#alexwritestw

Stiles gets up carefully, which means he probably thinks Scott’s asleep. Scott keeps his breathing steady, he’d rather not be noticeably awake if Stiles is going to grab his clothes and sneak out. 

Stiles does not do that. There’s a pause of silence, a sigh, and then he’s pulling the door shut behind him until it creaks. Scott opens his eyes a teeny tiny amount; all he can see through the crack in the door is the hallway wall, but Stiles’ clothes are definitely still on the floor. 

“What do you want?” Scott hears Stiles whisper. Then, “Obviously I didn’t come home last night --” Another pause, another sigh. “Professor Cruise will live one day with my genius repartee, I promise.” 

There’s a longer pause this time. When he answers, it sounds like Stiles is smiling. “Lyds, you have no idea. He’s like, perfect. I literally only say that about deep fried Twinkies, but he’s -- no, shut up, he’s not a twink... I don’t think --”

Scott has to press his smile into the pillow to keep himself from laughing out loud. 

“I’m not coming home until I’ve fully seduced him -- okay, you’re right, I did do that already.” Stiles’ voice is almost at a normal pitch now, like he’s too distracted to keep whispering. “Yeah, yeah -- I’m not coming home until I’ve fully romanced him.”

This time Scott can’t help it this time, he laughs out loud. 

“Shit!” he hears from the hall. “I gotta -- Bye!”

There’s a moment of silence. Scott prompts himself up on his elbow, unable to keep the grin off his face as Stiles’ head pokes into view. His hair looks exactly as over-gelled as it did last night, but there are considerably more bruises on his neck and chest than when Scott met him. 

Scott has never met anyone as into getting hickeys as Scott is into giving them, but here they are; bruises all over Stiles’ pale skin, and a little flare of possessiveness in Scott’s chest.

“Did I, uh, wake you?” Stiles asks sheepishly, shuffling back inside the room. Scott didn’t notice last night, but his boxers have ducks on them. Hot and charming, Scott’s really onto something with this one.

“Yeah, it’s all good though,” Scott says, watching in amusement as Stiles fidgets with his phone, long fingers twirling it over and over until he gestures towards his clothes.

“I should -- Should I go?”

“I thought you were going to romance me.” Scott schools his face into his best pout, barely able to hold it when Stiles’ face brightens with delight. 

“I was --” he says, grinning. “I mean, I am. If you want me to.”

“I do.” Scott pats the empty space Stiles left next to him. “But like, after we have a nap.”

“Naps are good, I like naps.” Stiles tosses his phone towards his clothes and gets back into bed with all the grace of a baby deer. When he lays down, he’s a little winded, cheeks pink. 

“And I like you,” he announces, blushing even harder. 

Scott laughs again, kissing the blunt tip of Stile’s nose. Stiles watches, eyes crossed when Scott pulls back. “And I like you,” Scott says.

Stiles’ grandma’s house was always a playground for them. Summers spent exploring the three stories, and the attic, and all the crawl spaces little boys could fit into. 

This was one of their favorites, a little nook in the third guest room on the second floor. A weird cupboard set into the far side of the closet with a latch that opens both ways. 

They’d hide there in the middle of thunderstorms, somehow safer in the dark next to each other. A place to go when his grandma hosted parties and there were too many people. Somewhere to be found when one of them was upset, hiding out until the door opened and the other climbed in for a cuddle. 

A place for them to meet in the middle of the night when grandma decided they needed to sleep in separate rooms, with their own beds. 

Now it’s far too small for one of them, let alone two. Scott can hear the way Stiles’ heart is pounding. If nostalgia had a smell, it would smell like cobwebs and the sweetness that clings to Stiles when he sighs, relaxing back into Scott’s chest. 

Scott presses the curve of his smile to Stiles’ shoulder. “Remember our first kiss?”

One of those days where they were hiding out, too overwhelmed by the adults and bored to death of the other kids. Scott was more than content in his cubby with Stiles, realized that the way his heart was pounding probably meant something.

“Do you remember lunging at my face with your mouth and giving me a fucking heart attack?” Stiles asks sharply, but he wants to laugh, Scott can hear it in the brightness of his words. “I hit my head on the doorframe and got a welt the size of a baseball.”

“I kissed it better,” Scott pouts. He did. “Spent the next 12 years kissing everything better.”

“You did,” Stiles agrees, smacking a sloppy kiss against the arm that Scott has around him. “Now let’s get out of here before I get tetanus or something. Can you believe people actually let us in here when we were kids?”

“I’m a werewolf now,” Scott reassures him, pushing at Stiles’ hips so he climbs out. “If worst comes to worst, I’ll just turn you and save you from the evil bacterial infections.”

“My hero,” Stiles simpers, watching with a fond expression as Scott struggles to his feet. 

“Getting up used to be easier,” Scott says, once he’s finally vertical. Becoming a werewolf did not lend him the grace he thinks it should have, but he gets by. 

Unless he’s getting up out of cupboards, apparently.

“Stiles,” he says, voice a little slow, dripping like syrup, still buzzed off the last blunt he passed to Derek after they fucked, giggling into each other’s mouths as they kisses between hits, smoke fogging up the room around them. “What’re you doing up?”

It’s a nonsensical question, really. It’s Stiles. He’s wearing black jeans, so tight they look painted on, and a pair of red Docs that match his red button up. It’s actually Scott’s shirt, but it looks better on Stiles, rolled up past his elbows, showing all the bright ink of his tattoos. There’s black around his eyes, glitter on his cheekbones, too much product in his hair. He probably got back from a party or the club or something.

“I was gunna get Derek,” Stiles says, slowly. It’s so frosty, Scott wants to shiver. “But I guess I’ll grab Isaac.”

They stare at each other. Scott’s tempted to be a smart ass and smirk, tell Stiles that Derek won’t move until the wake up call – stoned and dicked out of his brain – but he doesn’t, he rearranges his features into a curious expression.

“Where are you going?” Scott asks. Not that he’s going to ask to tag along. It’s been 20 hours since he slept. Up too early for interviews, then sound check and the show – sold out, adrenaline like a hurricane moving him along, the blitz of flashing lights and screaming. Then Derek’s hotel room, pinning him down and… well.

“Denny’s,” Stiles says, shortly, eyes fixed firmly somewhere behind Scott, just over his shoulder. Stiles isn’t looking him in the eye. “Derek likes drunk breakfast.”

“Yeah,” Scott agrees. Stiles is between Scott and the door to his hotel room. He needs a nap. “I’m gunna –” Scott gestures past Stiles, and Stiles grunts, taking a dramatic step to the side. Scott’s heart is pounding hard in his chest and he has no idea why.

(Well, maybe he does because they’ve always walked the razor sharp edge of something. The flirtatious looks, the touching – it’s always been that way. Scott doesn’t remember a time when there wasn’t this tension between them. Neither of them has ever done anything about it, and Scott isn’t going to say no when someone wants him in their bed just in case Stiles might want to fuck at some point.)

Scott tries to slide by, but despite the show he made of it, Stiles is more or less deadcenter in the hallway, making Scott angle sideways to get past him. Before he can make it, Stiles’ arm shoots out, quick, grip a little too tight.

It barely registers. They finally meet each other’s eyes and Stiles is looking at him with his big bambi eyes, whiskey brown and a hundred times larger than usual with mascara painting his lashes. His bottom lip is between his teeth, pale where they dig in. Scott can smell alcohol and sweat and cigarette smoke.

“Derek?” Stiles asks. Scott can tell he’s trying to be flippant, but he misses his mark, voice going unsteady. Scott doesn’t want to think about what that means. 

“Yeah,” Scott says, with a loose shrug, shaking Stiles’ hand off. Stiles lets it falls, frowns at Scott, forehead puckering. The expression on his face is so contemplative, it’s almost funny.

“Seriously?” Stiles asks, face getting a little sharp. There’s this look he gets, when he wants to be mean, it’s all hard and edgy and usually Scott thinks it’s funny, but right now it’s directed at him. Scott can’t calm the thundering of his heart. “That asshole?”

“Hey!” Scott protests, mouth twisting down, annoyed.

“He’s a dick, Scott,” Stiles snaps, voice low but ringing in Scott’s ears, harsh. “How the fuck did he get you in bed?”

Scott hates that – hates that Stiles thinks… Scott doesn’t even know. Stiles thinks that he needs to build up to sex with dates and emotions, that he’s too romantic for anything else, that he’s fragile and needs to be taken care of – the idea of Scott having casual sex blows his mind.

“He asked,” Scott snaps, tone brimming with bitterness, glaring at Stiles. Not that it will do any good, because Stiles is an idiot.

(The first time, it actually went like this:

They got permission to go out to a club during the first leg of the tour. The whole crew went out, riding the high of a near perfect show. Isaac and the twins were on detail, so Derek got a night off and –

Scott’s kind of always had this thing. The broad chest, the biceps, the effortless way Derek intimidates people. He daydreamed about the scrape of Derek’s stubble on the insides of his thighs, Derek picking him up and pinning him to the wall and fucking his brains out.

So, Scott bought him a drink and asked him to dance, led him around with his fingers on the soft inside of Derek’s elbow, looking up at Derek through his eyelashes, biting his lip, trying so damn hard, flushed with tequila and feeling brave.

Derek said: “Is it true? You and Stiles?”

“What?” Scott asked, standing on his tip toes so Derek’s mouth was next to his ear, gripping his shoulders. Derek laughed against him, big chest rumbling. Scott had been half hard all night.

“You and Stiles? Are you fucking?”

Scott laughed out loud, because it was easier. The answer to that question was and is always no, so Derek dragged him back to his hotel room in fits of laughter, face flushed from so many vodka Redbulls, mouth hot and hands demanding.)

“Night Stiles,” Scott says, roughly, wishing he had a smoke on him. The only time he smokes is when he’s drinking with Stiles, and he’s not about to ask even though he can see the outline of Stiles’ pack of Newports in his pocket.

“How long?” Stiles asks, hand coming up again, hovering without actually touching. Scott stares down at his hand so he doesn’t have to look at Stiles’ face, the wolf inked there. It’s new. Stiles has always been scared to get tattoos on his hands, but he bit the bullet and got a couple of percs off Erica. It’s wild looking, tongue hanging out of its mouth eagerly, grey and white and red, old school.

“Since Pasadena,” Scott admits, flushing.

A hurt look passes over Stiles face. He looks like he wants to ask more questions, and Scott already knows, why didn’t you tell me? is at the top of the list. It’s hard to explain to Stiles that Scott wants something all for himself, something that Stiles isn’t involved in, something he can be greedy about.

They’re all so tangled together, the band, but Scott and Stiles especially, ever since their sandbox days.

(There’s a photo his mom released at the very start of their career, when they were doing small venue tours, doing the whole shitty white van thing. It’s Scott and Stiles at the beach when they were young, like five. Stiles has Scott in a headlock, rubbing sand in his hair, but they’re both laughing.

That pictures pops up in every article about them. How close they are. How close they’ve been there whole lives. Always together. Sharing everything.)

The disappointed look on Stiles face only hangs around for a few seconds before he just looks pissed, cheeks going pink, clenching his jaw. For a second, Scott thinks Stiles is going to yell at him, but he glares and steps away, shaking out his hand like he’s getting rid of the desire to take a swing at Scott.

“Night, Scott,” he says, turning away, headed back to his own room instead of past Derek’s to grab Isaac. Disappointment sinks into Scott’s veins, thinking that goodnight sounded like a sincere fuck you.

“The fuck happened to you?” Erica asks, jerking his chin sideways. The bruise on his neck is worse than he thought it was last night, red and purple and terrible. Scott feels his face get hot, batting her hand away.

“Mauled by a bear,” Liam says, sinking into the chair next to Scott.

“Attacked by Hoover,” Malia says, reaching over Scott’s shoulder to flick his ear. He flinches away, flipping her off.

“Got laid,” Lydia says, in a bored voice. She’s already done up, for the most part. Perfect hair and makeup, leaning into the mirror to pat at her lipstick even though it doesn’t need to be touched up.

Stiles slinks in behind her, a little black raincloud. Derek and Isaac come in behind him, sinking into the couches.

“The only question is who,” Lydia says, eyes sliding to his. Scott very deliberately catches her gaze and doesn’t look anywhere else. Not at Stiles. Not at Derek. “There wasn’t anyone in town –”

“Lydia, chill,” Stiles says, with a laugh that doesn’t sound forced. Scott holds himself still while Stiles drapes himself over Scott’s shoulders, pressing a wet kiss to his cheek. “Let Scotty baby live.”

Scotty baby. Scott flushes to his hair, watching himself go red in the mirror.

(Stiles calls him Scotty baby in a voice as thick as molasses, sweet like honey. It’s what he calls Scott when they’re drunk, wrapped around each other on the roof, talking about everything. It’s what he calls Scott when Scott misses home so badly he has to sleep in Stiles’ bed, curled against his side. It’s what called Scott when they secured the deal with their label, millions of dollars, chart topping – “we did it, Scotty baby, we really did it.”)

Luckily, Erica comes over, mumbling about how inconsiderate Scott is, bitching about color matching and the fact that Lydia refuses to let Erica touch her face with a ten foot makeup brush, even though Erica could make her look stunning. Scott tunes out when she starts on Malia’s refusal to wear makeup at all. It’s all old complaints, anyway.

Scott’s scrolling through his Instagram feed when a text buzzes across his screen. It’s Derek.

D: Sorry about your neck

Me: Bullshit u are

Scott’s smiling, he can’t help himself. Derek’s not sorry at all, he pinned Scott down with a forearm over his chest and latched on like a blood sucker, making Scott arch hard from the sharp pull of his mouth.

D: you’re right, I’m not

Scott rolls his eyes and looks up from his phone, finding Derek on a couch at the far end of the room, knees spread, arms over the back of the couch. Scott wants to climb on his lap. Their eyes meet, Derek smirks at him, thumb sliding across his phone.

D: it looks good on you

D: nice reminder

Me: I hate u

D: no you don’t

Scott scowls down at his phone to keep from grinning any wider.

“Who’re you talking to?” Stiles asks, once again hanging his arms over Scott’s shoulder. He must have showered just now, hair wet, water droplets sliding down his long pale neck. The t-shirt he’s wearing is Liam’s, barely reaching the top of his jeans. He slides forward and it rucks up, showing off his red briefs.

Scott wrenches his gaze away, guilty. When he looks up, Derek’s watching them.

“No one,” Scott replies, absently, bringing Instagram up again. Instead of scrolling, he pulls up the camera, pointing it at the mirror. Stiles grins wide and turns his head, licking Scott’s cheek as he takes the picture.

“Post it,” Stiles says, approvingly. It should be disgusting, Scott thinks, as Stiles’ fingers wipe away the spit from Scott’s face. It isn’t. Even in the picture, Scott’s beaming, unfazed. It’s just how they are. “Hashtag Sciles.”

“Fuck no,” Scott says, scrolling through filters for an excuse to keep looking at the picture, the little details; their hands tangled together over Scott’s shoulder, Stiles’ hand cupping the front of his neck to keep him from jerking away from his tongue. Scott gets it, he does. “I refuse to add fuel to that fire.”

“A ‘Sciles’ caption isn’t adding fuel to that fire,” Liam says, leaning into their space. Scott tilts the phone, so Liam can see the picture. “Everything you two do adds fuel to that fire.”

“Like face licking?” Stiles asks, sounding innocent, voice at the top of his throat. Scott scowls at him in the mirror. The response he gets is a smug Stiles batting his eyelashes ridiculously.

“Like going to clubs and grinding all over each other,” Malia says, leaning against the make up table in front of them. “Pretending to kiss each other on stage.”

“All the fucking interview flirting,” Liam adds, rolling his eyes.

“Jealous, Dunbar?” Stiles asks, leaning over Scott’s shoulder to smirk at Liam. The action brings their cheeks together. Scott can feel Stiles’ stubble against his skin.

“Oh totally,” Liam says, sitting back.

“It’s just how we are,” Scott says, with a shrug. He posts the picture ‘@theonlystiles is in my way again #sciles’ – he’s a masochist, and he knows that Stiles will flip when he sees it. He’ll probably bark out a loud laugh and give Scott a wide smile, eyes soft and private like he does when they’re in on the same joke.

“Always have been, always will be,” Stiles says, firmly, squeezing Scott shoulder before he slides away. His fingers trail Malia’s belly as he walks past her to where Boyd is hanging up clothes for him to choose from for today’s round of interviews.

“It’s not just me,” Scott says, gesturing to Malia with his chin. Stiles is affectionate with everyone in the band. They all take turns hanging off each other. It’s easy with the five of them, friends since forever. It shows.

“It’s different, Scott,” Malia says, rolling her eyes at him just like Liam did a minute ago. “Don’t play dumb, you know it’s true.”

“Fuck off,” Scott says. He does know. Everyone knows, but they’re all usually good about not mentioning it.

Scott knows that it’s more than a best friends thing, more than a sexual tension thing. It’s something completely unique to them, something he could never put into words. He’s tried that, letters and songs and fumbling speeches when he’s drunk. It all ends poorly.

They’re not confessions. There’s nothing grand going on behind the scenes, even if everyone thinks they’re fucking. All Scott wants to do is articulate it.