then he vanished into the crowd, his tail feathers wagging merrily behind him.
"Great," Stiles muttered, suddenly feeling very underdressed. Maybe he should have let Danny talk him into wearing his own turkey tail. Trying not to meet anyone's eye he inched further into the house, intent on finding a fridge or an ice bucket where he could stash the beer.
He'd thought about bringing a bottle of wine since he greatly preferred that to beer, but 'wine' still said 'Derek,' so he'd halted that idea in its tracks.
"Stiles!" A pleased voice sounded from above him and, startled, Stiles glanced up to see Ethan leaning over the second floor balcony. "Stay there, I'm coming down."
"Uh, sure?" Stiles banished all thoughts of Derek from his head and tried to focus on Ethan coming down the stairs. Which wasn't hard, considering he was seemingly the only person in the house not dressed like a turkey. Ethan was, in fact, wearing a chef's smock and hat, and, to top it all off, carrying a turkey baster.
"I like your costume," Stiles said with a laugh as Ethan finally appeared in front of him.
"Thanks," Ethan grinned, unabashed, "I thought I'd go for something different."
"It looks great," Stiles offered, trying to ignore the way Ethan's muscular body filled out the crisp white fabric.
"So do you," Ethan brought a hand up before Stiles could move, and traced lightly over the paint on Stiles's cheek. Stiles's breath caught in his throat, held there as Ethan's fingers glided over his skin. "Very sexy. For, you know, a turkey."
Stiles choked on a laugh. "Thanks. Thanks for that."
"Anytime," Ethan replied with a wink, dropping his hand. His eyes moved down to where Stiles held the six pack. "Is that all you brought?"
"Yeah. I mean, I'm sharing with my buddy Danny who's…" Stiles scanned the crowd but couldn't see Danny. "Well, here, somewhere."
"Sharing?" Ethan said incredulously. "Trust me, you're going to need more than three bottles of beer to get through a turkey party. Come on," he reached down and grabbed Stiles's free hand with his, closing his fingers tight. "I'll show you where the kitchen—and the keg—is."
Several hours later Stiles found himself sprawled drunkenly beside Ethan on the other boy's bed, arguing heatedly over Jack Harkness's deadly choice at the end of Torchwood's Children of Earth series.
"He didn't have to do it," Ethan was insisting, twisting up on an elbow to talk to Stiles, whose head was at the other end of the bed. "He should have found another way."
"No," Stiles disagreed vehemently. "It was the only way. He did the only thing he could." He propped himself up to look back at Ethan, trying to ignore the way the lower half of Ethan's body was pressed up alongside his own.
"He killed his own grandson!" Ethan's cheeks were flushed, whether from the beer or… something else, Stiles wasn't sure.
"Sacrificed," Stiles corrected, pulling himself up so that he was sitting upright and able to focus on Ethan's face more easily. "Jack's the guy who makes the hard choices. The ones no one else can make, but someone has to," he leaned in closer to emphasize his point. "Gryffindor." He wondered if anyone had ever told Ethan that his eyes were the exact shade of brown of good, hot coffee just before you added cream. Rich and dark and burning.
"You're wrong," Ethan pushed himself up as well so he and Stiles were now face to face. "Slytherin." His breath ghosted against Stiles's cheek and Stiles swallowed.
"It's brave," Stiles murmured, not even sure if Ethan could hear him with the music still pounding loudly through the house, overwhelming even with Ethan's bedroom door closed. "Making the tough calls. It's brave."
"It's ruthless." Ethan moved closer and Stiles stilled, but all Ethan did was reach past Stiles for the red solo cup of beer he'd placed on the bedside table, pulling back to bring it to his lips.
Stiles's mouth felt suddenly dry as he watched Ethan tilt the cup back and swallow.
"You want some?" Ethan asked, lowering the cup as he licked a drop of beer from his lips. Stiles nodded, unable to look away from Ethan's mouth. Ethan passed the cup to Stiles and Stiles blinked, trying to clear his head as he took a long drink, the cold beer clearing his head slightly.
Cup empty, Stiles twisted around to place it on the table. When he turned back Ethan moved, crawling up between Stiles's legs so that Stiles could now feel the heat of him. Something clenched low in Stiles's belly as he unconsciously parted his legs so Ethan could move closer.
His eyes dropped once again to Ethan's lips and he felt his own lips part, tongue darting out to wet them.
He was drunk, drunker than he'd been in a long time. It wasn't a sad, alone-in-his-room-mourning-his-breakup drunk, but a fun, giddy, party drunk. He was drunk and spread out over another guy's bed and it was thanksgiving break and there was a painted turkey on the side of his face and Ethan's chef's smock was half-unbuttoned and Stiles could see the smooth line of muscled chest and he wanted to reach out and run his fingers down it and see how much of Ethan was smooth. He could feel himself hard in his jeans and Ethan's lips were so close to his and before Stiles could think better of it he'd closed the distance between them.
Ethan's lips opened greedily against his and Ethan's tongue swiped against his own as Ethan pressed him back against the bed, his hands running up Stiles's sides and parting Stiles's unzipped hoodie so they could skim over his ribs. Stiles could feel them warm and rough through the fabric of his t-shirt. Stiles's fingers fumbled with the remaining buttons on Ethan's costume, his senses overwhelmed with the intensity of the kiss.
Then, finally, there was nothing between his hands and Ethan's naked skin and it was hot, so hot under his palms and Stiles bit off a moan as Ethan's mouth moved from his to press wet and open against his neck. Ethan rose briefly to shuck off the smock before coming back down to push Stiles's hoodie halfway down his arms so he had better access to Stiles's throat.
Stiles arched up as Ethan's weight settled heavily between his legs, feeling the line of Ethan's cock hard against his hip. Ethan groaned as Stiles pushed up into him and he ground himself down onto Stiles as his lips fastened back against Stiles's throat and, suddenly, bit.
Stiles bucked, fingers digging bruisingly hard into the soft flesh of Ethan's hips as he felt teeth close around him. Ethan gave a slight shudder and suddenly Stiles realized his hold was probably too rough, too tight, and he let go immediately. He wasn't used to human skin, hadn't ever had to worry about leaving bruises or hurting Derek because Derek would heal within seconds. So Stiles had gotten used to being careless, secure in the knowledge that he couldn't accidentally hurt because compared to Derek his strength was nothing. But this wasn't Derek. And Stiles's strength wasn't nothing because he was strong now. Not werewolf strong. Not even, like, Argent strong. But stronger than he used to be. And this wasn't Derek. Oh god, this wasn't Derek this was some poor, naive human who worked in a coffee shop and who Stiles had hurt just now because he was used to running with—to fucking—werewolves.
Werewolf.
Ethan had moved from Stiles's throat and was mouthing at his collarbone, and Stiles pressed his hands to Ethan's shoulders and pushed him off.
"Stiles, what-?" Ethan was asking, brown eyes wide and hurt and bewildered.
"I'm sorry," Stiles scrambled off the bed, pulling his hoodie back up and stuffing his fingers into his pockets, not trusting himself. "I can't. I can't do this."
He'd thought he was fine. Or numb, at least. Numb without the help of drugs or booze. And numb and fine were the same, if you really thought about it. He'd thought maybe he could do like Danny had suggested—that fooling around with Ethan would be harmless, would maybe help. But it wasn't harmless because Stiles wasn't harmless. He'd hurt, and he was hurt, and why did he think that he could do this and that it wouldn't, somehow, all lead back to Derek?
"I'm sorry, Ethan, really, I…" but he couldn't bear to finish. He couldn't stay in this room with Ethan half-naked with flushed skin that probably had bruises dug into it if Stiles could bring himself to look but he couldn't and so he turned blindly and made his way out the door. Stumbled down the hallway and the stairs, pushed through the writhing dancing crowd, ignoring Danny's shouted "Stiles!" until he found the front door and once he got it open and the cold air hit his face, Stiles began to run.
He made it a block, two, before he began to stumble, legs clumsy with the alcohol and more a liability than an asset. Slowing to a walk with his breathing as ragged as his heartbeat, Stiles hung his head and tried not to think of anything. Tried to make his mind blank and empty and numb like it had been earlier. But he was past that. Too drunk and too tired to be able to control his thoughts, which spun wildly out of control, circling the one topic he wanted nothing more than to erase from his memory.
Derek's full, soft lips brushing lightly against his. Derek's hands hard on Stiles's skin, rough and just the right side of painful to leave bruises in their wake. The way Derek's scruff burned as it rasped over Stiles's neck, his ribcage, his calf. The feel of Derek's back, muscles working underneath the skin as he thrust himself into Stiles and the way Derek arched and his mouth opened and his eyes closed and the shuddering, pulsing way he came inside him.
Stiles stumbled, tripping over a crack in the sidewalk. He skinned the palm of his hand against the cement as he tried to catch himself, but still landed hard on his knees. The pain was sharp, sudden, bringing with it an awful kind of clarity that left him immobile, frozen on the sidewalk on his hands and knees with his head hanging in shame.
He was not this person. He was not this weak, emotionally crippled, embarrassing wreck of a person. He was not the guy who got so drunk at a party that his coordination faltered and his vision went hazy, the guy who made out with a relative stranger because he thought the taste of another person's mouth would erase the memory of someone else.
Only he'd done all of that. Which must mean he was that person.
Stiles pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the burn of his right hand and the blood that had oozed to the surface of the torn skin. He should be disgusted, repulsed by the desperation that had him shoving his bleeding hand into his jeans to pull out his phone. But he wasn't. He typed in Derek's number from memory, fingers moving with the careful precision of the very drunk. Then he hit 'call', bringing the phone up tight to his ear as he started walking again.
Derek answered before the first ring had even finished, voice clipped with worry. "What's wrong?"
Stiles's breathing hitched, as uneven as his pace as he continued down the sidewalk with little regard to where he was going.
"Stiles?" Derek's voice was rising, urgent. "It's late. Talk to me. Is it Marcus? Did something happen?" When Stiles didn't reply Derek growled with frustration. "Are you okay?"
"No," Stiles finally managed, leaving the sidewalk for a pathway that led into a park. "I am not okay." He found a bench and sat down heavily, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.
"Tell me what happened," Derek softened his voice, worry smoothing the roughness of the growl.
"I was at a party. A guy invited me. A cute guy." A pause. "He works at the café and he knows my coffee order and he kissed me."
There was silence on the other end of the line. Stiles ignored it and continued. "And I kissed him. And we kissed. We did more than kiss," he laughed, bitter and jagged. "I could have fucked him. I could have let him fuck me. But you know what?"
He waited, but Derek said nothing. Stiles wasn't even sure if he could hear the werewolf breathing or not. "I couldn't do it," he said, finally, "I couldn't stand his hands on me, because they weren't yours. I don't want anyone else to touch me but you," his voice broke on a sob.
"Stiles," Derek said slowly. "Are you drunk?"
"Am I-?" Stiles gave another choking laugh. "Yeah, Derek. I'm drunk. I do that now. Not wine, obviously. I can't drink wine anymore because it always tastes like you. But Scott took my pills—they were helping, you know—so now I drink."
"Tell me where you are." Derek's voice wasn't so soft anymore, had an edge to it now.
Stiles ignored it. "But it's not enough. It's never enough. It's not you. I need you, Derek. I can't breathe without you. I can't think, can't sleep, can't function. I'm a…" he paused, trying to find the right word that would encompass the pathetic, broken mess he'd become. "A wreck." A twisted, metal-screeching, burned out husk of a wreck.
"Where are you?"
"Just come back," Stiles was begging now. Shamelessly. "Just come back. I don't care if you don't love me, just pretend you do, okay? You don't have to say it, you don't have to actually lie," his voice was raw, desperate and urgent and pleading, tears rolling steadily down his face. "Please. I swear if you come back it'll be like nothing happened. It'll be like before when we were good. When we were happy. We could do that again. Be that again. Please, please, please, please, please—" his breath was coming too fast now, panic fluttering in his lungs. "Say you'll do it, Derek, say you'll—"
"Stiles."
Stiles stopped, barely breathing with hope aching in his chest.
"I'm going to get Isaac to come get you. It would be helpful if you could tell me where you are, but he'll find you either way."
Stiles felt everything come crashing down around him and he had to bite back another sob. He didn't want Isaac. If Derek didn't want him, Stiles didn't want to do anything but curl up on this bench and stay there until he couldn't feel anything ever again.
Through the phone Stiles could hear Derek say something to someone else, and then Peter's voice replied muffled in the background.
"Peter's calling Isaac. He'll be there soon."
Stiles said nothing, didn't have words left. He slid sideways, face pressing against the seat of the bench. The metal was cold enough that it burned against the side of his face.
"I need you to keep talking to me," Derek was saying, but Stiles closed his eyes and brought the phone away from his ear, pressing his thumb down until the phone powered off.
"Stiles?" There was an odd note to Isaac's voice when, sometime later—Hours? Minutes?—Stiles opened his eyes to see his roommate crouched in front of him.
"Isaac," Stiles replied flatly, pushing himself up so that he was sitting on the bench instead of lying on it. His body felt stiff and he couldn't decide if it was because he'd been in the same position for so long or simply due to the cold.
Isaac rose to his feet, his eyes no longer focused on Stiles. "Stiles," he repeated, almost absently as his gaze swept the grass and trees of the park. "Who were you with tonight?"
"Why?" Stiles stood, still unsteady enough that he kept a hand braced on the back of the bench. "What does it matter?" It wasn't like Derek cared. And despite all of Isaac's painfully un-subtle attempts to ride herd on Stiles, he wasn't Stiles's keeper. In fact, Stiles was getting pretty fucking sick of seeing Isaac's worried face peeking around corners and hovering anxiously in the background. He just wanted to be left alone.
Then, through the misery and alcohol-induced fog clouding his mind Stiles slowly became aware of the tension thrumming through Isaac's body and a sliver of fear sliced through the fuzzy edges of his brain.
"Why does it matter?" Stiles asked again, voice sharper.
"Because," Isaac turned to look at Stiles and his eyes had bled bright, burning yellow. "You smell like wolf."
Stiles felt his entire body still, hand tightening white-knuckled around the bench. "I went to a party, with Danny," he managed through lips that felt numb. "There were lots of—"
"No," Isaac cut him off, shaking his head. "It's all over you."
Stiles swallowed, heart thudding against his chest with enough force that it almost distracted from the ringing in his ears. "All over me."
"Yes." Impatient now Isaac grabbed for Stiles's wrist, tugging him forward to the path. "I can smell him on your skin.
Stiles's brain, still so sluggish and stupid with the alcohol, struggled to connect the dots. Ethan. Ethan was a werewolf. The handsome barista with the cheeky grin and the sparkling eyes was a werewolf. And so it couldn't be coincidence, him flirting. Asking Stiles out. Because those kinds of things didn't just happen. So Stiles had been, all along, a target.
"Is there some sort of sign around my neck?" Stiles yanked his hand out of Isaac's grip, stumbled back, voice rising. "Something written in invisible ink that you have to be a werewolf to read?"
Isaac turned, brow furrowed. "What are you—"
"Maybe it's on my back," Stiles gave an exaggerated spin like he was looking for something taped to his hoodie.
"We don't have time for this right now." Isaac's lips had thinned, jaw clenched with impatience.
"Why not?" Stiles stepped back again when Isaac reached out. "Obviously whatever supernatural drama that's going on is going to find me. No matter where I am or who I'm with."
"Yes, Stiles," Isaac snapped, clearly done with Stiles's latest bout of self-pity. "Because this is all about you."
"Uh-oh," Stiles matched sarcasm with sarcasm, lips curling up in a sneer. "Are you feeling neglected? Invisible? Like now that Allison's gone and Scott's busy plotting with Derek and Peter, and Danny's got Jackson back, no one wants to hang out with poor orphan Isaac anymore?"
Isaac's hands curled into fists, taking a deep breath like he was just barely stopping himself from punching Stiles.
"I bet you wish it was you who got conned into dry-humping one of the bad guys," Stiles continued, blithe.
"And why's that?"
"Cause then you'd get a little of that attention you're dying for. You were probably green with envy that it was my shoulder they dislocated when they came into town, instead of yours."
"Well, if that's what you want," said an amused voice from the trees behind Isaac. "I think we can probably make that happen."
Stiles froze, eyes wide as he watched Ethan step out from the shadows. Except, no—no it wasn't Ethan because he carried himself differently. Swaggered, with a cruel grin that looked totally out of place on the face that looked identical to Ethan's.
"Is this your barista?" Isaac had half turned and now he looked back at Stiles, eyebrows raised and contemptuous.
"No," this time the voice came from behind Stiles and Stiles jumped, would have maybe bolted except he found his hoodie caught tight in someone else's hand. "That would be me." Ethan yanked Stiles back, closer to him, and when Stiles began to struggle—clumsy and uncoordinated, still drunk—simply placed his hand around Stiles's throat and the light prick of claws against his jugular made Stiles freeze.
"Hi," the first twin extended his hand to Isaac like he expected the other werewolf to come and shake it. "I'm Aiden."