Work Text:
Stiles is lying on the couch, snoring. It’s a persistent hum and then a snort, kind of like a bear with a party whistle between its lips. His legs are dangling off one of the armrests, his head is close to the floor. He’s hugging his bed pillow against his chest, even though he appears to only be wearing a thin tank top and his boxers. He’s a human disaster.
The swell of affection Scott feels in that moment blindsides him.
He doesn’t want to wake Stiles up. He needs the rest, has probably been up all night studying – and likely none of it for his classes – but Scott has the strongest urge to touch him in that moment. To drag his fingers through Stiles’ hair, to settle behind him on the couch and cradle him in his arms. To press his lips against Stiles’ bottom one and suck.
He has no idea where it comes from and chooses to ignore it, going into his room and starting on a history of biology paper that’s due in 3 weeks.
Scott’s good at compartmentalization, good at pushing down problems until they go away. Except this isn’t a problem, so he finds himself thinking about it. It was probably gratitude that he has Stiles with him at college, that they’re getting to lead relatively ordinary lives, for a given value of ordinary. Stiles is learning Gaelic and Old English, and Scott meets with a neighboring pack every month, as well as them both in constant contact with Beacon Hills. But. Well. They are also engaging in the typical college experience of parties, study sessions, ill-advised pranks and eating their weight in ramen. Plus Scott hasn’t had a villain front up to him in at least four months.
So, yes, Scott chalks it up to gratitude and leaves it at that.
Unfortunately that doesn’t explain the low stab of pain he feels when they go to their friend Carter’s party and Stiles starts dancing with the world’s hottest guy. Objectively, Scott should be happy for his friend. That’s his default state, especially when it comes to Stiles. Stiles is clearly having fun. He’s doing some kind of slide wriggle movement that’s as dorky looking as it is weirdly hot, and he has the rhythm of the music in his bones. Subjectively, Scott has little daggers working into his stomach lining and it’s taking a lot of self-will not to go and rudely interrupt.
Scott’s felt possessive before. Hell, he’s even felt possessive of Stiles. This still confuses and surprises him. He asks Cleo to dance with him and purposely doesn’t spend the entire night staring at the back of Stiles’ head. No, sometimes, he finds himself staring into Stiles’ happy-looking eyes.
“I like partying,” Stiles says as they stumble back to their shoebox apartment. Stiles is stumbling. Scott’s propping him up.
“I know you do,” Scott replies, because this is the ninth time Stiles has uttered this phrase and maybe he’s been waiting for more of a response than a hum.
“It’s just… you get to feel free. Like your soul’s singing. And vodka. Vodka’s great.”
“I’m sure I’d agree if it worked on me.”
“I looked up a spell once to help you but they all had horrific consequences,” Stiles admits, bungling the word ‘consequences’ four times before he gets the pronunciation correct.
“Why am I not surprised?”
“But you had fun anyway, didn’t you, Scotty?” Stiles asks. He’s swiveled until he can look in Scott’s eyes, and he does so, although his gaze is a little hazy. He keeps smoothing his hands over Scott’s shoulders, the warm touch causing frissons of delight up and down Scott’s spine. “It’s important to me that you have fun.”
“I did,” Scott lies. “It was great not thinking about grades for once.”
Stiles pouts at him, stares at his mouth, then back up into his eyes. “Okay. But tell me if you hate it, because I won’t go to no more parties if you do.”
Scott spins Stiles back again, slowly so as to hopefully avoid nausea, and pats Stiles on the back. “All right, buddy, I’ll let you know if that ever happens.”
Scott now has two pieces of evidence that his feelings for Stiles are different from how he thought they were. Not deeper. Not more. Not of greater importance or value. But different, for sure. And the thing about Scott, the thing that so many people underestimate, is the fact that he is self-aware. He knows he’s deliberately avoiding examining this too hard. He knows it’s because he’s anxious. He knows, but for now he’s choosing not to pull on that thread.
Stiles is making a meal that doesn’t appear to have any form of noodle in it when Scott gets home from a tutoring session he had with Terri, a high school freshman from the McAuliffe pack. He’s listening to headphones, humming to himself, swaying his hips, chopping up what smell like carrots as Scott stands back against the door and watches him for a while. Scott likes seeing him like this, relaxed and yet frenetic at the same time. It’s sappy, but Scott thinks he’d like to come home to this every day for the rest of his life.
Scott deliberately makes a lot of noise as he walks deeper into the room. They never sneak up on each other anymore, having learned from that mistake on a few different occasions. Stiles swings around, pulls his headphones off. He smiles – something Scott realizes he’s been doing a lot more frequently since they were sixteen – and wow, it’s a beautiful smile. Scott’s heart does a double somersault within his chest and he reflexively smiles back.
“What’re you making?”
“Soup!”
“That’s… okay. What made you wanna make soup?”
“I found the recipe in one of my books.”
The evasiveness is troubling. Scott bumps his hip against Stiles’, examines the ingredients on their small counter. “One of your primitive Irish books?”
“Yeah.”
“Stiles, is this magic soup?”
Stiles gestures to the counter, then to Scott. “It might be. I think it’s mostly vegetable.”
Scott doesn’t know what his face does, but Stiles grins wider, nudging his side. Scott revels in the closeness, tamping down his misgivings. He can see cabbage, carrots and other root vegetables, but nothing that looks particularly dangerous. Of course, Stiles hasn’t yet dug into his ever-growing collection of herbs.
“You need any help?”
“Wanna chop the parsnips?
“We only have one knife.”
“I mean, you have ten that come out of your fingers, but if you were only offering because it sounds good, then fine, abandon me in my hour of need.”
Scott scrunches up his nose. “You want me to use my claws? Isn’t that unsanitary?”
Stiles points at the sink.
It’s surprisingly easy, cutting parnips with his index claw. Scott’s slices are finer than Stiles’, a fact he proudly gloats about for another twenty minutes, as the soup goes on their camping gas burner.
“It’s all gonna be mush anyway,” Stiles rallies, eventually, hitting Scott with one of their couch cushions.
Scott grabs the other before it’s too late, swings it into Stiles. “You’re mush, anyway.”
“You make no sense,” Stiles yells back, and then the fight is on.
They block, they parry, they swing. They fall onto the floor and tussle, Stiles gaining the upper hand because he doesn’t play fair. He sits on Scott’s stomach, legs bracketed by his sides. He’s flushed pink and his eyes are bright, and he bends down and presses a kiss to Scott’s forehead while ruffling his hair.
“Kiss me lower,” Scott blurts out, then wonders if he can die from embarrassment.
“What?” Stiles asks, still craned over Scott.
“You heard me,” Scott says, heart in his throat.
Stiles raises an eyebrow, kisses his cheek with a soft, lingering tenderness. Now, he’s just teasing.
“How long have you known?”
“That depends what you’re asking,” Stiles says, climbing off Scott and helping him sit up. He stares at Scott’s lips, flicks his gaze up, concentrates on them again.
“How long have you known that I want you to kiss me?”
“About thirty seconds,” Stiles says, sounding a little breathless. “How long have you known that you want me to kiss you?”
“About thirty days. How long have you known that you wanna kiss me?”
Stiles shrugs, licks at his own lips. “I would love to say thirty weeks just to keep the pattern going, but it’s longer than that, Scotty.”
“Then there’s no time to waste,” Scott says, closing the gap between them.
He telegraphs his intentions clearly, but he doesn’t think he had to. Stiles is meeting him with every movement, his expression open and trusting.
The kiss is sweet and involving and has Scott’s heart kicking against his ribs like a bass drum.
“Oh,” Stiles says, eyes wide, when they pull apart.
“I agree,” he says, standing and pulling Stiles up so they can check on the soup. He wraps his arms around Stiles’ middle as they look in the pot, tucks his hand into his waistband. The soup looks fine. The broth is still liquid and the vegetables aren’t looking quite soft enough.
Stiles spins in his embrace, leans against their small fridge.
“So this is us now?” Stiles asks. His voice sounds thicker than usual, full of emotion.
“You want that, don’t you?” Scott prompts. “I do, but I don’t wanna push you. So if you don’t want that –”
In answer Stiles pulls him in for another kiss.
He loves it, the feel of Stiles against him, soft lips brushing against his own. It makes him happy in a way he’d almost forgotten about. He’s in love. He’s always loved Stiles, and this isn’t more or more important, but it’s different. He’s going to focus on that for a while, on the differences and delights of this aspect of their relationship.
Stiles breaks the kiss again, but chases his lips a moment later. “I want this,” he finally says when his lips are pink and glistening and Scott’s are tingling.
Realizing that Stiles feels the same about him has warmth suffusing his entire body. Scott bites at his lip, smiles. The affection he feels in that moment is all consuming.