Here for the OTPs

***

Lydia Martin hosted a party every friday night to fete the celebrities of their podunk town. Stiles had never been to one, though all sixty-three of their classmates were always invited. The place was too small for bullying tactics and popularity contests.

Someone shoved a red solo cup into Stiles’s hands, and he downed half the contents in one swallow. His fingers itched for smooth ivory and he tried to ignore the jittery sensation of looking for someone in particular. 

“Brooooo, you came,” Scott McCall slurred in Stiles’s ear while slinging an arm around his neck. Stiles took the weight of his drunk, pliant body, turning the tackle into a hug. They rocked like that as Stiles laughed. Scott loved everyone and everyone loved Scott, but Scott loved Stiles best. 

“Hey where’s your QB?” Stiles asked as casually as possible, and Scott beamed at him. Apparently he hadn’t been subtle. 

“Gazebo,” Scott waved, flashing all his white teeth so that his eyes squinted into tiny bits of happiness.

Stiles maneuvered him toward Kira and then wove his way through gyrating bodies and couples who had too little sense of what level of PDA was appropriate. 

When Stiles stepped outside, his skin tingled with the electricity in the air. Something was coming. 

Derek was alone, surprisingly. It seemed like he was forever surrounded by fawning groupies, or at the very least his phalanx of ride-or-die friends. Stiles didn’t bother saying hi as he sat on the bench next to him. 

“Did you have fun?” Derek asked as he took a hit on his joint. Golden-boy wasn’t always so golden. 

Stiles let his legs fall apart until their knees touched. “No.”

“But you came.” Derek said, said without looking at him. 

“But I came,” Stiles agreed, plucking the joint out of his loose fingers. Had they been doing this dance for years now? Stiles couldn’t tell. Derek was a part of the landscape as much as the snow-topped mountains in the distance. 

They’d never really been friends. Stiles’s father was the Sheriff, Derek’s mother the lawyer. They had enough crime that it caused friction between the two families. But they weren’t exactly Romeo and Juliet, either. They were just two dudes trying to make it out of this god-forsaken town anyway they could. 

For Derek that was football. From the Smurf League when they’d been kindergartners it had been obvious exactly where Derek was headed in life. First draft pick for the NFL. 

For Stiles it was the long-shot Juliard--a dream his mother had passed onto him the day she’d died. 

He and Derek were as different as could be, and yet still... 

Maybe it was the way Derek’s eyes lingered on Stiles’s mouth when he took a hit. Maybe it was the Stiles let his hand drop to Derek’s thigh after he handed back the joint. 

Something in the back of Stiles’s brain itched, though. Him and Derek? It wasn’t just two queer kids finding each other in bumble-fuck Texas. He just didn’t know what it was. 

“Do you want to play?” Stiles asked, his eyes on the lights from the house. “Professionally I mean.”

“Nah,” Derek shook his head, earning a sharp glance from Stiles. “It’s what I’m good at but... no.” He laughed softly. “I like my brain intact.”

Stiles huffed out a breath. “Same.”

Derek glanced over. It wasn’t often that Stiles complimented him. Then he lifted one shoulder. They were close enough that it brushed Stiles’s arm. “I’ll use it to pay for college. But I want to be...”

He took a hit instead of continuing, and then handed it over to Stiles. Stiles bumped his knee against Derek’s. “Yeah?”

A blush crawled along Derek’s perfect cheekbones, and Stiles had to look away lest he do something utterly mortifying. 

“I like gardening,” Derek mumbled. “I thought maybe landscape architecture.”

Maybe some version of Stiles would have laughed at the admission. The idea of snap-back wearing, pick-up truck driving, all-American stereotype in the flesh planting daisies should have been funny. 

It wasn’t.

Stiles took a hit. Held the smoke in. Then in one swift move shifted so that he was in Derek’s lap, his knees on either side of Derek’s hips. Derek’s fingers came up, gripped the skin just above the waistband of Stiles’s jeans. 

The moment seemed frozen in time, syrupy and unreal. Stiles leaned in and Derek’s lips parted. Smoke slipped out between them, but in the next moment, Stiles was pressing it into Derek’s mouth. 

Derek breathed it in. Breathed Stiles in, really. 

When they drew apart, Derek’s eyes were wide, almost vulnerable, and Stiles ached with every part of his being. He wanted this to be real. 

So he ran. 

***

The church was as quiet as it always was when Stiles came to practice at the old piano. He made sure of it. 

But for the first time in a long time he didn’t want to play. 

The keys had always offered him an escape, a dreamworld where his mother wasn’t dead, his father wasn’t an alcoholic, and he wasn’t a weird kid who talked too much and dreamed too big for this small Texas town. 

For once, he didn’t want to escape. 

He pressed a thumb to his lower lip, as if he could capture the warmth of Derek there. The way the tip of his tongue had darted out in what had turned into a goodbye. 

“Play for me?” 

Stiles didn’t startle. He’d almost expected Derek to show, though he couldn’t say why.

But you came. But I came. 

Without acknowledging the request, Stiles dropped his fingers onto the keys. Amazing Grace was so easy, he didn’t have to think about it. By the time he finished, Derek was on the bench beside him. “Beautiful.”

Stiles chewed on the inside of his mouth. “My mother taught me how to play.”

A beat. And then, “Do you play because she wanted you to, or do you play because you want to.”

The question struck, like lightning, in the very center of Stiles’s chest. “Does it matter?”

It was a deliberate echo and Derek huffed. “No.” 

Maybe it had seemed like walls going up when that wasn’t the case at all. So Stiles took a breath. “Aren’t all of our lives made up of a combination of that? Expectations and hopes and desires and rational thought and irrational emotions? Her wanting me to play doesn’t mean it’s any less important if it had come from nowhere. It just makes it all the more meaningful that I am doing it, doesn’t it?”

“But what about your life?” Derek asked, and in that moment Stiles realized how much Derek’s trajectory had been guided by other people. 

“It’s not an either or,” Stiles said as carefully as possible. “For me.”

Derek nodded, his eyes on the piano. In the smallest voice Stiles had ever heard him use, he said, “I don’t want to disappoint anyone.”

Stiles nearly laughed at that. But instead he nudged Derek’s shoulder. “No matter what you do, I’m pretty sure it would be impossible for you to disappoint anyone.” He searched for the right words, the ones that wouldn’t dismiss the fear, the ones that wouldn’t add more weight to Derek’s shoulders. “I would be proud of you no matter what you do.”

That blush again, the one that would drive Stiles to distraction. “Play it again for me?”

“Anytime,” Stiles promised and surprised himself by meaning it. 

Outside the clouds opened up and the rain beat against the windows.