#minificroulette

Huffing out a breath, Stiles rolls out of bed. Even after years of being together, having to coax Derek back to bed is still very much unchartered territory. But on the rare occasions it happens, Stiles at the very least has an inkling as to what’s going on. Today, however, he has no clue what could possibly keep Derek up at night. There are no monsters causing mayhem in Beacon Hills. Nobody in the pack is in any sort of danger. Everything should be fine. 

But apparently not. 

Stiles tiptoes out of their bedroom and down the short hallway towards the voices coming from the TV. By the sound of it, Derek put on a rerun of Friends. He pushes the door open, not entirely sure what to expect — and he sure didn’t think he’d find a wolf curled up on the couch. “Derek, seriously.” Annoyed, Stiles flicks on the lights in the open-plan kitchen. “Get your filthy paws off my furniture.”

Derek’s ears flick in his direction. He doesn’t move immediately but decides to follow the command after a few seconds of contemplation. Judging by the way he stretches languidly, it seems like he doesn’t have a care in the world. 

If Stiles has woken up in an empty bed for nothing, he’s going to be pissed. He grabs the sweatpants from the backrest of the armchair and tosses them at Derek. “Unwolf and explain yourself, Mister.” His least favorite past-time is forcing his fiance to talk to him about feelings. No matter how long they’re going to be together, Stiles doubts Derek will ever be able to communicate freely about the shit that bothering him. So, occasionally Stiles has to get a little mean to make Derek open up. Cuddles can come after. 

The enormous wolf makes a sound akin to a huff. However, he shifts back into a human — not without a disgruntled rumble though. He still cooperated a lot faster than Stiles expected. Nothing would’ve stopped him from simply staring him down as a wolf, looking adorable as hell. Well, nothing but the knowledge that not even Derek, as emotionally constipated as he might be, is able to out-stubborn Stiles. 

“So?” Stiles asks and switches the TV off. “What’s going on?” 

Derek studies him as he slips into his sweatpants, head slightly cocked in a way that’s reminiscent of an animal. It always takes a few moments to leave his wolf behind. He blinks slowly, once then twice, and flares his nostrils just enough to be noticeable; almost as if he’s trying to figure out how mad Stiles really is — and truth be told, he isn’t mad, just a little frustrated that Derek decided to eat his feelings instead of waking him up. A conclusion his dear fiance clearly came to as well because his shoulders slump and he crosses the distance between them. “You’re right,” he says almost reluctantly before pulling Stiles into a hug. 

“I know.” The response is more instinct than anything else. After all, when is he wrong? Stiles wraps his arms around Derek’s waist and squints at him. “About what?” 

“Peter doesn’t have an emergency.” 

Stiles rolls his eyes. “She’s not going to eat you alive.” His grandmother has always been more bark than bite, but since Stiles is her favorite grandchild, she might be a little bit overprotective. 

“I’m not sure about that,” Derek mutters, and he looks genuinely worried. 

It takes everything in him not to bring Red Riding Hood into this conversation. “Babcia knows you make me happy,” Stiles reminds him, wrapping his arms tightly around Derek’s middle, and pressing a quick kiss to his lips. “That’s all she needs to know to approve of our marriage.”  

Derek doesn’t reply immediately, instead, he leans back a little and studies Stiles’ face again. “Am I?” 

“What?” Stiles raises his brows. 

“Am I making you happy?” That question could’ve only come from Derek. They’re engaged, about to be married in three months, and have lived together for the last four years. Still, he questions whether or not Stiles is happy, as if he’s the one burying his emotions under abs of steel. 

After kissing Derek once again, Stiles leans back and sighs. “That depends.” His attempt at keeping his face straight fails almost immediately. He grins slightly and cups Derek’s face. “Are you coming to bed?” 

Widening his eyes, Nolan stares back at him. “Shoot them?”

“Politely.” Giving him the thumbs up, Stiles pushes the door open and slips into the vast darkness behind it. They’re a bit on a time crunch, so there isn’t a time for a pep talk. Luckily, Stiles isn’t stopped by any locked doors. The hunters don’t think it’s necessary since they secured everything with mountain ash. They’re idiots, all of them, and it reeks of desperation on Gerard’s part to find recruits via fear mongering. If only they knew werewolves aren’t what they should be most afraid of. Then again, Stiles probably should be thankful. After all, this gave him a very easy in — after his dad finally informed him that shit hit the fan in Beacon Hills. The staggering number of hunters made it hard for the supernatural community, Stiles, however, had a very easy time to get in without rousing any suspicious.

As the door clicks shut behind him, Stiles can hear a faint growl in the seemingly endless darkness of the warehouse. “Keep growling at me, and I’ll leave your sorry ass here.” Stiles flicks the lights, raising his brows as he finds not only Derek but also Peter chained to an electric fence. “I cannot believe this,” he mutters more to himself than anyone in particular. How the hell did they manage to capture both Hales?

Stiles jogs towards them, still shaking his head in disbelief. There’s no doubt that Peter somehow dragged his nephew into some shenanigans that caused them to end up here. Judging by Derek’s glower, he’s even less thrilled about Stiles joining the fun. “You’re welcome,” he mutters, turning the electricity off.

“How did you get in here?” Derek asks as he’s breaking the chains holding him in place. When he takes a step, he looks a little unsteady on his feet.

“Gerard is overestimating the intelligence of his hunters.” Stiles shrugs, barely resisting the urge to rush forward and make sure Derek is okay. He’s not the biggest fan of being coddled in front of people, especially not Peter, and Stiles tries to respect that.

Peter looks quite put out by the fact that he’s not only been captured by a ragtag group of hunters, but also that he needed to be saved. “Don’t sell yourself short,” he says with his usual rather unpleasant and knowing smile. It’s like the guy has a sixth scene for Stiles doing something shady.

“Can you go grab Nolan, please?” Raising his brows at Peter, Stiles points over his shoulder. “Careful, though, he’s a bit nervous… and armed with a crossbow. Try not to startle him.” Although he’s pretty sure at this point, everything could startle the poor guy. He’s got no clue how he made it this far without a nervous breakdown.

Peter draws his brows together. “Aren’t we leaving?”

“Not through that door.” Stiles gestures for him to leave before finally crossing the distance between him and Derek, cupping his pale cheeks softly. “Are you okay?”

“Why yes, I am,” Peter calls over his shoulder, “thanks for asking.”

Ignoring not only his uncle’s comment but also Stiles’ question, Derek tilts his head just enough to press a kiss to the ball of his left hand. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Of course.

Stiles rolls his eyes and flicks Derek’s forehead. “I should’ve been here weeks ago.”

“It’s not safe—"

“Nowhere is safe,” Stiles interrupts him curtly. This isn’t a new argument, and it’s probably not the last time they’re having it. His dear boyfriend loves to bring it up. “Not for you, not for me… and this place is going to be especially unsafe in a few minutes.” He runs his finger along Derek’s left eyebrow, drawing his own together.

Sad brow moves into a deep frown. “What did you do?”

“I do not want to interrupt this heartfelt reunion,” Peter says, dragging Nolan after him by the fabric of his jacket, “but there’s a fire outside, and it’s closing in.”

Derek stares at Stiles.

“What?” Stiles shrugs, gesturing around. “Gerard wants his people to be afraid, so, I gave them something to be scared of.” After everything they have done, some of these hunters certainly deserve worse, however, Stiles is not quite the monster the nogitsune was trying to turn him into. But Derek keeps staring at him, and Stiles hates that it doesn’t take anything more for his guilty conscience to appear. As much as he loves Derek, Stiles really did not need yet another Jiminy Cricket in his life. “They’re going to be fine. I started the fire in an abandoned area. No one’s going to get hurt, Care Bear, who do you think I am?” It’s a loaded question, they both know that — and for the first time since they started dating, Stiles is scared of an answer.

Derek doesn’t reply, merely lets out a long breath and nods. His hand finds Stiles’ easily. He intertwines their fingers, squeezing tightly — believing him.

“She’s still a bitch. I know you shouldn’t call you aunt a bitch, but, like, if we’re lucky and our schedules line up, we see each other once a year for Babcia’s birthday, and she spent the whole time berating me and my dad. Mostly me, though. My accent’s too heavy. I shouldn’t go by a nickname. I need to learn how to sit still.” He gestures towards the sky, squinting his eyes against the light of the stars overhead. As much as he promised himself not to let her words get to him again, Stiles curls his hands into fists either way and sits up again. “She said I won’t make it far at the FBI because I talk too much. Can you believe that? As if the amount I talk somehow changes how good I am at my job.” Stiles pauses and presses his lips together. His heart beats against his ribs, once, twice. He takes a breath, stealing a glance at Derek, who’s remained awfully silent since the rest of the pack left to catch some sleep. After all, they were on the road for almost ten hours.  

Pushing his heads into the pockets of his hoodie, Stiles lies back down again. “I do talk a lot, huh?”

Derek hums in agreement. “But it’s nice,” he tells him, gaze suddenly heavy on the side of Stiles’ face — palpable like a fingertip tracing his cheek. “I like hearing your thoughts.”

Heat creeps up Stiles’ neck. He hopes it’s not too visible in the light of the moon. His mouth going dangerously dry, Stiles turns to look at Derek, whose face has never looked so soft. He smiles, trying his hardest to keep his heart under control. If he’s honest to himself — something he rarely manages to be — he’s been dreaming of a moment like this forever. Not exactly this, but something similar; the two of them, alone, in a somewhat romantic setting, and Derek looking as if he likes him. In a romantic kind of way. Stiles bites his cheek and looks away again. Better to stop right there. He’s jetlagged, hasn’t slept since boarding the plane almost 26 hours ago, and that glass of wine most definitely hit harder than it usually does.

He itches to touch Derek’s face, tracing the curve of his mouth, the sharp line of his jaw.

Fuck.

Stiles clears his throat as he attempts to sit up again, but Derek cups his cheek, successfully freezing him in place. Stiles’ heart leaps into his throat. He opens his mouth, but the words are lodged underneath his jaw, refusing to spill out of the first time in — shit, the first time ever, actually.

Derek doesn't say anything either. He simply smiles, his touch gentle as his thumb glides over Stiles' cheek, then brushes the corner of his mouth. "I like hearing you talk," Derek murmurs in a low voice, shattering the heavy silence around them. "And I don't want you to stop."

“Are you—” Stiles swallows, struggling to get the words out with all of his nerves getting in the way “— are you sure? Because I can totally stop right now. If you want to- if you want me to.” If he’s misreading every single social cue, he still has a chance to deny absolutely everything.

But Derek props himself onto his elbow. “Right now, I want to kiss you.”

“Oh.” Stiles licks his lips, flushing even deeper. “Yeah, that’s totally something I want to do to… wanted to do for like a really—”

Huffing out a breath, Derek pushes Stiles onto his back. Then his mouth is on his, and Stiles is pretty sure his heart stopped. Because Derek Hale is kissing him. Because shit like this doesn’t happen to him. He’s died and gone to heaven. This cannot be real. It simply can’t. As Derek presses his knee firmly between Stiles' thighs, snapping him out of his trance, the reality crashes upon him like a tidal wave.

Fuck.

Stiles grabs at Derek, curling his fingers into the short strands and collar of his shirt. This is very real. This is happening. This is happening to him.  

Holy shit.

Derek chuckles into the kiss.

“You are—” Stiles isn’t exactly surprised by Theo’s ignorance. It’s not his responsibility to keep up with social media or other publications — that’s what Lydia has been hired for. Unfortunately, he isn’t even interested in staying connected to his friends and family living on the other side of the country. Otherwise, he most likely would already been aware of doing something wrong. Which, he technically didn’t. It’s still a stupid fucking mistake. Exhaling sharply, Stiles unlocks his phone and tosses it at Theo, who catches it with his stupid, lightning-fast reflexes. If only Theo’s brain would work as fast as the rest of his body.

Furrowing his brows, Theo reads the headline of one of the various articles Stiles has chosen. He blinks. Reads it again. The weight of the situation finally seems to sink in as Theo pales and sinks to the edge of Stiles’ bed. “You dad is going to end me.”

“Oh, so you’re scared of my dad?” Stiles retorts, unable to keep the annoyance out of his voice.

“Your dad,” Theo snaps, his frustrations more than clear as he drops Stiles’ phone beside him, “is the fucking president.”

“And you’re a fucking idiot.” Stiles rounds the bed, huffing out a breath. “I mean, seriously... your wallpaper?” He flicks Theo’s forehead, merely raising a brow as his dear boyfriend glares at him. As adorable as it is, Theo should’ve known better than to use a picture of them as his phone’s background. His private phone, yes, but his phone, nonetheless. People know who he is. They look at him too, even though Theo doesn’t like to think about that. Someone was bound to see and take a picture and from there on out, it spread like wildfire.

Theo tugs on his suit jacket, his expression adorably helpless as he looks up at him. Usually, Theo doesn’t fuck up. Perfect Theodore Raeken is not accustomed to making mistakes. He’s the best at his job, and Stiles’ dad’s biggest hope at reigning his son in. It worked, to a degree. Mostly because they started dating, and Stiles’ priorities shifted away from hooking up with random strangers.

Letting out a breath, Stiles cups Theo’s cheeks. “When I said I’m tired of hiding our relationship, I didn’t mean ‘tell the whole world’.” Stiles can keep himself from smiling as he leans down and kisses Theo’s forehead. “It’s cute though.” Despite his frustration with the situation, Stiles can’t really stay angry now that Theo looks so defeated.

Theo slumps forward, burying his face against Stiles’ stomach, and groans softly. “I fucked up.”

“Happens to the best of us.” Stiles runs his fingers through Theo’s shorts strands. They’ve been dating for four months, and while Stiles can’t deny that he’s fallen pretty damn hard for him, he didn’t expect that Theo is the one messing up by having the two of them as his wallpaper. He wasn’t aware they’ve reached that stage yet. “I hope this teaches you to be more careful from now on.” And if this situation doesn’t get it through Theo’s head, his father’s tirade most likely will. After all, he hired Theo to be Stiles’ bodyguard and dating his only son isn’t exactly part of the job description.

As if on cue, Stiles’ phone vibrates with a very short text message from his dad.

> My office. Now.

Stiles pats the back of Theo’s head gently. “Time to put on your big boy pants, babe, the boss is demanding our presence.” He’s not looking forward to this conversation. Not even a little bit, despite knowing that his dad is cool with them dating. Learning about them through tabloids is what he’s mad at. As well as knowing that the press is going to have a field day with the first son dating his bodyguard. Lydia is not going to be happy either because all of this means she’s got her work cut out for her.

Theo whines softly and wraps his arms around Stiles’ waist as if that could save him from facing the music.

As much as Stiles would love to continue cuddling his boyfriend, experience taught him that avoiding the lecture will only make everything worse. They might have the chance to do some damage control if they don’t hide from the consequences. “It’s going to be fine,” Stiles assures Theo, running his fingers over the nape of his neck, “once he’s done yelling.”

Theo whines again, a little louder this time, but he lets go of Stiles and stands up, looking like he’s about to throw up. How strange that he’s ready to stand in front of a gun without breaking a sweat, but Stiles’ dad being angry with him terrifies him.

Smiling faintly, Stiles brushes his lips against the corner of Theo’s mouth and intertwines their fingers, squeezing Theo’s hand gently. “Let’s go.”

He tugs at the patch again. This time, he can’t stop the audible wince.

Next to his hip, Brett stirs. He doesn’t move for a moment, grunting very softly at being woken up, then he straightens with a yawn and rolls his shoulders and neck. Stiles knows exactly how he feels after many nights spent exactly like that. Brett’s blue eyes become quickly alert when he finds Stiles awake. “Hey.” His voice is soft and full of concern. “How are you feeling?”

“Parched,” Stiles croaks, returning his gaze to the IV. He doesn’t tug on the patch anymore, not when Brett is watching him closely.

“Why didn’t you wake me up?” Brett hurries around the bed to grab the bottle that’s well within Stiles’ reach; he simply didn’t trust his stomach enough to keep anything down, and the last thing he wanted was to wake up Brett by throwing up all over him.

Stiles takes the offered glass and carefully takes a sip. His mouth almost instantly stops feeling like a desert.

“Anything else?” Brett asks, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “Headache? Are you hungry?”

Stiles shakes his head.

“Fucking hell.” Brett runs his fingers through his hair, something Stiles struggled not to do while he was still asleep. “I’m glad you’re okay. Your dad scared the shit out of me.”

Stiles grimaces. “My dad knows?” His voice sounds rough now that he tries to string words together to form an actual sentence.

“Of course, he knows.” Brett draws his brows together. “Someone put some shit in your beer. If I hadn’t told him, Melissa would’ve, and then he’d be pissed at me for keeping him in the dark.”

“Someone did what?” Stiles can’t tell if his brain is just slow, or if it doesn’t make any sense. There’s no fucking way Stiles left his drink unattended — not after countless lessons and horror stories from his dad when he started to get to the age where he could go to parties — but it makes even less sense for Stiles to drink a lot, or to be this wasted after a single beer. So, yeah. His drink getting spiked does seem a little more likely.

“Your dad’s turning the bar upside down right now.” Brett pushes his hands in his jeans. He’s wearing last night’s outfit. Did he really stay with him the whole time? “I told him your drinks were never unattended, so the barkeeper is pretty high on his list of subjects.”

“The barkeeper?” Sure, it does make sense. Stiles just wishes he would remember the barkeeper. Did he flirt with him… her? He has no clue who the barkeeper was, much less what they looked like. Perhaps he didn’t give them any attention, and that’s why they— Stiles closes his eyes. Shit like this doesn’t happen to him. He runs with wolves and gets rid of supernatural threats. A fucking barkeeper with ill intentions shouldn’t be the thing that put him in the hospital. And yet.

Brett smiles, but it doesn’t seem to reach his eyes. Not really. “You don’t remember much, huh?” He sounds almost a little too casual. Does he want him to remember? Or would he rather Stiles doesn’t remember a thing. Because if it’s the latter…

A wave of nausea comes with that thought. Staring at the glass in his hand again, Stiles shakes his head. Best to pretend even though he knows they need to talk about it. Maybe he should just apologize, and tell Brett he doesn’t really mean it. After all, he was drugged. Their friendship is something he highly treasures. He cares about it just as much as he cares about his friendship with Lydia. He doesn’t want to ruin it with his fucking feelings.

“Nothing at all?”

But the thing is, their friendship has blossomed so quickly and is still going strong because they don’t keep secrets from one another. They’re brutally honest too. “I remember kissing you,” Stiles replies in a horse whisper, barely resisting the urge to pull at the patch again. “Why do I remember kissing you?” Part of him hopes it’s merely a drug-induced hallucination or a very vivid dream.

The tiny grin on Brett’s lips tells a very different story. “Because you love me,” Brett informs him entirely too delighted. “At least that’s what you said last night.”

“Oh, my god.” Stiles presses a hand to his face. Somebody, please kill him.

“You do… right?” Brett sounds painfully small and… scared? “Love me?”

Drawing his brows together, Stiles lowers his hand and stares at his friend. His best friend, who is looking back at him like a deer in headlights, expects a collision that’ll render him dead or broken. Stiles bites his bottom lip, considering his response despite knowing he’ll tell the truth regardless. “I do love you, yes.”

Brett’s face lights up. “Good because I kinda told the EMTs that I’m your boyfriend, who then told the nurses who I think told Melissa, who might’ve told your dad. It would’ve been super awkward if I had to tell them I was wrong about our relationship.”

“You’re aware that makes us the gossip in the staff room, right?” But Stiles can’t help but smile. If he’d known before that Brett felt the same, the past six months could’ve been very different.

“Our relationship has been the topic of various bets in my pack.” Brett sits on the bed next to him, smoothing the edge of the patch with his thumb. “I think I can handle nurses.” Smirking down at him, Brett squeezes his hand and kisses him as if he wants to make up every single second they missed out on.

Stiles runs his hands over his face. “Jackson, I love you, I do, but if you don’t let me ask for directions, they’re going to find parts of your body in multiple states.” As stubborn as Stiles is, nothing beats Jackson’s pride. There aren’t many ways around it, but Stiles found two that usually help. One of them is bribing him with sex, the other is threatening to kill him. It really depends on his mood which one he chooses. The fact that the latter works should probably be at least somewhat concerning. That means Jackson either thinks Stiles is capable of murder — and getting away with it — or he knows that he only threatens to dump his body all over the US when he’s at the end of his patience. 

Muttering something under his breath Stiles doesn’t catch, Jackson sets the blinker and brings the car to a stop. 

Stiles opens the window, instantly hating the humid air pushing into the car. How this mascot survives in this heat is beyond him. “Hey, sorry.” 

The dinosaur wanders over to them. Up close, the costume does look like a dragon. Stiles grimaces. “‘Sup?” The guy pushes the head up to reveal a confident smile and an impressive amount of freckles. His green eyes jump from Stiles to Jackson and back again. “Nice car.” 

“Thanks,” Jackson replies tersely and seemingly a lot more interested in whatever is going on on the other side of the street. 

“Sorry to bother you,” Stiles says, turning on his seat to face the guy directly, “but we’re looking for Ithaca Falls, and I think we ended up taking a wrong turn.” Or three. It’s hard to tell since Jackson insisted he knew exactly where he was going when he clearly didn’t. The next time they go on a no-phones vacation, they leave them in the car when they arrive instead of nightstands at home. But they both know they will not have any sort of relaxation with their phones anywhere near them, not as a lawyer and an FBI agent for the supernatural. Their jobs are crazy, and the only reason their relationship works out in the first place is with strict rules and the bonus of working the same case on multiple occasions. 

“Yeah, so, you passed the exit already,” Mascot Man chuckles and leans against the hood of the car despite Jackson’s withering stare. "You gotta go back— you got a phone or a map or somethin'? I could show you." He takes his head off, revealing a mess of red curls plastered to his sweaty forehead. 

"No, sorry." Stiles contemplates. He's never going to remember the way, and he doesn't trust Jackson to do so either after getting them in this mess in the first place. "Could you write it down?" Stiles opens the glovebox. The one thing about him is that he's got pens and notebooks everywhere in case he's got to write something down for his job, or simply because he needs to remember something. 

The guy nods and takes the notebook with a grin. "Sure, hold on. It's not far," he explains while taking a glove off with his teeth. "Just a bitch to find."

Raising a brow, Stiles turns to Jackson and mouths, "Map, asshole."

Jackson merely rolls his eyes. He'd never admit that they'd never find it without this guy's help, no matter how complicated the way ends up being.

When the guy is done writing, he hands the notebook back in. 

"Thank you." Stiles puts the notebook on his leg, contemplating the instructions briefly. It's really not that far, around thirty minutes by the looks of it. 

"You're welcome," the guy grins. "And if you're hungry, Lenny's diner is just around the corner."

This finally got Jackson's attention. He leans towards the window and peers at their helper, placing his hand so high on his thigh, everyone and their brother knows he has intimate knowledge of every inch of Stiles’ dick. "We're good, thanks." He revs the engine and all but shoots away from the curb.

With a tight smile, Stiles pats his boyfriend’s hand before squeezing his fingers. "Seriously."

Jackson sets the blinker, so intent on leaving the mascot behind, he doesn't even bother to make a U-turn. “I didn’t like the way he looked at you.” Funnily enough, Lydia warned him about how irrationally possessive Jackson can become — not just when it comes to him. He’s also exceptionally possessive when it comes to his best friend, Danny. Jackson made it abundantly clear multiple times that Danny is, in fact, Jackson’s best friend. It’s only funny as long as you don’t look too close. 

“He’s a very polite dragon,” Stiles replies softly. 

Jackson squeezes his thigh with a smile. “Well, where’d he tell us to go?” 

They don’t always apologize, but sometimes admitting they were wrong is just as good. Yawning, Stiles sinks deeper into his seat. “We gotta go left behind the next target then head east for a bit.” 

Curling his lips, Stiles raises a bottle of rum. He shakes the measly content that’s left over and heaves a sigh. “Great.” He drops the bottle between the others. Someone’s gotta have some alcohol around here. His jock quota is reached, and he desperately needs some booze to make this bearable for another hour or two. 

Stiles whirls around as someone touches his shoulder, only to find himself face to face with a v-neck covered by a varsity jacket. Stiles blinks and takes a step back, eyeing the guy in front of him warily. “Hey,” he says slowly, pinching his brows together. Why does Brett Talbot know he exists? 

Brett flashes him a smile. He’s painfully attractive, but Stiles has never been particularly receptive to the charm of jocks. Perks of growing up with Jackson Whittemore. “What’s up?”

There’s movement behind him. A group of guys are trying to be conspicuous but failing spectacularly. 

“You guys are out of booze,” Stiles informs him and pushes past him with a pat on his arm. If he does so just to get a feel of Brett’s impressive biceps, then nobody needs to be any wiser.

Brett, however, hasn’t given up yet. Still smiling his cocky yet awfully pretty smile, he steps in his way. Someone clearly is not used to his charm falling flat. “I’ve got some upstairs.” 

Stiles struggles to keep his expression in check. Of course, he just so happens to have booze upstairs. See, under different circumstances, Stiles probably would’ve said yes, would’ve allowed Brett to drag him upstairs and fuck him against a wall, or into a mattress, or whatever he’s intending to do. His idiot friends, however, are currently very much cockblocking him. “Dope,” he says with a very obvious lack of enthusiasm and pushes Brett out of his way carefully — people are unpredictable, and he’s been around enough to know not everyone takes rejection very well; especially when said rejection happens right in front of his friends.

This time, Brett gets the hint. His smile slips, yielding utter confusion before it turns to anger at the howl of laughter coming from his friends. 

Stiles makes a beeline to Mason and Liam, who suddenly looks more than excited while Mason is as confused, if not more than Brett. 

“Dude, dude,” Mason whisper-shouts just loud enough to be audible over the music and conversations. “That’s Brett Talbot. Did you just reject Brett Talbot?” 

It’s madness, really. Who doesn’t want to hook up with him? But Stiles has absolutely no interest in ending up as some sort of conquest. Not even Brett Talbot’s. He’s a senior in college, only a few months away from starting at the FBI. It’s about time he finds his pride and sticks with it. 

Liam punches his shoulder. “He’s not done yet,” he says, his voice almost shrill with excitement.

Rolling his eyes, Stiles turns around to face Brett with raised brows. “I see you didn’t get your booze.” His friends, Stiles notes, have disappeared somewhere in the crowd. He wonders if he told them to piss off or to be less suspicious. He also wonders if being told ‘no’ is a turn-on, wouldn’t be the first time. 

Brett rubs his left collarbone, scanning the faces of Mason and Liam briefly. His brows pinch slightly before he returns his attention to Stiles. Resuming this conversation in front of a very curious audience probably isn’t exactly high on his agenda, but Brett takes a breath and smiles. This time, it’s only half as bright as before. “I’m sorry,” he says, sounding awfully genuine as he tugs on his black v-neck before pushing his hands into his jeans. “See, the thing is…” Brett trails off, once again studying Stiles’ friends behind him. His shoulders drop, and for all but a second, he looks almost defeated. “My friend thinks you’re hot.” 

What?

Stiles blinks, checking out their immediate surroundings. That doesn’t make any fucking sense. Said friend would most likely watch them like a hawk, looking ready to throw up from nerves. But there’s nobody here who fits that description. “What friend?” 

Brett’s face does something complicated as he’s going through a bunch of emotions in three seconds. Eventually, it settles on resignation. “Me,” he admits softly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “I’m the friend.”

“I’m—” Brett grimaces as if he’s in pain. “Listen, I’m not—”

“Usually this bad at getting into someone’s pants?” Stiles offers, crossing his arms over his chest. 

Brett shakes his head, looking as if he’s in progressively more pain, and rubs his collarbone again. “I’ve been trying to talk to you for… a while.” 

A while. Stiles uncrosses his arms. A while? That sounds highly unlikely. Someone like Brett has issues starting up a conversation with his scrawny ass? Not that Stiles considers himself ugly. He grew into his gangly limbs in his senior year at high school, but he also has two sets of working eyes, and they’re telling him very clearly that Brett should be miles out of his league. “I think,” he mutters, shaking his head a little as if that would in any way shape, or form change what he’s just heard, “I’m having trouble processing—” 

“You’re hot,” Brett interrupts him with a little more confidence this time around, “and… can we have this conversation somewhere in private?” 

Stiles opens his mouth, closes it again, and stares at Brett with his heart in his throat. What the hell is happening? “Well, shit,” he mumbles, not even sure what exactly he’s referring to, “at least buy me dinner first.” Did someone give him drugs without him noticing? Because Stiles is pretty sure he’s having delusions. 

“Sure thing.” Brett grins now, open and happy, and, fuck, Stiles wants to kiss him. “I’ll pick you up on Monday after your Criminal Law and Procedure class.” Winking at him, Brett turns around and shuffles away. 

And before Stiles can even process what happened, much less that Brett knows his fucking class schedule, Mason pops up in his vision. “Did you just talk our resident golden boy into going on a date with you?” 

Stiles can’t believe it either. Brett Talbot thinks he’s hot. Fucking hell. Without a reply, he pushes past him and grabs Brett’s arm before he’s got the chance to vanish into the crowd. 

The smirk on Brett’s lips is a little too confident, but that doesn’t bother Stiles any longer. Instead, he pulls him down by the collar of his jacket and kisses him. His lips are soft, and the taste of beer clings to them. His heart lurches back into his throat because he’s kissing Brett, who very clearly needed a few seconds to process what’s going on. Then Brett grabs him by the hips and kisses him back with a hunger that’s dizzying. Stiles makes a sound in the back of his throat he’s very much not proud of, and Brett pulls them flush together. If he lets this go on for any longer— 

Stiles pulls away, chuckling softly as Brett chases his mouth. Everyone can fuck their college's golden boy. But getting to date him? He leans close again. “Consider this a taste of what you can get if you play your cards right on Monday.” 

“Trust me,” Brett smiles, blue eyes bright with excitement. “I will.” And with that, he’s vanishing into the crowd, giving him a perfect view of Lydia and Jackson pushing their way toward him. Oh, Jackson is going to hate this. 

Theo sighs. “These are your friends.” Out of the two of them, Theo is the extrovert. He’d probably have a whole bunch of friends if not for his rather cold exterior and serial killer vibes. Most of Stiles’ friends probably only accept him because Theo and he have been a package deal since elementary school. Although he seems to get along pretty well with Kira. Then again, nobody on this earth could possibly dislike Kira. 

“My friends thought it’s a good idea to bring my ex to this party.” An ex, more specifically, who still thinks they’re going to get back together despite breaking up in senior year. Stiles has been living across the country for five years now. He begged Scott not to invite her, but, of course, she could not celebrate New Year's with her other friends. It had to be them. “And she doesn’t get that I don’t like her.” It might be cruel to say, but it’s the truth — and Stiles had this conversation with Malia multiple times before. 

Something Theo knows, so he merely huffs before taking a sip of his beer.   

“Oh, please. Do I have to remind you of Tracy?”

Theo rolls his eyes. “I remember that myself, thanks.” 

Stiles smirks and can’t help the excitement rushing through his body when Theo smirks back. His friends don’t really understand why Theo is still one of his best friends. People have never understood why Theo and Stiles ended up becoming best friends in the first place. However, that’s because most people — and even some of his friends — only know the parts of Stiles he’s willing to show. Stiles and Theo are much more alike than it seems on the surface. It doesn’t look like it simply because Stiles can mask it better. Well, that, and Theo doesn’t actually care about what other people think. It’s a feat Stiles is quite envious of. 

Placing his bottle on the kitchen aisle, Theo turns to him. “I could kiss you at midnight.” 

Stiles blinks, and for a horrible long second, his entire brain freezes up. Kiss. Midnight. Kissing Theo. At midnight. Stiles swallows, suddenly more than aware of the fact that he’s still holding onto Theo’s wrist. His skin underneath his fingertips is warm, pulse steady and strong. The warmth is spreading in his body, up his neck, and into his cheeks. 

“Are you blushing?” Theo sounds infuriatingly amused. 

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Stiles elbows him, narrowing his eyes. The concept of kissing Theo should have never thrown him this much. It has never even crossed his mind. Theo is his best friend. They grew up together. There is no kissing Theo Raeken. 

Laughing softly, Theo grabs his bottle and wraps an arm around Stiles’ shoulder. “A kiss would show Malia you’ve moved on.” 

“Guys!” Lydia calls from the living room. “Two minutes, come on.” 

Theo pulls Stiles closer to him and walks them back. It’s nothing new. Theo has done this countless times before, and Stiles more often than not has wrapped his arm around Theo’s waist. He can’t do it. Not today. He’s barely managed to let go of Theo’s wrist. Being this close to his best friend makes him nervous. It shouldn’t. It never has. So, why in the world does it bother him so much now? 

Everyone is already settled in front of the TV, watching the countdown tick closer and closer to midnight. While everyone is occupied with that, Malia is keeping her eyes locked on Theo and him. Someone about the look on her face makes Stiles press closer to Theo. To his surprise, Theo holds him tighter too. What makes this so different is how casual he is about it. Theo always makes little snide remarks, but now— it feels so normal. So right. 

And yet completely different. 

Stiles curls his arm around Theo’s waist, watching the numbers get smaller and smaller. Still, it’s Theo he is focused on. His warmth. His breathing. His muscles. The way he’s acutely aware of every inch of Theo’s body pressed against his. 

Oh. 

His friends start counting. 

Oh.

Stiles pulls a bit away from Theo, who turns his attention away from the TV as well. A small smile curls around his best friend’s lips; a smile Stiles simply cannot look away from. 

Cheers erupt. People are hugging, but the world is muffled the moment Theo kisses him — or he kisses Theo. Stiles doesn’t know who made the first move, or if anyone made the first move. They’ve been in sync for years. They understand each other without talking. Maybe Stiles has simply been blind all these years. Maybe he didn’t realize his feelings for Theo because they’ve always been there, growing naturally until spilling over one day. 

Theo grabs his hips, pulling him closer. Judging by the way Theo kisses him, it seems like he’s aware of his feelings for quite some time already. He wraps his arms tightly around the other boy, suddenly wishing Theo would have made his move sooner.