#izzient

Stiles notices the way Scott’s floppy strands curl at its tips and his slender fingers waver as he ponders whether he’s allowed to push them back, just to watch them readily spring back in place. (The way they act is delightedly… foreseeable, his dad would’ve said.) He decides not to.

Scott’s head is in his lap, his hands crossed over his diaphragm and Stiles’ eyes linger, rummaging for the place where his heart’s hidden. (His dad watches him whenever Scott manages to come over, in this way Stiles can only describe as ‘funny’, but neither address it after Scott leaves.) 

Being near Scott makes him keyed up and breathless, and it should be distressing how someone can evoke in him the tell-tale signs of his used-to-be frequent panic attacks, but Stiles is willing to undergo agony to be entitled some pleasure. (It happened once already. He lost his mom and that’s why he doesn’t mind having John look at him funny. He’s all Stiles has.) Even if he could choose otherwise, Stiles wouldn’t, because look at Scott?

He’s so worth it.

“What are you thinking about?” Scott asks, voice subdued as one of his hands comes down to stroke the grassy patch they’re lounging on, and Stiles thinks of the ones who have contributed to it sounding so chastened.

 (“I don’t know why you keep circling me, son. I already told you. Or would you rather have me say it in Spanish?”

 “I might be adopted, McCall, but still, my parents care more about me than yours ever will.”)

The desire to close up and deflect is still there within him, probably always will be, but he evades it this time. Leaning back on his arms, he stares at Scott, whose eyes remain lightly closed, and says, wispy, “You.”

And Scott smiles, so wide for such a small acclaim. Unabashedly too, Stiles can see its steep progression – his eyes crinkle, his tiny dimple shows and his lips part in this shaky exhale. He’s intoxicated with elation, yes, but behind it lies what his exhale couldn’t conceal. Reticence.

Because as Scott feels this near corporeal thing broil between them, he’s getting startled, afraid, and will, undoubtedly, pull back as soon as his fear trumps his passion. It’s up to Stiles to prevent that from happening, because fuck, he’s as terrified as Scott is, but something that stirs his insides so thoroughly shouldn’t be overlooked. Scott’s a force to be reckoned with, and Stiles wants that – wants him – near him more than anything.

So he taps Scott’s chin lightly and asks him to lie next to him. Falteringly, Scott does, as Stiles leans back fully. On their side, they should be facing each other. Only Scott closes his eyes again, and Stiles takes advantage to study the wide expanse of Scott’s chest, the length of his neck, the upturn of his chapped lips and his still noticeable dimple. It makes him smile.

Stiles moves closer to him, slowly undulating his body, until he’s flush up against Scott, who’s now unnaturally stationary. Stiles’ hand wriggles underneath Scott’s shirt, caressing heated skin, but he doesn’t stop there. He pushes himself closer and allows their lips to graze, calmly, waiting for Scott to unwind. He would pull back if Scott demonstrated in any way to be strained, but—

But Stiles feels it, every time, his lips brushing over and over, creating static energy and tensing him up so intrinsically he refuses to wait any longer. So he plunges right in, and Scott follows him readily, as if a nudge was what he needed all along.

And though he’s nearing overstimulation, Stiles senses Scott’s heart, beating rampantly against his ribcage, so near to his own, and Stiles does the first thing that comes to mind. He disentangles his hand and grips Scott’s earnestly.