Somethings

Text Message From Stiles At 8:15AM: I think Derek is trying to kill me Text Message From Scott At 8:20AM: what??? Text Message From Scott At 8:20AM: why??? Text Message From Scott At 8:21AM: what did you do this time Text Message From Stiles At 8:22AM: okay, first of all, ouch Text Message From Stiles At 8:23AM: second, because he's wearing this red henley with these adorable little thumbholes and it's so hot I think I might catch fire and die Text Message From Scott At 8:24AM: oh Text Message From Scott At 8:24AM: hahahahaha Text Message From Scott At 8:24AM: damn you've really got it bad for this guy huh Text Message From Stiles At 8:25AM: understatement of the fucking century bro

Stiles leans back in his desk at the far corner of the lecture hall, front legs of his chair swaying dangerously about a foot above the ground as he taps out a slew of replies to his best friend studying to be a vet tech at the opposite end of the country, the monotonous drawl of his biochem professor little more than background noise. 

It's fine that he's not paying attention — Mondays are lecture days, and since Stiles had already read the book cover to cover before the term even started, he figures he's allowed to coast. Besides, it's Wednesdays and Fridays — lab days — that really matter. One, because he's all about practical application. Two, because it means he gets to spend time with his lab partner he's been head over heels stupid for since the first day of class. And right now, the fact that Derek is half a lecture hall away looking that fucking fine is an absolute crime.

Which is exactly what he texts Scott. Repeatedly. With enough crying face, heart eyes, and ghost pepper emojis to fill a Lucky Charms essay. (Hey, he'd had to hear Scott wax poetic about Allison all throughout high school, so it's only fair that Stiles finally gets to return the favor.) He's scrolling through Pinterest, trying to find a color palette that matches the exact hues of Derek's eyes, when his phone buzzes with another notification from Scott.

Text Message From Scott At 8:35AM: you've been sweet on this guy all semester and I still have no idea what he even looks like Text Message From Stiles At 8:37AM: you're right, how rude of me Text Message From Stiles At 8:37AM: hold that thought Text Message From Scott At 8:40AM: what do you mean Text Message From Scott At 8:40AM: what are you gonna Text Message From Scott At 8:41AM: wait Text Message From Scott At 8:41AM: Stiles, no Text Message From Scott At 8:42AM: at least remember to turn the flash off!!!

Like every other well-meaning warning and keep out sign, Stiles flicks the little notification banner out of the way and proceeds to whip out his camera app. Pretending he's checking his email for next week's homework assignment, Stiles casually tilts his phone to snap a photo of Derek while his head is turned, too busy jotting down notes from the whiteboard to notice. 

It's perfect — clear, in focus, decent lightning — he'd even managed to capture that cute little nose wrinkle Derek does whenever he's concentrating — and it only took him one try. See? He could be subtle. Scott was worried over nothing. With a self-satisfied little smile, Stiles swipes back over to the message thread and begins writing out his reply.

He means to send the photo to Scott. Really, he does. But it's barely 9AM and he hasn't had his morning coffee yet, so his brain isn't exactly firing on all cylinders, single brain cell chanting an endless chorus of Derek Derek Derek. Which is how he ends up accidentally sending the photo he'd just taken to Derek instead, along with the lovely accompanying caption: seriously scotty, just look at him, I think I'm in love.

By the time Stiles realizes his mistake, it's too late to hit cancel. He hears the telltale chime of a successfully sent text, the little grayed-out delivered notification staring back at him with a mocking checkmark. He glances up, watching in abject horror as Derek pulls out his phone. Clocks his exact time of death as the moment Derek's eyebrows arch high enough to meet his hairline. 

His heartbeat is a wild, thunderous thing, pulsing through him like a jackhammer. Every inch of his skin feels like it's simultaneously buzzing and on fire. Paralysis creeps over him like a fast-acting venom, hands shaking as he sends a flurry of rapid-fire apology texts.

Text Message From Stiles At 8:45AM: oh my god I am so sorry, that was meant for my friend Scott Text Message From Stiles At 8:46AM: not that that explains why I just creepily took a photo of you and then sent it to you Text Message From Stiles At 8:47AM: and then confessed that I've got an embarrassingly huge crush on you Text Message From Stiles At 8:48AM: Jesus fuck I'm just making this so much worse Text Message From Stiles At 8:49AM: welp, that settles it Text Message From Stiles At 8:50AM: after class I am driving to the coast and walking straight into the ocean

Post-lecture plans sorted, Stiles jams his phone back into his pocket and sits there, staring down at his desk in panic-stricken silence. He's not normally one to wish for natural disasters, but given the fact that he feels like a natural disaster at the moment, he's kind of hoping for a bigger one to come along and cancel him out — a tsunami, a sharknado, a black hole, a meteor, anything — didn't he just read an article the other day about how the sun is supposed to explode and take out the earth? Why couldn't that happen right now? Why couldn't—

His phone vibrates in his pocket and he nearly leaps out of his seat, fishing it out with the same level of trepidation as a march to the gallows.

One New Message From Derek Hale.

Fuck.

This is it, he thinks. This is the moment where everything changes. He'd spent all semester working up a steady flirt, getting the guy to laugh at his lame jokes, casually dropping random bits of trivia about their coursework well before Professor Harris covered it so Derek would think he was smart, getting to know all of his favorite bands and books and movies and tv shows. 

Hell, he even knew how the guy took his coffee — black, with a dash of hazelnut creamer — after overhearing his usual order in the school café, delighting in the way Derek's eyes lit up every time he'd show up to class with an "extra" cup he'd ordered "by mistake" and offer it to Derek with a casual, Oh cool, that's your favorite flavor too? What a crazy random happenstance!

All that time spent pretending he actually knew what the fuck he was doing when it comes to romance, and then he goes and ruins it by being…well, himself.

Stiles takes a deep, steadying breath as he slides his thumb over the notification bar and opens up their chat history, dread washing over him at all the possibilities of what he might encounter — a scathing rejection, or— oh god, maybe even a photo of Derek's super hot secret boyfriend, just to rub it in — but no, that's not the kind of person Derek is. If anything, he'll probably be really nice about it and let him down gently, which is honestly worse.

Whatever he's expecting, it definitely isn't—

…his own face?

Or, more accurately, a photo of himself — hair sticking up at gravity-defying angles from rolling straight out of bed and rushing to class earlier this morning, hooded sweatshirt a perfect match for the furious blush blossoming beneath the smattering of moles and freckles scattered across his cheekbones and the column of his throat — followed by a single line of text.

Text Message From Derek At 8:55AM: since we're sharing, here's the guy I've got a crush on

Stiles's gaze snaps up so fast he nearly kinks his neck, heart fluttering inside his chest at the sight of Derek staring back at him from across the crowded lecture hall with a big, goofy grin on his face. By the time Stiles manages to school his features into something other than open-mouthed shock, Derek has already looked away, eyes cast downward as he taps out another text. Seconds later, Stiles's phone lights up.

Text Message From Derek At 8:57AM: so you gonna ask him out, or what? 

Stiles stares down at his phone, hardly daring to believe it. He wills his one working brain cell to think of something clever, something charming, something that'll sweep Derek right off his feet — wills his hands to move so that he can write back something, anything at all, instead of just hovering uselessly over the keyboard — when the bell rings, signaling the end of class, and a third text appears in the thread.

Text Message From Derek At 9:00AM: I guess I'll just have to do it myself ;)

Stiles wonders, vaguely, if it's possible to die of heatstroke from the temperature of your own skin. At the very least, he's destined for a heart attack, with the rate his pulse is pounding. Derek — snarky, surly eyebrows, will growl at you like a feral wolf if he hasn't had his morning coffee — just texted him a winking emoji, and Stiles thinks he might genuinely die from sheer lack of oxygen.

He glances up in time to see Derek striding purposefully toward him, worn leather jacket draped over his shoulders, textbook tucked under one arm. He comes to an abrupt halt in front of Stiles's desk, and for a moment, he looks just as nervous as Stiles feels.

"Hey," he says in a would-be casual tone, but the smile that curls across his lips is nothing short of giddy, the tips of his ears a delicate shade of pink.He takes a deep breath, fiddling with a small tear in one of the thumbholes of his henley, and says, "So I'm thinking coffee at that new place that just opened up down the street. You in?"

There's the slightest tremor to his voice as he speaks, and Stiles nearly surges forward and kisses him right then and there, because it's just about the cutest goddamn thing he's ever seen.

"Yes," he answers in a breathless rush, nearly toppling over his desk and bowling over half his classmates as he slings his backpack over his shoulder. "Oh my god, yes. I am so in."