I literally just wrote this because — happy Sciles day! No idea why I based it around a lacrosse game, but I’m going with it because it’s short and simple and I wanted to post something today. I couldn’t miss their day, now could I? These boys deserve it! (I’m also posting it on ao3 but I’m not risking putting the link here because... you know, Tumblr and its problem with links.)

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There are only a few seconds left. The clock's counting down, each second that ticks by displayed on the board, glowing and bright for all to see. It just adds to the tension swirling in the air, mixing with that surge of adrenaline and thrill of excitement—from both teams, the crowd, everyone who's watching the last few seconds of the game unfold. 

Scott glances at Stiles from across the field, but it's only for a split second before the ball comes flying in his direction and his heightened senses kick in. He catches it with ease, the ball hitting right into the net of his stick. Then he's running, members of the other team already heading straight for him. 

Five seconds. They just need this one shot to win. 

He dodges past another two people in green jersey's, his eyes darting around the field, looking for his best option. He could make the shot himself if he were to use his advantages just this once. 

But then Stiles is right there, close enough to catch it, and close enough to throw it to Jackson, the closest to the goal. Scott barely thinks it over for a second, his feet still moving, his heartbeat thrumming in his ears, along with pretty much every single other heartbeat around him. 

The next second, he's pulling his stick back and the ball's flying through the air once again, a tense silence from the crowd. There's a cheer as Stiles catches it and Scott breathes out in relief, moving to the side just a split second later, sending the person who had been aiming for him straight past him. 

He watches, his eyes darting to the scoreboard. But Jackson's already got the ball and as soon as the countdown hits one, it's hitting the net, the goalkeeper not even close to stopping it. 

The crowd erupts in cheers and the tension in Scott's limbs finally eases away as a grin spreads across his face. The team—his team―are cheering now as well, that rush of adrenaline lingering behind as they all run to congratulate each other; Scott included. 

He spots Stiles in the midst of it all, the crowd coming down to join them all as well. Stiles is whooping and cheering possibly louder than anyone else, his arms thrown in the air, a bright grin on his face. Scott's already heading straight for him when Stiles notices him, and if it's even possible, his grin brightens even more. 

"We won!" Stiles shouts, and as soon as Scott's close enough, his hands are grabbing at his shoulders, shaking him slightly. "Scott, we actually won! We beat Devonford—oh my god!" 

It might be the rush from winning—something they never usually do considering they've been known to suck—or maybe it's because of how close Stiles is right now, and how happy he is. Whatever it is, it has Scott bringing his hands up to either side of Stiles' face, pulling him the rest of the way as his head tilts and he leans in, pressing their lips together in a kiss that's partially driven by adrenaline and pure joy, and partially by how much Scott's been wanting to do this for years.

Stiles makes a noise of surprise, having been in the middle of opening his mouth to continue talking. But then he's relaxing into it in barely a second, not even a trace of hesitation in sight as he kisses right back, pressing a little harder and closer, that feeling of pure joy somehow growing and spreading from everyplace that Stiles is touching into Scott. 

There's still cheering from all around them, but Scott's far too caught up in Stiles and the feeling of his mouth against his and his hands lightly squeezing his shoulders to care. 

Then Stiles' mouth is curving against his own, a small smile turning into a grin, even as he tries not to break the kiss. Scott can't help but join him, and before they realize it, they're both just grinning like idiots while everyone else around them celebrates their victory. Although, Scott sure feels a lot like he's celebrating. 

Stiles leans their foreheads together as Scott lightly strokes his thumb along Stiles' cheek, down to his jaw.

"We won," Stiles says again, much quieter this time, his lips brushing Scott's again as he does. 

"Yeah, we did. Guess we don't suck that badly after all,"  Scott jokes, pulling a laugh from Stiles that would have been drowned out by their teammates if Scott didn't have heightened hearing. 

There's a pause, just a beat filled by the sounds all around them, family and friends congratulating everyone. Scott's at least a little thankful that their own friends and family seem to be letting them have their moment. 

"I love you." Scott's heart jumps a beat, but before he can say anything, Stiles adds, "not just because we won. I realized how that might have sounded, but I've loved you for a lot longer than we've been playing lacrosse."

Scott's the one laughing now. He kisses Stiles again, quicker this time but still leaving behind that tingling on his lips and the swooping in his stomach. 

"I love you," Scott says, and Stiles actually looks surprised, his eyes widening slightly. "And not just because we won either."

Stiles' surprise fades as his smile returns. There's this look in his eyes that sends Scott's heart somewhere across the other side of the field and his stomach flipping but in the best way possible. He goes to lean in again, just for one more kiss, unable to help himself, still wrapped up in it all—

Their friends choose that exact moment to finally come over to congratulate them on winning the game, pulling them apart without even fully noticing that they were interrupting anything at all as they start talking about going out to celebrate. 

Stiles gives an over exaggerated eye-roll, his lips twitching as he looks over at Scott, catching his eye. Scott just smiles, sending him a look that he's pretty sure conveys the unspoken promise of later. Stiles responds with a wink and a smile of his own, then they're both being pulled off the field by their friends, discussing where they should go to eat. 

Scott breathes in deep as he digs down into the earth. It’s rich soil that was mixed with compost several weeks ago. The smell is rich with the honest clean scent of dirt, biodegrading vegetation and micro-organisms, working to make the ground nutrient-dense for life to thrive. Scott crouches, creating a large enough hole for the blueberry he’s going to plant. He sizes it, holding the young bush to check he was right. He’s good at gauging these days and he puts it to one side again, satisfied. 

Scott adds bark to the bottom of the hole to aid with drainage, waters it in to see if his predictions on how quickly it will drain are correct. While he waits he digs another hole nearby, for his other blueberry variant, and plots where he’s going to place his companion rhododendron. The water soaks into the earth rapidly and Scott smiles to himself as he builds a little mound in his first hole, places the blueberry bush on top, then fills it in. He adds mulch around the plant, a circle around it like the tattoo on his arm. He waters again, then gets started on preparing his other plants. 

His claws are filthy by the time he’s finished, but Scott doesn’t mind. It’s been a good morning’s work and he knows that in a year or two he will revel in the fruit of his labors - quite literally. He reminds himself not to use this phrase with Stiles, who’ll groan so loud he’ll scare the snails in their compost bins. 

This patch of land, it was hard won. Too much blood has been shed here, on the outskirts of the preserve. Scott has learned to honor his losses with new growth, with life that always finds a way. He tends his garden patch with meticulous care, has learned more and more as the days and weeks and months have gone by. Now, after only three years, Scott has a garden teeming with vegetables and fruits to feed his family -- his pack -- and many other plants too, ones that add color, or pest prevention, or medicine. Ones that are there purely for the beauty of their foliage, the scent of their blooms. 

Where once there was heart-ache, and pain, and fire, now there is this - purpose-filled tranquility. 

Stiles crunches over the mulch and surveys Scott’s work. Stiles has put in his fair share of hours weeding, watering and tending to the garden, but he knows Scott likes planting the most, so he often leaves him to do it - going back to the house and working on another restoration project. Sometimes, he works nearby and chats. Today, Scott knows, Stiles has been planning ‘a surprise’. 

“Looks good, Scotty,” Stiles says, smoothing his hand down Scott’s back. There’s a hitch in his breathing when he adds, “Allison would love it.”

Scott nods, gazes at Stiles, wanting to be shocked he knew why Scott planted Allison’s favorite fruit, but not being very surprised at all -- Stiles who has changed so much and remained the best friend Scott could ever want. A best friend who he has learned to love differently, but just as fiercely. The history they share is like this garden, the roots entangling deep into the ground, but constantly producing something new and startling and beloved. 

Stiles doesn’t seem to mind about the dirt as he takes Scott by the hand back toward the house. It’s a five minute walk and as they journey past the old trees, the sapling oak that serves as the new nemeton, Scott listens to the skip in Stiles’ heart and basks in his chemosignals of affection and excitement, tinged with only the smallest hint of nostalgic sorrow. 

When they get to the house - still slightly in disrepair but getting built up stronger every day - Scott can’t stop the escape of a gasp of surprise. There are planter boxes beneath the windows, made from ship-lap they salvaged from the walls they had to demolish and rebuild. The boxes sit, empty, awaiting Scott’s ideas, his desires and hopes. As he gets closer, Scott can see they’re beautifully made, constructed to stand the test of time, with dovetail joints and weather-proofing golden lacquer that complements the brick of the house.  There are drainage holes in the bases and Stiles has already added a cloth insert. There are eight boxes in all and it must have taken Stiles weeks. 

“Stiles,” Scott says, filling the name with all the love he has. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Why?” Scott asks, because he never once told Stiles it was something he’d dreamed about, something he’d planned to do himself a month or so from now.

“I wanted to bring you a little bit of the joy you feel out there here,” Stiles says, sweeping his hand toward their home.

“I already felt that joy being here with you,” Scott says, gently remonstrating, because how could Stiles not know. “But this is more joy.”

“I like that,” Stiles says, finally looking as happy as his chemosignals revealed he was feeling six minutes ago. He tugs lightly so Scott falls against him, though they both know Scott toppling is only for show.