#jinglebellscott

Stiles’ chest is flush against his back in just a second. He mouths at Scott’s nape, reeking of arousal and rage. His hands are calloused now, merciless, too, and it isn’t as if Scott had a sample of what they once were, but he knows enough to assume it wasn’t this.

They’re desperate and sloppy, like they’ve missed each other for lifetimes, but it’s good. Not in the way happiness feels, bright eyed and excited; not warm, or welcoming. Just plainly good, like scratching an itch. A bad decision that begs to be made.  

Scott used to dread everything that hovers over middle ground, messing with his sense of right and wrong. He did that until he felt it pressed close to his heart; ingrained and fully grown. It feeds on his soul, takes a toll that brings him to his knees - quite literally - but the back of his mind still manages to echo something like a plea and a grace.

*

They’re this for too long; long enough for the road back to disappear. Scott doesn’t know how normal feels anymore, and it kills him slowly. Stiles looks at him sometimes, mouth screwed shut, a concentrated frown, and that’s how Scott knows he’s trying to figure it out too.

That doesn’t mean they stop, it just means they slip.

(“Scott, I miss us.” It’s true.

“Scott, I hate this.” This too.

“Scotty, I love you.” Sounds like an apology.)

It’s a topic now. Their friends whisper about them, how they smell of each other and one thousand different feelings, how they don’t touch in front of them anymore, and how when they do it looks like a fight. Scott wants to fix that, too, leave everyone else out of their mess, but it’s too much - always so much.

“You know we know, don’t you?” In the winter Malia covers herself with fake fur, curls up on her bed and rests until forced not to. She looks like a child, hid under grey and beige blankets, just her head poking out. Scott takes pictures of her sometimes, and she always smiles dangerously up at him.

Scott’s heartbeat is steady when he answers, “Yes.” And its enerving even to himself; to know he doesn’t really mind it all that much.

“We’re worried about you. The both of you.” She confesses, after a pause, and even her care sounds stubborn in her voice. Scott loves it. “Mostly you, though."

"I’m fine.” He smiles, “It’s okay."

Malia rolls her eyes, "I’m guessing you’ve got it under control?” Her mockery isn’t as bitter, not ever, it sounds innocent and lighter than any else.

“Yeah. Yeah I do."

That’s where his heart skips a beat.

*

"Malia and I have a bet.” Kira smiles warm and kind, blushing after three shots of the piss looking drink Mason found to inebriate them. “Feels wrong. Mean, I mean. But she makes it sound okay.” She confides.

The music around them is loud, and Scott can see Stiles’ careless dancing from the corner of his eyes. There’s someone with him, and they’re too close, a pool of heat. It’s nothing like it would’ve been two years ago, when Stiles was lanky and clumsy to no end - but that’s just beside the point.

“Are you sure you should be telling me this?” Scott asks, even though he wants to know about the bet - has a feeling about what it is.

Kira pauses and frowns, bites on her lip, “I just want you to be happy.” Her eyes are bright and young - they make him think of how long she’ll live; how many she’ll outlive - and the sincerity almost makes him ache.

“I manage.” He guarantees, catching her hand with his.

She twists her lips, clearly unsatisfied, but squeezes his fingers reassuringly before proceeding. “We’re betting on who’ll give in first.” Her eyes follow the corner of Scott’s, eyeing Stiles’ lost dancing, now very much alone.

“Oh.” He lowers his head, “I think we might be -"

"You two getting back together?” Malia rests her chin against Kira’s head, hand keeping a loose grip around her red cup. She loops a protective arm around her girlfriend’s waist, and though Scott knows she’s playful, there’s always a hint of truth behind her words.

Kira closes her eyes, half past done, “This joke is getting really old."

Scott smiles at them and shuffles away as soon as Malia’s lips cover the corner of Kira’s mouth - he’s seen more than enough in the past to know that his presence doesn’t impact in whatever unravels from then on. He makes his way smoothly through the crowd, eyes locked on Stiles’ frame.

He takes Stiles home tonight, hides his bike behind the bushes and heads in with Stiles’ hands roaming his back, lips sealed under his jaw. "You staying over?” (“This just a quick fuck?”, “Dine and dash?”) Scott hears every version of the question over it.

“Do you want me to?” He whispers back, letting himself be kissed. He’s never asked this before - he’s been angry and not particularly interested on asking what is it that Stiles wants.

Stiles doesn’t stop, not for a second, instead he lets his hands search down to the small of Scott’s back and pulling him closer, “I want whatever you want."

That’s certainly not something Stiles has said either.

*

He wakes up to the sight of Stiles’ naked back. The boy’s still, sitting on the edge of the bed. It doesn’t suit him at all, but it’s been like that since he wasn’t himself - since he got invaded and stolen.

"There’s breakfast downstairs.” Stiles says idly. “Dad’s off to the station. I think he already knew, though."

Scott bites his lip, "I hid the bike."

"Yeah. I remember.” He finally turns - not enough to look, but enough so that Scott knows.

Stiles threads their fingers together, making sure to keep their eyes locked together. “How ’s it feel?” His voice is honeyed and slurred, at the very brink of care pouring out of his mouth.

Scott considers falling out of the conversation. He isn’t thinking straight, not when he’s getting a bitter taste of something he wants to badly, but words have a way of escaping sometimes, and very little can be done about it, “Good. That’s good."

"Good.” Scott lurches forward and seals their lips together. They’ve never been this soft, working slowly. Stiles’ lingering back and forth gets him noosing his legs around Stiles’ waist, silently asking for more of whatever he’s got.

“I don’t know what to do.” Stiles breathes out. “Don’t know how to fix it. I feel like I’ve been letting you down for years, even if you don’t know. Even if I didn’t. And then I try to not fuck things up, but I make it worse. So I don’t know what to do.” He shrugs hopelessly, and turns forward again, letting his elbows rest on his knees.

Scott’s instincts tell him to reach for him, to comfort and appease. He doesn’t do that, though - he’s been learning, even through some of his newly most common mistakes. “I can’t fix that for you."

When Stiles looks back this time, he pays attention, searches Scott’s expression and takes it all in. "I know - I’m -” He scoots back, one leg back on the bed, “Scott, I wanna work on it.”

“Not like this, though, right?” He urges, feeling restless all of the sudden, “Because this is wrong. It feels wrong. I don’t wanna be angry anymore and I don’t think -” Scott chokes, “We can’t keep doing this. We shouldn’t have done it in the first place. Not like this."

"You think I don’t know that?” Stiles narrows his eyes. “I’m gonna figure it out, okay? I’m gonna figure something out."

Scott nods, preparing to gather his things, "I really hope you do."

*

The seasons used to feel more pointed when he was a kid, like he could see the colors change according to each station of the year. Spring feels a lot less pink now that he’s grown, and it rolls around him like it’s air. He feels a little numb, he supposes, a little bit out of himself. He’s hurt in the way that pulses instead of stinging.

Stiles seems ever present, but that’s just because he’s really always been. Scott can’t remember a single rift in the past, so maybe this is why he feels so inadequate all of the time. Stiles is always looking, like he’s trying to learn something new that’ll crack this open and reveal a solution to him.

Scott wishes he’d look into himself sometimes.

("I can’t even imagine what I’d do.” Mason says once, arms resting on his knees. “Being apart like this.” He nods towards Stiles.

“It’s hard.” Scott presses his lips in a thin line. “I don’t think he totally gets what’s wrong.”

“Have you tried telling him?"

He sighs, "I’m not sure I’d have the guts to tell him."

He’s not sure where he’d start.)

*

The summer is merciless. His skin feels tight and boiling hot, the dry air making his nose prickle and his lips chap. Malia thrives like no other, and marks down all the water sources around them, makes everyone promise they’ll go. They make big plans like they’re not who they are, and they forget about it a few times. Scott thinks it happens to him when he laughs too hard and tears prickle in the corner of his eyes. Kira says it’s when they pretend effortlessly.

It’s the summer when Stiles approaches him.

"Can you give me a ride today?” He sinks his hands inside his pockets like they’re fifteen again, jittery with expectation.

“Do you think that’s a good idea?"

Stiles shrugs, "It’s an idea.” He reasons, “We’re gonna have to face it sooner or later."

Scott closes his eyes, "That’s not what it is about, Stiles."

He waits a beat, nostrils flaring, "Then what is it?” He flails angrily, “Huh?! It’s been months! Of small talk and bullshit. We’ve had time!"

The racing of Scott’s heart doesn’t take its time today, it slams him as soon as Stiles raises his voice. He’s got flashbacks, one thousand little memories for Stiles’ outbursts. The last one of his outbursts. "You hurt me!” Scott yells back, for the first time, and it feels like his lungs and his mouth work without his consent. “I needed you and you hurt me. You don’t even notice, you don’t even know, and maybe I shouldn’t - maybe it’s wrong that I resent it, but I don’t know how to keep forgiving you without -"

"Scott,” Stiles frowns, reaching forward. Scott gives a step back.

“I was not okay. I should’ve said I wasn’t, but I - they needed me and I -” He struggles with the words, loses himself in an explanation. How can he even begin to explain what’s been brewing and ready to explode for so long?

Stiles’ hands are on him soon enough, gripping him to the shoulders, “Scott, stop.” He whispers, inching closer. His hand roams up, taking his jaw. He swipes a tear away, eyes opened wide and scared - he’s so scared, Scott can smell it all over him. Stiles opens his mouth once, twice, then “I’m so sorry.” He pulls Scott closer, draws him in, arms wrapping around him protectively. “I didn’t know. I love you, I’m sorry."

Scott doesn’t know how long they stay like this, drawn back into each other’s orbits, breathing it all in, but it’s the closest to peace he’s gotten in a long time. He thinks back to their walk towards the edge, and Stiles’ angry, quick hands, how they shook the first time and never again. They’re soothing now, drawing circles on his back, and it feels like they can do it. "S'not so easy, y'know?” He comments idly, sniffing just a bit.

“Yeah.” Stiles sighs, “I’m gonna need you to tell me stuff. Don’t spare me.”

Scott’s calm wavers at the thought, but he swallows his reservations down just this once, “Okay. We’ll figure it out.”  

*

“This is stupid.” Malia runs the back of her hand through her forehead one more time. “The leaves are supposed to stay on the ground, that why they fall.”

“Mal, we can’t just walk on a bunch of leaves for a whole season.” Kira pats her shoulder, admiring their pile of leaves.

“Why not?” Malia frowns, crossing her arms.

Stiles nods from the other side of the yard, “Exactly! Why not? I mean, it’s not like we’d be stepping on small babies. And the earth would swallow them down eventually, anyway."

"We’re not starting that tradition today, though, so you can keep adding to the pile.” Scott smiles up at him, rolling up his leaves for the hundredth time since they’ve started this. Stiles rolls his eyes and takes his neglected rake, pulling a dissatisfied face. Scott laughs, loving the company. It barely feels like they hadn’t been shoulder to shoulder for a while there now.

“Next year Malia’s idea’s the one we’re using. No more doing nature’s job.” Stiles announces, flinging the rake way too far, way too hard. Malia nods furiously from afar, kicking the leaves into a black bag.