Chapter Text
Derek watches from the floor as Stiles’ thumb rasps against metal and the lighter flickers alive, lighting his face in warm orange as he inhales. He plucks the glass out of his mouth, drawing in another mouthful of air, chest full as he holds his breath.
His arm drops down, elbow propped as he holds out his lighter, decorated with funky lines and blue robots. Derek snorts, but takes it as he sits up and circles the flame around the glass bowl of his spoon, Stiles’ one-shooter still upright in his hand.
He exhales when Stiles is whining for his lighter back, fingers curling and uncurling in the air vaguely. “Ash hit, man,” he says around glass. “One more and I have to take off.”
—
Stiles sighs, rolling his eyes into the spine of his book as he listens to some girl analyze the prose entirely wrong. Last night’s reading assigned Andrea Gibson’s “Birthday,” a long-form prose transcribed from her spoken-word performance that Stiles read at least three times last night and another two this morning. At the mention of smoke rings all he can imagine is making a bowing O with his lips, jaw bouncing with muscle memory.
“Because, like, the soldier is poised to kill and do it well,” she’s explaining lines 18 and 19. “I mean, there’s no hesitation there.”
He watches Professor Morrell give a miniscule smile that he’s labeled as “No, that’s wrong, but points for trying.” He keeps his head down, rereading Gibson’s final stanza. The last time he snorted and mouthed off to correct someone he ended up having to give an oral report on the breakdown and history surrounding Laux at the time she published “This Close.” It was great for Stiles’ GPA, but he never wants to do it again.
Her eyes scan across the lecture hall, trying to find another volunteer before she begins with the author’s life. “We all have different reasons for forgetting to breathe,” she recites with a practiced cadence before she reaches for her marker to write on the board.
He highlights “Beauty, catch me on your tongue. / Thunder, clap us open.” and scribbles about water allusions and whoever Jen was in the margins.
—
After a few hits, Stiles stops talking about the dingy smoke stains on Derek’s ceiling and starts opining poems he’s memorized over the course of his ENGL-124 class, sometimes dipping into its original language with pronunciation that sound perfected.
“Your eyes are blue like the morning of going,” he whispers, his own closed. “Your ears tender twists of logic. Your thighs, are impossible avenues my car swerves out of control on.” His toes are curling against the coffee table, stretching his legs out before he’s curving back in on himself again with a blissed out quirk of a smile.
He sighs before continuing, “I want to cut the silence with your shoulder blades, blow moon-shaped kisses to orbit your skull.” The sun casts shadows over half his face, song switching over to play some low acoustic guitar. “As you sleep on the highest ledge of my insomnia.”
Derek hesitates, wants to tell Stiles not to fall asleep on his thread-bared couch again, but the planes of his face are calm and his limbs finally look like they’ve stopped trying to twitch off his body. He reaches out, tugging the lighter out of Stiles’ reach without a fight. “Keep going,” he prompts, taking the piece too.
Stiles hums, the easy smile never leaving his face. “But I’m just a broken promise in a pawn shop,” he says and sags against the cushions. “And this is just a secret that happens to involve you.”
—
Stiles wakes up an hour and a half later, high gone and the apartment empty aside from a post-it stuck to his now silent phone on the end table.
—
Scott’s frowning at him when he gets back to the dorm.
“Have… Fun?” He asks, raising a brow at Stiles' wrinkled clothes.
“No more than the usual.” Stiles answers with a wide grin, teasing Scott just enough to make him visibly uncomfortable. “I fell asleep,” he mutters. “On the couch,” he follows up, opening his backpack for his textbook. “He was gone when I woke up.”
Scott shrugs, but thankfully drops it.
—
“Who’s your favorite?” Derek asks as Stiles scrambles to change the song on his ipod as soon as he recognizes the droning “follow me, a sea of silhouettes, by your mother and your father’s bed.”
“What?” Stiles asks in return, still tapping his thumb before he settles on a song by We Are Scientists.
“Your favorite poet,” Derek explains. “I think I’ve heard you say some stuff by Auden, but…” He trails off, frowning vaguely at the coffee table.
Stiles hums, shrugging. “Yeah, Auden’s whole: “Where the beggars raffle the banknotes, and the Giant is enchanting to Jack, and the Lily-white Boy is a Roarer, and Jill goes down on her back.” He snorts a laugh, shaking his head. “Buddy Wakefield, usually. Even though he does spoken word.” He answers after thinking about it enough that Derek’s knee butts up against his thigh as a reminder. “But Megan Falley’s clock poem really won me over this morning.” He flicks his eyes to his backpack, where his literature textbook is, written all over in his messy scrawl—the buyback price diminishing with every pen stroke.
Derek’s loading up another bowl and Stiles looks down to the ash still clinging to the resin in his. “A poem about clocks?” He asks incredulously on a slow-burning exhale.
“The love affair between the hour and minute hand,” Stiles explains and pushes his index finger down to his flower-shaped screen. He brings it up, blowing out before he thumbs the carb and draws deep. His lips quirk up and press harder together, trying to contain the smoke as he smothers his giggling and exhales. “At 4:20 we pull a little from the tight joint behind your ear. You do not inhale,” he quotes and ends up laughing again, Derek’s quiet and amused chuffing joining in.
Derek peels himself off the couch, padding to his kitchen for a drink. “Don’t fall asleep,” he cautions over the sound of the running tap.
“Keep me talking,” Stiles calls back, hiking his knees up and stretching his legs to rest on the coffee table. “Or don’t give me indica.”
The pipes make a succinct thump as Derek cuts off the water, leaning against the sink as he drinks in mouthfuls from the glass. “So recite,” he shrugs as he finishes half.
Stiles stares off, unwilling to point out the fact he still fell asleep last time after finishing Jeffery McDaniels. “Hermann wants to eat nicotine sometimes,” he begins. “He asks for a lot. He paces space to make himself nervous, because some people are better at surviving than living.”
—
It’s Friday and Danny’s hand clasps on to Stiles’ forearm outside the student union’s Starbucks. “Please,” he pleads. “He only sells to you, please get me some?”
Stiles laughs, shaking his head. “No,” he answers. “He doesn’t sell me anything.”
Derek used to, though.
Charged Stiles more than half his guy back home did. Stiles didn’t pry about where the supply was coming from, zero evidence of potted plants dotting the windows or UV lamps cramming his sockets, but he was close and let Stiles smoke in his apartment after he heard that Stiles was there on scholarship.
“They’ll kick you out if they catch you with it,” he said, watching the scale balance out to fifteen bones.
Stiles nods, full body moving. “I know,” he answered. “But, I write better essays while I’m, y’know, sailing. It kicks my Adderall dependence to the back seat and lets me think.”
Derek chuckled, shaking his head, and only charged him ten.
—
“I need a dime bag,” he says, sitting barefooted on the floor and resting his chin on the coffee table.
Derek stops, grinder still in his palm. “What for?” He asks, taking its top off and pinching it into his clear green bowl and Stiles’ solid bone white.
Stiles hums, shrugging. “A party tomorrow,” he answers. “Danny wants it.” He tosses his cherry colored lighter across the cheap IKEA paneling, letting Derek have first dibs.
“You going?” He asks on an exhaling wheeze, watching Stiles’ whiskey-dyed eyes blink as he holds his breath and shakes his head.
“I wasn’t planning on going,” he admits quietly. “Especially if they’re toking.” At Derek’s questioning look he shakes his head. “They hate when I start up,” he says. “Reciting Pastan or Siken or fuck all.” He pokes his finger in to his pipe’s bowl, pressing the black ash down into its resin. “Say I get too preachy with it.”
Derek shrugs. “No,” he breathes, seeing the boy draw another lungful of tainted air in. “It’s more awed than preaching.”
Stiles rolls his eyes and tilts his head back to blow out a hazy cloud. “It’s a neat parlor trick,” he bargains like a consolidation. “Give me a poet and I probably have something from them knocking around.”
“Bukowski,” Derek challenges, elbows setting on wood as he leans forward.
Stiles scoffs, slumping to the side and kicking his legs out before he begins without preamble: “There’s a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out, but I’m too tough for him.” He takes a breath, pausing as he envisions its stilted configuration. “I say, “stay in there, I’m not going to let anybody see you.””
Derek frowns after the silence drags, “that one was short.”
“It was either that one or “Like a Flower in the Rain,” which has the word “cunt” in it like nine times,” he laughs in reply. “Pick another.”
“Plath.”
Humming, Stiles stretches his arms up, raglan following the motion until there’s a bare strip of skin on display between the hem and his jeans. “This one’s a tercet sestina,” he says after he thinks through its form. “I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead,” he begins, stopping at Derek’s snort.
“That’s a lovely thought,” he mutters, catching Stiles’ exasperated look. “Sorry,” he concedes and pinches more herb, letting the boy continue.
“You’re the one that wanted head-in-the-oven Sylvia Plath, dude.” He retorts, head tilted back lazily. “I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead,” Stiles repeats. “I lift my lids and all is born again.” He pauses, voice dropping down to a low octave as he murmurs: “I think I made you up inside my head.” He’s tugging his shirt back down, laying his hands across his stomach. “The stars go waltzing out in blue and red, and arbitrary blackness gallops in: I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.”
He hears a lighter click and steady inhale.
“I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed,” he lilts. “And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.” He swallows, slowly sitting up, already feeling the drowsiness setting in. “I think I made you up inside my head.”
Derek finishes closing a small baggy, tossing it into Stiles lap. “Tell your friends that it’s thirty-five.”
Stiles frowns, looking down at it. “You’re not charging me?”
“They’re the ones that want it,” Derek shrugs.
—
He texts Danny after he leaves, asking if he’s going to pick it up back at the dorms, only getting a reply with an address and four lines of “please” that end with “just come over.” So, he does, because he’s pretty sure Danny’s already drunk if he’s begging Stiles to come spend time with him.
The music’s loud and front door unlocked, drunken freshman already tangled in pairs in the lounge chairs on the porch. Another text vibrates against his leg, directing him to the kitchen.
“Hey!” Danny calls, voice bordering on a slur as he pours a cup from one of the five kegs.
Stiles nods, smile easy as his high still ebbs away. “How’s pickings?” He asks, nodding to the assorted alcohol lining the counters and table.
Danny snorts, handing off the cup. “It’s either tequila, vodka, or beer.”
“No soda?” Stiles asks, the song skipping to a pulsing bass and Danny rolls his eyes.
He jerks his head to a doorway, own cup filled with beer. Stiles follows him down to the basement, knowing Danny’s weary of people seeing as he reaches into his pocket, ready to palm over the baggy.
Danny frowns, looking at his hand. “I don’t have a piece,” he admits, looking at Stiles hopefully.
“Goddammit, Danny,” Stiles mutters without any real anger. “This is why people should have soda cans, you can make a ton of shit out of them.” He digs a hand into his pocket, pulling out his Satin. “I really hate you right now,” he says. “That’s my only one, what if you break it?”
“You could stay and make sure I don’t,” Danny offers, glancing down to the red solo cup still in Stiles’ hand.
—
Stiles wakes up with a massive headache and a mess of blonde hair in his face trying to smother him, which is the first hint that he most definitely is not back in his dorm. The second is that the bed is far too comfortable.
He sits up carefully, blinking around the room, noticing a picture frame on the end table that’s bedazzled with “ERICA AND BOYD BFFs” around a photo of the blonde girl that’s lying next to him hanging off a guy from his Bio Lab. He sends a small prayer of thanks for Erica’s propensity to put her name over everything because the only thing he can remember from the night before is shotgunning with Danny after he confessed that Stiles would have to light the bowl for him, and drinking at least four shots of Jose Cuervo. He checks under the covers, noticing his briefs are still on, but she’s panty-less.
“Fuck me,” he mutters, pressing his thumbs into circle his temples.
Erica makes a sleepy noise next to him, rolling over and balling herself into his hip. “Go back to sleep, Stiles,” she murmurs against the bone. “I don’t have class until four.”
“Uhm,” he whispers, letting her tug the duvet up and snuggle into his back, breasts pressed against his shoulder blades. “Okay.”
—
The headache’s still banging around in his frontal lobe, but Erica is sweet as she shakes Stiles’ shoulder gently to wake him up.
“Do you want coffee?” She asks, already dressed in sweats and a tank.
Stiles blinks and shakes his head. “Please, yes,” he answers in a low guttural voice, already pawing at his jeans and tugging them on. He casts a glance to her alarm clock, frowning at the time. “Do you…” Stiles trails off and bites his lip with hesitation. “God—this sounds bad, but. Do you know what happened last night?”
Erica laughs, beckoning him out into the hall before he even tugs his shirt back on. “Danny introduced us,” she explains and starts with making a pot of coffee. “We have Criminal Law together, but yeah. He introduced us and said that tequila makes you, and I quote: “a dirty slut,”” she’s smiling at him over her shoulder and Stiles flushes with embarrassment.
“Which is why I don’t usually drink,” he maintains, scratching at the inside of his elbow self-consciously.
“Well, it’s true.” She shrugs, sliding a filter in and pouring grounds down before pushing its buttons. “So we came back here, but you couldn’t get it up.”
Stiles frowns, quirking a brow. “So… We didn’t have sex?”
She huffs a laugh. “I wouldn’t say that,” she admits, pointedly leering at his mouth. “I certainly had multiple amounts of fun last night.”
“Oh.” He falters, watching her pour two cups. “I—uhm. I was… Good?”
Erica slides a mug over, leaning her hip against the counter. “I’m making you coffee, aren’t I?” She takes a gulp, the amused glint never leaving her eye. “My roommate doesn’t come back until one,” she comments off-handedly. “Do you want to…?”
The blush tinting his cheeks still hasn’t died down, and he nearly chokes on the scalding hot coffee at the offer. “You want to?” He questions with wide eyes. “I mean,” he sputters wildly, over-correcting. “You are way out of my league here, are you sure you want to with me without beer-goggles?” She laughs and rolls her eyes, hand shooting out to grab at the button of his jeans and tug him back towards her room.
“Relax,” Erica whispers against Stiles’ mouth and tugs down his zipper.
—
“You should grow your hair out,” Erica tells him as she thumbs through her wardrobe for something to wear. “It’d make it easier to direct you.”
Stiles rolls his eyes from her bed. “Nope,” he rejects and casts a look to his pants on the floor, feeling like he should dress since she’s leaving soon, but makes no move to put them back on. “The longer my hair is, the easier it is for people to smell weed on me.”
She pulls a shirt over her head. “Honey,” she sneers. “You’re not fooling anyone, trust me.” He pouts and she giggles, tossing a discarded shirt at his head. Erica’s fixing her eyeliner in the mirrored doors of her closet when he’s finally done wrestling it back on.
“Shit,” Stiles curses when he pats his pockets to find his phone, nine text alerts blinking at him. “My spoon’s gone.”
“The white thing you and Danny were smoking with?” She asks, quirking a brow. “Yeah, he took it with him in to the garden and lost it last night.”
He sighs. “Damn it, Danny.”
—
“Huh,” Stiles comments when they walk out of her apartment together. “This looks like Derek’s building.”
Erica quirks an eyebrow as she locks the door, “Derek? Derek Hale?”
“He’s my…” Stiles trails off, hand waving around vaguely in the air between them.
Erica’s confusion is unyielding as she asks “your ex?”
Stiles shakes his head profusely. “No,” he answers staunchly. “He’s my…” He makes a face, shifting between both feet. “I don’t want to call him my dealer, but yeah. He’s my dealer. Even though he kind of stopped charging me awhile back.”
She’s already smiling at him with hidden mirth, jerking her chin toward the elevator. “He’s my neighbor,” she says as they pass by the painted viridian door emblazoned with a golden 4B.
“Oh,” Stiles observes. “You’re, uh… Really close to campus, then.”
—
Scott is still sacked out on his bottom bunk when Stiles gets back, drooling over his pillow and making gentle snuffling noises as he throws his limbs into a starfish shape under his stripped comforter.
Stiles laughs gently, opening their shared mini-fridge for a Gatorade before he slumps in front of his laptop and cracks open his Lit textbook for the reader response he has due on Wednesday. He figures he can pester Danny on Tuesday about Derek’s owed money and his missing piece, after the weekend’s hangovers and Monday’s usual drag.
Danny’s reliable, anyway.
—
“So you disappeared yesterday,” Scott says after he finishes inhaling the lukewarm spaghetti the dining hall stores under heat lamps for upwards of hours. His hand twitches toward Stiles’ garlic bread before he slides it over for Scott to take.
Stiles nods, still chewing. “Yeah, that party,” he answers. “I had to get a dime bag for Danny and ended up staying there?”
Scott snorts, “you hate parties, dude.”
“Yeah,” Stiles agrees and swallows a gulp from his coke. “I mean—it’s usually the drinking I hate.”
“Because tequila makes you a whore,” Scott fills in as he tears the crust off of the slice.
Stiles slumps in his seat, hands thrown up in half-hearted irritation. “You’d think they’d stop giving it to me after they found that out.”
Scott bites his lip, holding back a laugh. “Giving it to you?” He questions, voice dropping with innuendo. His snicker draws the attention of a group of sophomores as Stiles crumples napkins into balls and chucks them across the table.
—
TO: Derek
Can’t this week.
Danny lost Satin.
FROM: Derek
Satin?
Stiles glares unimpressed at his phone, rolling his eyes as he slumps further down in the uncomfortable theater seats that stagger the lecture hall of his Principles of Macroeconomics class.
TO: Derek
I named my pipe Satin.
Like “Nights in White Satin.”
TO: Derek
That song from the 60’s.
TO: Derek
Because she was white.
The professor’s speech trips as he cranks the projector’s handle, forcing Stiles’ gaze up. He frowns in disdain at the machine from his elementary school days before he looks to the digital one overhead. The new list of talking points scrolls up painfully slow, but Stiles dutifully scribbles them down before his phone vibrates in his lap.
FROM: Derek
You know you don’t have to name/gender them all, right?
He could practically hear the annoyed glare he was receiving on the other end of his phone; the obvious annoyance doesn’t even cut into the secret appreciation Stiles had for the proper spelling and grammar of Derek’s texts. His thumbs begin to type out a reply before it buzzes again, flashing the message.
FROM: Derek
You have an essay due.
Come over anyway.
A hum escapes the back of Stiles’ throat, wanting to question it—ask when exactly Derek began to know about his schedule or even his homework. He types and deletes at least four replies before he just gives up and sends one that doesn’t mention Adderall.
TO: Derek
Okay.
—
Stiles digs out his laptop and textbook, setting them on the heavy oak dining room table Derek keeps in his apartment pressed against the low-dividing wall that separates the kitchen from the open living room. It’s so big Stiles figures he had to bring it in a box.
“Here,” Stiles offers, unzipping the front pocket of his backpack to root out the red and black jellyfish piece Scott leant to him. “My roommate gave it to me,” he explains, opening his computer and jamming his finger into its power button.
Derek snorts and reaches to pick it up. “I was just going to tell you to make one out of a soda can.”
“Fuck that,” Stiles retorts. “I’d rather an apple than a fucking soda can.” He shudders, back hunched in as he makes a disgusted noise and shakes his head. “That paint-on-aluminum flavor tastes gross, no thank you.” He’s already pulled up the vague outline he smashed out in his hangover-sex stupor on Saturday, frowning as he rereads his topic sentence for the third paragraph. “I’m probably going to be here awhile,” he admits sheepishly, unzipping his jacket.
Derek just nods and pinches to fill the bowl. “You at least have your lighter still, right?” He asks dryly as he hands the glass off.
Stiles rolls his eyes, holding it up. “No, I brought a pipe with no lighter,” he says as his thumb rasps against the metal and circles. Derek shakes his head with exasperation, but slides the bottom of his grinder over for Stiles to take from as he takes a hit.
Stiles’ fingers are already flying over keys by the time Derek even has his first hit. “Knead my creases with your lips,” he’s quoting quietly as he stares at the screen. “Hold me by both hips firmly and roll me in your—“ He stops, nose scrunching as he taps at the backspace with his middle finger and chews his bottom lip.
“What is it?” Derek asks, standing to peer around at the monitor.
“I hate this poem,” Stiles grunts and presses the heels of his palms into his eyes and groans pitifully. “And I made my whole essay about Freud and this stupid metaphor about cooking and sex—just, no.” He vindictively presses the macro to select all and deletes the blue-highlighted text. “I’m doing “Dishes,”” he says and retypes the heading.
—
He’s four pages through his new essay, muttering under his breath as he analyzes its synecdoche and parallels of the dissonance between “intellect” and “mind.”
“I want Chipotle,” Stiles announces, even though Derek abandoned the table in favor of the couch where he’s watching a Dodgers game on mute.
“They close in an hour,” Derek remarks, nodding at the display under his TV. “We’d have to hurry.”
“They don’t close until—“ He looks down at the toolbar, frowning at its clock. “Shit, it’s almost nine.”
Derek quirks a brow, unimpressed. “Come on,” he sighs and stands, grabbing for his leather jacket on the hook. “You can leave your stuff here.”
Stiles scrambles, pulling his hoodie back over his shoulder as he follows out, zipping it as Derek locks the door. “I’m getting like two burritos,” he warns and shoves his hands into the pockets. “With all the salsa and steak they have.”
“Okay,” Derek shrugs and hits the button for the elevator.
“No,” Stiles shakes his head emphatically. “I don’t think you understand,” he presses. “You think I want a lot of salsa and steak, but what I said was “all the salsa and steak.””
“Stiles,” Derek snorts and the shaft dings its arrival. “You are not Ron Swanson, stop it.”
“Of course I’m not,” Stiles rolls his eyes, the reply “if anything you’re Ron,” dying in his throat as Erica steps out of the elevator. “Hi, Erica,” he greets with a wave.
“Hey, Stiles,” she purrs. “Derek,” she nods after. “You guys heading out?”
Stiles nodded, “yeah, we’re, uh… Going out for some food.”
“Cool,” Erica nods and steps further down the hall. “Have fun,” she smiles and parts with a wave.
—
“Everything,” Stiles commands to the poor girl stationed behind the glass display. “Like, at least two tortillas.”
She gives him a look that suggests he’s crazy, but presses two tortillas and lays them out on the tinfoil before she scoops both white and brown rice to bed the pinto and black beans.
Stiles catches a look from Derek at the register and mouths, “everything.”
—
Derek frowns down at the bag when they wait for the light to change, “It weighs as much as a small child.”
Stiles shrugs, “When I eat, it is the food that is scared.”
“Have you run out of poetry? Switched over to Parks and Rec quotes?” He asks and hits the button again.
“Nope,” Stiles answers in return; spitefully reciting Goldbarth as they cross the road: “Slow—inch by inch America is giving itself to the ocean. Go to sleep. Let darkness lap at your sides. Give darkness an inch.”
—
Scott’s cellphone clatters against the table, causing everyone else in the library to whip their heads around to stare at them. He grins sheepishly and swipes his thumb to silence the noise.
“Allison wants to know your boyfriend’s name,” he quotes, sounding confused. “Dude, I didn’t know you got a boyfriend.” He raises his hand, reaching over his laptop and across for a high five.
Stiles snorts at him and bats the hand away. “I didn’t,” he answers, pausing as he rereads through the essay he wrote the night before, editing his punctuation and rewording sentences he thinks sound weird. “Why does she think I have one?”
Scott shrugs, looking back toward his phone as he texts her back. “You went to Chipotle last night?” He asks, looking back up with a quirk of his eyebrow. “With some…” he pauses, glancing back down. ““Abercrombie-looking guy,” according to Lydia.”
“I thought you said Allison wanted to know,” Stiles observes, unimpressed as he stops writing to look over his monitor at Scott.
“They both want to know, but Lydia’s the one that saw you. I guess?” Scott offers and closes his phone. “So who is he?”
“Derek,” he answers with an eye roll and tilts the screen back up. “He’s not my boyfriend, he’s my dealer… I had the munchies and was burnt out writing my essay, so we went to Chipotle.”
Scott frowns. “Didn’t you say he doesn’t charge you anymore?”
“Well, I mean,” Stiles shrugs. “Yeah, but it’s not like I’m—“ he stops, realizing he’s getting increasingly louder as more people turn to glare at him. He sighs and continues after dropping his voice back down to a hiss, “It’s not like I fucked—or blew him, for that matter—to get my supply for free.”
Scott blinks. “I didn’t say you did, dude.” He puts his phone away, waving his hands to show they’re empty as some sort of peace offering. “So you share burritos sometimes, whatever.”
“Nah,” Stiles shakes his head, still typing out his conclusion furiously. “The most we share is lighters usually.”
Scott hums across their shared desk, typing noticeably slower. “Danny shares pipes with you,” he says, tone taking offense when Stiles just shrugs. “Hell, even Jackson shares pipes with you.”
Stiles laughs. “That’s because Jackson secretly wants approval and thinks it’s customary like puff-puff-pass.” He shrugs and goes back to his essay on the role of intellect and its representation of humanity as a whole. “Some people don’t like sharing lighters,” he continues. “Derek doesn’t like sharing pipes.”
“How many of your lighters does he have now?” Scott asks, like there’s supposed a ratio between lighters and thickened glass that evens out.
Stiles hums like he’s thinking about it and trying to place an actual number on it, but keeps typing and stays silent.
—
“I fucking hate finals,” Stiles moans pitifully in front of his laptop, his ECON study guide in front of him, textbook propped open as he fills in the answers.
Derek shrugs, watching a football game on his couch. “At least Chui puts them in order of the reading instead of skipping around.”
Stiles sighs, rubbing a hand over his face and scalp. “Small victory,” he murmurs and reaches for his backpack, pulling out another book.
“That’s not a textbook,” Derek reprimands, looking at Stiles’ graphic novel with a grain of distaste.
“Correctamundo,” Stiles nods and hold up the comic panels. “But, it is for a class.”
Derek’s flat look is persistent, challenging as he asks, “Really?”
“Yup,” he nods in response. “Sandman gives another angle to Shakespeare and some of his works like Midsummer Night’s Dream.” He thumbs to a page, pressing the spine to his chest as he points to a fawn in the foreground. “That’s the inspiration of Puck, who’s actually from Faerie, because Morpheus struck a deal with Shakespeare for three plays in exchange for fame and his writing skill.”
“Only you would,” Derek scoffs and turns back to the television.
Stiles rolls his eyes, even if the other man can’t see. “There is legitimate literary merit with comic books,” he defends.
Derek shakes his head, but doesn’t debate it.
—
“You going back home for break?” Stiles asks an hour later and two pages deeper into his study guide.
Derek nods, “Yup.”
“Ah,” Stiles hums, leaning his head against his open palm as he flicks his pen back down to the table. “So like, out of state or…?”
“Stiles.” Derek says his name slowly, like he’s testing the syllables. “I’m not being your distraction from your study guide.”
He frowns, muttering “Whatever, like you’re interesting, anyway,” as he skims over the spread of his textbook, looking for statistics on the labor force.
—
“Your music tastes suck,” Derek murmurs in the dark on his back, shoulder pressed into the wood of his entertainment system.
Stiles makes a noise in his throat, huffing out his nose, and it’s too quiet to be heard over the crappy beat his phone’s built-in speakers are bumping out, dropped one too many times to be clear. “No,” he disagrees lethargically. “Dude had a rap with E.E. Cummings in it, he is awesome.”
Derek laughs, a mellifluous giggle that’s an easy spot if you’re looking for the signs of a stoner. “Does all your music have to reference poets?”
“Not all of them,” Stiles drawls. “Adam WarRock has songs about West Coast Avengers and Futurama.” He rolls over, pillowing his head with his forearms as his legs draw up and splay out. Singing, “I am running this bitch, you are just a dog walker,” into the crook of his elbow as the music warbles and pops.
—
The only reason he walks home is because Scott calls, begging for Stiles to help him cram. “I’m going to fail,” he moans, even though it’s only eight and his test isn’t until two the next day.
He rolls his shoulders and packs his papers and books back into his bag, wrapping his laptop charger up and around the length of his forearm before he puts it away. He pauses, quirking a brow down at the floor where Derek’s still laying, watching him. “Go to bed, man,” he commands, doing a final sweep to make sure he’s not forgetting something. “I’ll see you later, lock the door behind me, okay?”
—
Stiles finds himself thanking the benevolent deities that allowed him to have professors that actually gave out study-guides, because Scott is near wheezing as he sets three novels out and attempts to find a prevalent theme between them for his essay.
“I’m going to fail,” he repeats as he grabs a paperback emblazoned with red, white, and blue and searches through haphazardly highlighted chunks of text.
—
Scott wakes him up as he paces around the room to dress and find his blue book and packet of scantrons, making a racket as he upheaves a pile of laundry and checks in their standard-issue chest of drawers, muttering under his breath “Any other day, seriously. Any other fucking day, universe.”
“Desk drawer,” Stiles advises in a low grate, rubbing a hand over his face before he leans to peer at the time and whine that it’s only 12:07. “Dude,” he pouts, squirming to get his back to Scott and drag the sheets over his head, satisfied he chose his Monday class to be at least past 4PM.
His roommate makes a triumphant noise, finding what he’s looking for. “You’re the best,” he gushes and picks up his backpack to cram his books into it. “Seriously, Stiles,” Scott continues, caring not for Stiles’ sleep schedule. He stands on his mattress, putting his head at the same height as Stiles’, leaning in. “You have done your good deed for today,” he whispers, the smile evident and wide in his voice. “Bless you, oh great and merciful Stilinski.”
“I fucking hate you,” Stiles grouches, snaking a hand out to push Scott’s face away.
“My,” Scott hums, undeterred as he sits down to pull his Vans on. “All that suave talk really goes away when you’re cranky, doesn’t it?”
“Get to your fucking class,” Stiles hisses and burrows further against the wall and Scott laughs, finally leaving him alone.
—
Stiles snags a case of beer for him and Scott, happy his test went well.
“And to make-up for being an ass this morning,” he says when he hands over a bottle. “I’m sorry, Scott.” He smiles and fiddles for the keychain in his pocket, popping the top off with its attached bottle-opener. “But sleep is precious to me.”
Scott snorts and waves him off, twisting his top under the fabric of his t-shirt. “Don’t worry, man. I get it.”
“Oh, so manly,” Stiles teases with a smile full of secret laughter and tilts his head back for a drink.
—
“You register for Spring classes yet?” Scott asks, watching Stiles heave his half of the closet and shove his clothes in haphazardly to a duffel bag.
Stiles nods, folding his jeans. “Yeah, I’m back down to twelve credits.”
Scott chuckles, spinning in the cheap office chair. “Seriously? You’ve always taken like eighteen.”
“I don’t know,” Stiles shrugs. “I need more prerequisites for my major, so I’m focusing on those.”
Scott shrugs. “Hey, no judgment. With you taking twelve I can stop feeling like an under-achiever.” He stands, bringing the laundry basket over to his bed. “I don’t know what’s yours or mine anymore,” he admits sheepishly.
“I wonder if this is what it’s like to be a couple,” Stiles responds, frowning vaguely down at the clothes. “Is the romance really gone, Scott?”
“Shut up,” Scott grins, brushing his knuckles against Stiles’ bicep in a half-hearted punch. “So what’re you taking?”
“British History, American Lit, Anthro, and World Mythology,” Stiles lists and zips his suitcase closed. “So pretty easy semester, I guess?”
“Dude, shut up,” Scott rolls his eyes. “We get it, you’re here on scholarship and you’re, like, super smart. You’re going to get your masters at MIT or something.”
Stiles laughs at him, lifting his bag off the bed as his phone vibrates and whistles, signaling a text from his dad. “I’ll see you after New Year’s, man. I’ve got to get on the road.”
Scott waves him off, fake crying and everything.
—
Stiles pancakes out on to his old bed, hands gripping at the edges of the mattress. “I’ve missed you so much,” he utters into the soft and worn cotton, muffled until he turns his face.
“Son?” His dad asks from the doorway. With the uniform and arms crossed, Stiles thinks distantly about all the reasons he should be afraid of the police. “Should I leave you and your bed alone?”
Stiles snorts a laugh and rolls to stand, promising, “Nope, no. I’m done,” as he wraps his arms around his dad in a hug. “Sorry, it’s weird to have a bed where I’m not constantly in danger of rolling off and cracking my head open.”
“You’d find a way,” he answers, patting Stiles’ back.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Dad,” Stiles grins and pulls away. “Now let me raid the fridge before I go into hibernation.”
He steps aside, letting Stiles pass down to the stairs into the kitchen. “I haven’t had time to go to the store,” he warns as he watches Stiles open the fridge and frowns down at the bare contents.
“Dad,” Stiles drawls and looks over to the oven’s clock, frowning at the time. “We’re going shopping tomorrow,” he says, too used to twenty-four hour supermarkets off campus. He closes the fridge door, shaking his head. “All these antique shops and old people,” he tuts and shakes his head. “Everything closing at six, how will I ever survive?”
“We’re not that old,” his dad replies shaking his head, exasperated.
“Your blood pressure and cholesterol suggests otherwise, old man.”
—
“We need ketchup,” his dad says, looking up at the aisle sign to search for “CONDIMENTS,” before he turns, Stiles following dutifully behind him, pushing the cart filled mostly with fresh produce despite the best attempts of the sheriff.
“Reduced salt, okay?” He asks, arms folded as he bends at the waist and pushes lazily. His dad has work in three hours, so Stiles woke up early to at least get the shopping out-of-the-way. He knows if he’s left to his own devices, his dad won’t eat half the stuff after Stiles leaves and stops making it for him. And he may turn a blind eye to the sleeve of Oreos his dad sneaks in when they go down the snack isle for pretzels and not potato chips. He can practically sense his father rolling his eyes, but stops short when he notices who’s picking up BBQ sauce at the other end of the aisle.
Derek seems to notice Stiles as his dad mutters about the price of Heinz until he picks up the off-brand. He looks a confused mixture of horrified and questioning. Like he wants to know what the hell Stiles is doing in Beacon Hills’ Safeway. Which is unfair in Stiles’ mind, because what the fuck is Derek doing there? His eyes snap to his dad, who’s dressed in his uniform just in case they run late at the store.
“Derek, right?” His dad speaking up and Derek schools his face back from terrified. Stiles doesn’t have much luck, he can feel his eyes still-wide and the carefully measured breathes he’s drawing in shakily. “You’re Laura’s brother?”
Derek nods, smiling. “Yeah, unfortunately,” he says with an air of healthy sibling disdain. “I’m up visiting for the holidays.”
“That’s great, son.” He smiles in reply. “Nice you could come up,” he speaks, setting the ketchup into the cart absently. “Don’t you go to school down there with Stiles?” He asks, nodding back to his son. Stiles frowns, realizing he’s wearing his CAL hoodie, its yellow cursive standing out against the navy blue. He tracks Derek’s eyes, glancing down at it.
“Yeah, I guess so,” he nods.
Stiles swallows, looking to the cart. “Sh—oot,” he near-curses. “We need milk,” he explains, knowing the bemused look his dad’s giving him is for his cussing. “I’ll be right back,” he promises already stepping back from the death-grip he had on the cart’s handle. “Stick to the list, okay? I’ll find you.”
He walks steadily out of the aisle, trying not to clench his hands into fists as he hears footsteps scuffling after him.
“Your dad’s the fucking sheriff of my hometown,” Derek hisses when Stiles is pretending to search through the expiration dates on the cartons of 1%. “When were you going to tell me that?”
“Uhm,” Stiles stalls, closing the glass-paned door. “Never?” He ventures. Seeing the hard placed scowl on Derek’s face, Stiles knows it’s not what he wanted to hear. “How was I supposed to bring it up?” He asks, voice pitching on hysterical in the middle before he forces it back down. “Right around the first time I was sparking up, just lean over and go, “Oh, hey, by the fucking way, I’m from Beacon Hills and my dad’s the sheriff, but he doesn’t know I do recreational drugs on the weekly,” and then recite Millay to you? Yeah, because that’d work out so goddamn well.” He snatches a jug out, dimly aware that it’s set to expire in two weeks, when he’s gone.
Derek’s scowl hasn’t moved, and Stiles does not care that he’s angry.
“Just,” he begins and stops, pressing the heel of his palm into the bridge of his nose with a long-suffering sigh. “I don’t even smoke when I’m visiting, dude. And I know you should be all “fuck the police,” and everything, but. That’s my dad.” Stiles agonizes, opening his eyes again. “I’m supposed to be a good kid, okay? I have a 4.0 GPA and a full-ride scholarship and I recycle and donate to charity.” He switches the milk over into his other hand, palm already clammy. “Please don’t give him any reason to be suspicious—especially since we’re actually in his jurisdiction.”
Derek frowns, shaking his head. “Calm down,” he mutters, watching a mother herd her two kids away from the juice selection. “I’m not going to tell your dad.”
“Thanks,” Stiles sighs, relieved. “If I’m getting arrested, I’m not dealing with his patented “disappointed father,” face on top of it.” He sighs, nodding. “He’s probably not sticking to the grocery list at all right now,” Stiles utters with realization. “I have to go make sure he doesn’t die of a heart-attack, knock on wood, so.” He waves, cringing mentally at himself. “You have my number if you need anything.”
“What could I need?” Derek asks, watching Stiles walk away.
“Something to do?” Stiles returns with a shrug before he turns to hunt through the store for his father.
—
FROM: Derek
That offer still open?
Stiles frowns, pausing the current puzzle of Portal he’s on as he reads the text. He chews at his lip, trying to remember exactly what he said, but lets his thumbs type a simple reply.
TO: Derek
Yup.
What’s up?
FROM: Derek
Family’s driving me up a wall.
Got any plans tomorrow?
He pauses, thinking of his usually haunts before he types out an address.
TO: Derek
Meet there?
Noon-ish?
FROM: Derek
No problem.
—
Stiles smiles, stepping into the shop, feeling at home despite the heavy smell of unwashed teens that permeates from the configuration of card tables. He passes the shelves marked in obnoxious neon with “MARVEL,” or “DC,” the libraries stretched out in alphabetical order with colorful covers and well-known insignia, as he makes his way to the back.
“Isaac,” he greets, reaching across the display to bump knuckles with the blond. “How’ve you been, buddy?”
“Hey,” Isaac grins, closing his issue of Ultimate Spider-Man. “Good,” he answers. “How about you? When did you get in, man?”
“Saturday—college’s been kicking my ass,” Stiles admits. “Never let anyone talk you into taking a three hour long class, ever.” Isaac laughs, but Stiles shakes his head and points his finger. “I’m serious, I don’t care how much you love something, three hour lectures are always boring.”
“Okay,” Isaac nods, seemingly taking the advice to heart. “What brings you?”
“Meeting a friend here,” Stiles says. The word “friend” seems weird in reference to Derek, but it’s better than the alternative he usually gives people.
“A friend?” Isaac echoes.
Stiles nods. “Yup, just a friend.”
Isaac shrugs, watching a group of kids pass by the large windows, the bell chiming with every new visitor, an over-weight man in sweatpants waling meaningfully to the counter with a bag stitched with the MAGIC: THE GATHERING symbol for the Betrayers of Kamigawa. “The Batmans are over there,” Isaac says and waves Stiles away as he closes his comic.
Stiles rolls his eyes. “What don’t your elf eyes see?” He jokes and spins on his heel to go hunt down the latest monthlies, phone in hand as he scans over issues and tries to remember if he already owns them.
“You’re such a nerd,” Derek says over the shelving, looking down at the Batman Inc. in Stiles’ hands.
“Oh my god,” Stiles wheezes, swallowing down his startled fright before he’s leaning up on to his toes to look at the spread of Wolverine comics on the other side of the divider. He can hear Isaac chuckling in the background at his expense. “Way to fucking lurk, man.”
“Shut up, Stiles. There are kids here.” Derek refutes and passes glances over the walls of the store. He stops, spotting a tournament starting up on one of the father tables. “Shouldn’t that be Dungeons and Dragons?” he says and a sneer morphs onto his face the longer he watches the middle-age men bicker about mana and attack points. He picks up a back issue of Uncanny X-Force with Deadpool, Psylocke, and E.V.A. on the cover.
“Tell me more about the nineties, pop-pop,” Stiles mocks with false awe. “Because that is the last time anyone played D&D.” He says with an amused huff. “Of course you’d like Wolverine. This explains so much,” Stiles nods, leaning against the display to look at the issue number. “He’s like the second worst influence, dude smokes and drinks.” He shakes his head. “No, I take that back. He is the worst, at least Tony Stark admitted he had a problem and went clean. But,” he continues and picks up Red Hood & The Outlaws. “I fucking called it,” he hisses with demented delight.
“Wolverine’s cool,” Derek retorts. “He’s basically the X-Man.” He passes a glance to the New Ultimates, frowning at Captain America.
“Batman would kick his Canadian ass, and you know it.” Stiles grabs Batman and Robin, frowning before he turns to look for issues of Nightwing. “It’s like number seven in the Nerd Commandments,” he explains. “Thou shalt acknowledge that Batman beats everyone, ever, anywhere at fighting. He’d find a way.”
“Bruce? Yes, no doubt,” Derek agrees. “Terry, though? No way in hell.”
“That’s only two out of four,” Stiles waves off, and finds what he’s looking for. “How do you know Terry but not Dick or Damian?”
Derek shakes his head and Stiles can only barely see his broad shoulder rise up in a shrug. “Your Marvel privileges are revoked,” Stiles decrees before crouching down to pull off the extra back issues hiding under the new ones. “Isaac!” Stiles yells across the shop, uncaring to the snot-nosed middle schoolers who came in to look at the action figures. “Derek doesn’t know about Damian Wayne.”
“What’s wrong with him?” Isaac asks back, brow raised.
“Exactly,” Stiles nods and throws a look over his shoulder. “C’mon,” he beckons and walks toward the register. “Let me talk to you about Robins,” Stiles insists and sets his sizable stack of monthlies down. “Bags and boards,” he demands before launching into a history of Al Ghuls and Lazarus Pits at Derek.
—
“You said you didn’t smoke while you were visiting,” Derek says as he looks at the red plastic bag weighed down to the crook of Stiles’ elbow as he bites the filter of the Marlboro and breathes the flame closer to the other end.
“Nope,” Stiles pops with a stream of light smoke. “I don’t toke while I’m here.” He corrects and flicks the end off, ash drifting down. “Still a bad habit,” he mutters and takes another pull. “I don’t do this near my house, though,” he admits. “But something has to occupy my oral fixation and Isaac will only let me blow him so many times.”
Derek coughs, choking at the joke and Stiles laughs at him. His mouth’s twisted into a wry smirk, sucking air through the packed cotton. “I’m joking,” he admits, a quiet “mostly,” following as he remembers the experimentation and fooling around he did in high school.
“Can I bum one off of you?” He asks, nodding to the burning orange cherry on the end.
Stiles shrugs and hands over the one in he’s holding. “Here,” he offers. “I only smoke half of it, anyway.” He watches Derek hesitate before he reaches out and takes the wrapped tobacco.
“How many of these do you need?” Derek asks after a few breaths, hand swinging down as he flicks off the ash. “It only takes you a couple bowls to get you reciting most of the time.”
Stiles stops sliding his comics into their plastic sleeves, humming with thought. “I can do it without,” he admits. “They just make it easier.”
Derek crushes the butt under his boot, exhaling the last bit of smoke with his head tilted down-wind. “Easier?” He echoes with a swallow, mouth dry and ashen.
Stiles laughs, sounding empty. “Yeah, like… I would never recite Sappho or Brautigan’s “Beautiful Poem,” to you without something to slip my inhibitions.” He shrugs and nods to his jeep out in the parking lot. “I have to go make my dad dinner.”
—
GROUP MESSAGE: TO: Scott & Isaac
I am having a crisis.
Stiles sends it out sitting on the kitchen counter as he waits for the water on the stovetop to boil. He’s being honest with himself when he bets that Scott’s not going to get back to him until much later, so he preemptively pulls up another message.
TO: Scott
Derek’s from my hometown and we
hung out sober. He bought comics
with me, Scott. Help.
The phone vibrates violently in his hand as he sends it off, displaying Isaac’s reply.
FROM: Isaac
It hav anything 2 do w/ tht dude tht came n 2 the store?
Stiles frowns, stirring the spaghetti as he feels his inner English major claw to the surface and bitch about Isaac’s chatspeak. He weighs his options, trying to figure out how rude it’d be if he just didn’t reply, before he just gives up and sends a reply to Isaac after opening cans of tomato paste and rooting around for the fresh basil he bought.
TO: Isaac
I basically told him to look up a poem that talked
about looking at a penis and having it inside
someone. After I made a crack about blowing you.
FROM: Isaac
@ lest he knows you're opn 2 cock! :D
He figures that might be the only bright side, but refuses to acknowledge it.
TO: Isaac
You are literally no help at all.
Stiles’ mashes the send button, jamming his phone back into his pocket and turns back to the stove to set the heat. Half-way through dinner he has to turn off his phone, Isaac’s barrage of sad-faced emoticons assaulting his phone.
—
He doesn’t get a reply from Scott, which Stiles only sighs at when he rolls over to check his phone when he wakes up the next day. His dad’s already at the station, a sticky note on the fridge with the time he’ll be back, leaving Stiles unoccupied for the foreseeable future.
“You can only do so many speed runs of Legend of Zelda before it gets boring,” he concedes to his lot of gaming consoles and decides to clean the house, and goes to hunt for the bleach under the sink.
Stiles is more than half way done with mopping the kitchen, belting out, “Tell Sanchito that if he knows what is good for him he best go run and hide, daddy's got a new forty-five,” when his phone pings with his tone alert.
FROM: SCOTT
just be cool, bro.
i buy comics w/ u all the time
He laughs self-depreciatingly and perches on top of the counter, the handle of the mop held between his knees.
TO: SCOTT
See, it’d be easier to play it
“cool,” if I DIDN’T TALK ABOUT
PENIS POETRY AND GIVING
ISAAC A BJ.
He frowns down at the device, watching the bar load up to tell him it’s been sent, because it’s either that or going back to cleaning as he butchers Sublime songs with his off-key renditions. He sends a prayer up to Bradley Nowell as an apology before his phone chimes again.
FROM: Scott
it could b worse, u could
have quot’d lolita
Stiles stares at his phone, torn between questioning how in-depth Scott’s knowledge of Nabokov was and the relief he felt that he at least hadn’t reached the stage of his infatuation where he was parroting off the paragraph about being madly, clumsily, shamelessly, agonizingly in love. Admittedly not with someone grossly younger than him, but still.
TO: Scott
But I want fabulous, insane exertions
that leave me limp and azure-barred.
The floor’s mostly dry, but the corner still need to be scrubbed into, so Stiles slides off the counter to stand and puts his phone away, ignoring Scott’s reply as he dunks the mop back into the dirty vinegar-and-baking-soda mixture he concocted in the sink.
—
Derek’s at his front door, carrying the stack of comics Stiles jokingly referred to as “assigned reading,” under his arm.
“Damian Wayne is a little shit,” is the first thing out of his mouth.
Stiles nods, “I am not debating that fact. Because he is. A lot of the time.” He tugs the door open wider, letting Derek in. “He’s the best character in Red Robin, though.”
—
His dad comes home an hour after Derek leaves. He stayed longer than Stiles expected, suffering through his rant on Jensen-Ackles-as-Jason-Todd, hence the Chinese take-out he’s ordering in.
“Orange chicken, white meat, non-breaded with broccoli, brown rice instead of white,” he rattles off into the receiver. “Vegetable chow mein, and scallion pancakes.”
“Get pot stickers,” his dad calls from the couch.
“You don’t need pot-stickers,” Stiles reprimands in a quiet whisper, phone cord wrapped around his wrist as he nods to the man on the other end of his receiver as he turns his back and hastily replies, “Yeah, to go. I’ll come pick it up.” He hangs up the phone with thanks. “Twenty minutes,” he says and falls into the seat next to his father.
The Bengals and Eagles are playing on the television, Cincinnati winning, but Stiles knows his dad really only roots for the Raiders during the season. “Mrs. Twitchell called me today,” he says, deceptively casual. “About a, uh. Gentleman caller?”
Stiles’ nose scrunches up. ““Gentleman caller?”” He repeats dubiously. “People still go around saying that?”
His dad huffs out a gentle laugh, shaking his head. “Her words, not mine,” he says. “But,” he continues. “You had someone here.”
“Yes,” Stiles nods. “I assume you already know who, though.”
“I have an idea,” he answers. “But, I was under the impression that you and Derek Hale didn’t know each other.”
“Christ, dad,” Stiles blurts. “He borrowed some of my comics and came over to return them.”
“Comics,” his dad repeats, sounding skeptical.
“Yes,” Stiles answers. “I have a sprawling and illustrious collection, thank you very much.”
“Oh, I know,” he nods. “Because I’ve been paying for them up until you were sixteen.”
Stiles sputters indignantly. “And now I’m a legal adult who is consenting to people borrowing my comics.”
His dad glares, and Stiles knows he doesn’t appreciate the verbs he’s using, but it’s better than telling his dad that he wouldn’t fuck someone in his childhood bed.
“Go get the Chinese,” he commands with a put-upon sigh and wave.
—
Christmas is quiet.
They exchange gifts over the Rudolph Claymation special as the misfit toys beginning singing on a low volume. The holster Stiles wrapped in candy cane colors is a solid black Kevlar that he surprisingly found on Amazon.
“Your other one was looking ratty,” Stiles explains, gesturing to it hanging on the coat rack by the front door. “Plus that one comes with a clip pouch.”
His dad laughs, shaking his head. “You and your mother were always better than me with gifts,” he says and hands over an assortment of gift cards.
“Hey, now,” Stiles snorts and takes them with enthusiastic glee, unwilling to breach the topic of his mother even though her absent presence is weighing heavily on both of them. “I still have that pack of fake mustaches you got me my freshman year.”
Stiles watches as his dad pulls a tight smile and nods, turning back to the television. He settles back into the couch, unlocking his phone during a commercial to send out a “MERRY CHRISTMAS! :D” to everyone in his contacts, uncaring to sparse out the people he had in a study group as a sophomore.
—
It’s a Wonderful Life is playing, right at George’s big speech where he’s bristling: “But to you, a warped, frustrated old man, they're cattle. Well in my book, my father died a much richer man than you'll ever be!” and his dad’s snoring gently with his empty mug of eggnog in hand, which Stiles is thankful for. It’s hard enough to watch George promise Mary the moon, he honestly can’t deal with Clarence showing him what his absence does to the lives of the people he cares about.
Stiles stands, turns off the TV and drapes a blanket over his father before he’s out the back door and lighting a cigarette, breathing a juddering exhale in the cold air while his phone buzzes against his hip.
FROM: Derek
Happy Christmas, Stiles.
He huffs out a breath and hugs his arms closer to his body for extra warmth, thinking how often it’s been anything but.
—
Stiles goes out with Isaac for New Year’s, sending his dad off to a get together at the sheriff’s department, as they go to a party hosted by someone that apparently graduated with them.
“Here,” Isaac yells over the obnoxious pop music that’s playing on the stupidly expensive surround sound. He passes off a cup to Stiles that’s filled with a bright red that’s fizzing.
Stiles shrugs and knocks it back. “If the cops come,” he warns after his third mouthful. “It’s every man for himself. I will totally leave you, dude.”
Isaac laughs, drinking from his own glass. “Just as long as you don’t ditch me for him,” he says and nods to a corner of living room, where Derek’s talking to a girl with long black hair.
“A lady doesn’t leave her escort, Isaac.” Stiles returns and downs the rest of his drink before dragging him over to the clump of people dancing and draping his arms over Isaac’s shoulders, bumping their hips together with the easy rhythm.
Stiles at least knows Isaac wouldn’t mind a cheeky make out when the ball drops and the clock strikes midnight, so he presses closer and lets his smile become drunken, laughing when Isaac’s hands grip at the cleft of his ass.
—
People are yelling, counting down until they can proclaim “Happy New Year!” at the top of their lungs. They’re pairing off and watching the TV as the camera pans over the New York skyline in anticipation of the firework display.
Stiles grins up at Isaac, fingers clinging feebly as he leans into the blonde’s space and flicks his tongue out suggestively.
“Yeah?” Isaac asks as he crowds him against the kitchen counter.
“Yeah,” Stiles nods with a quick jerk of his chin and lets Isaac presses his lips gently before he bites at his bottom lip and quietly hums his satisfaction as he licks in.
—
He spends January 1st on his computer, blearily buying more books off of Amazon as he drinks coffee and tries to wrestle his hangover down to manageable.
Realistically, if he didn’t still have his scholarship, he would be saving the gift card to buy his textbooks, or only splurging on one of Glen Duncan’s novels instead of the three that are currently sitting in his cart along with another poetry compilation and Danielewski’s House of Leaves.
His dad pulls into the drive way and Stiles hobbles down the stairs to the kitchen to put his cup in the sink. “Do you want eggs and toast?” He asks as the garage door opens and closes down the hall.
“Yeah,” his dad answers back, watching Stiles reach into the cupboard to find the pans. “If it’s not too much trouble.”
—
He puts off doing laundry as long as he has to, aware that the pile of dirty clothes is overflowing in his hamper and on to the floor, but knows he’s going to be leaving soon and should take advantage of a washing machine that doesn’t steal his quarters and a dryer without fifteen layers of lint in it.
—
“I’m gonna miss you, kid,” the sheriff says, wrapping his arms around Stiles in a tight hug after he finishes packing up his Jeep.
Stiles squeezes back, smiling into his dad’s shoulder. “Yeah,” he agrees. “I’ll miss you, too.”
His dad releases him, stepping back and keeping him at arm’s length. “Call more, okay?” He implores. “No more quick texts or in-between five minute breaks.”
“Okay,” Stiles nods and fingers his key ring before getting in behind the wheel. “Love you,” he says out the window and only starts the engine after hearing “I love you, too.”
—
Scott greets him with open arms, forcing Stiles to drop his duffle bag as he gets crushed into a hug.
“It’s good to see you, dude,” he says, releasing him and picks up the luggage. “How was your break?”
Stiles shrugs, following behind Scott to their dorm. “Good,” he answers vaguely. “Standard stuff, hanging out with my dad.”
“Yeah, me and my mom did the whole gift thing early,” Scott smiles minutely, wistful as he sets Stiles’ stuff down. “She had to work on Christmas.”
“That’s rough,” Stiles frowns. “Was the hospital over-booked?”
Scott nods, sitting in the office chair. “Yeah,” he says and then smiles wildly. “But she’s helping people.”
Stiles nods his agreement, knowing that rationalization because he's repeated it to himself when his father was still a deputy and had to sleep in their house alone as he pulled a double shift to make ends meet. "Yeah," he acknowledges. "She is."
Scott's smile widens and he nods. "So have you eaten yet?" He asks, defusing the edge the air had taken.