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When Derek realized his locker was two down and one up from Stiles’s at the beginning of the year, he had immediate and grandiose ideas (Putting gifts in Stiles locker! Leaning next to Stiles as he gets his books for his next class! Watching Stiles come and go!) that were immediately and unequivocally crushed with the reminder that Stiles hated him. As in, ‘if you were the last man on earth I still wouldn’t hang out with you’ hated him. Stiles hates Derek on an epic level. A legendary level, he might say. Even Boyd, his throwing partner during warm ups and a good friend, has remarked on the glares Stiles sent his way.
Does Derek know what he did wrong? No. He’s wracked his mind for an instance, any instance of doing something offensive to Stiles, but he has no idea.
“Yo, Derek!” Isaac yells at him from down the hallway, interrupting his allotted three minutes of staring at Stiles as the boy, all long lines and pale, luminescent skin that made him want to Do Things, grabs his books and absentmindedly chews on the cap of a pen. “Come on, we’re waiting for you! Shakes wait for no man, not even the star pitcher of the baseball team.”
Derek wants to bang his head against the wall as Stiles looks up at Isaac and turns to frown at Derek, shutting his locker unnecessarily hard and mumbling something along the lines of, “We already know he’s Beacon Hill’s own baseball prodigy, Isaac.”
He swings his backpack up on a shoulder and texts someone, undoubtedly Scott, with his free hand, never pausing to look at Derek as he brushes past him. His mouth, perfect and full and kissable, still gnaws on that dammed pen cap. It’s all Derek can do not to go after him and grab his arm, demand to know why Stiles has come to every singles preseason game and played on his phone the entire time. If he’s not going to watch Derek the game, he might as well not come.
He sighs wistfully. What he would do to strip that boy of his plaid, lay him out and lick—
“Dude, really?” Isaac stands next to him, following his gaze with his own skeptical one. “Isn’t that the Stilinski kid? He’s president of the chess and prep bowl clubs, right?”
“So?” Derek snaps defensively. “Just because he’s smart—“ he catches himself, but it’s too late.
“Oh, I see.” A knowing smile in his direction. “It’s like that. Derek Hale, brought low by the power of plaid shirts and chemistry.” Isaac fairly purrs the last word.
Derek blushes hard, shoves him against the locker and mumbles, “Aren’t they waiting for us?”
“Stiles, why are we even here?” Scott slumps over in the stands ever further as he morosely stares at his phone. Allison hasn’t texted him in three minutes, and Stiles is concerned Scott’s going to tailspin into a rapid depression (that he will snap out of the instant Allison communicates with him. It’s a vicious cycle.) and he’ll have to hear him mope for the rest of the game.
“I’m doing a statistical analysi—“
“—for stats,” Scotts interrupts. “Yeah, I know that’s your excuse, but what’s this really about?” He squints at Stiles, a little confused. “Is this about Derek?”
Stiles looks around wildly, flailing and almost falling out of his seat. “It’s not about Derek!” Lowering his voice, he hisses, “People could hear you!”
“Stiles. We’re the only people on the bleachers.”
He grinds his teeth, stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Okay, okay, it might be about Derek.” The admission comes haltingly. “A man can look, okay? I mean, I know I don’t have a flying chance in hell with him, but he’s just—he’s just so perfect! He should be on the cover of a sports magazine or something, not in high school making As and being effortlessly popular and being an amazing baseball player who looks amazing in those pants—those pants, Scott—and us mere mortals are left trailing after his mightiness.” Stiles pauses for breath, sees Scott’s wide-eyed puppy look, and bites his lip.
“He heard that, didn’t he?”
“Well…” Scott pauses, tries to come up with something diplomatic, and fails. “Yeah.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck, Stiles chants in his head, gathering up the snacks he brought and dropping them carelessly in his backpack while studiously avoiding looking at the baseball diamond. “C’mon, Scotty boy, let’s get out of here before I do something even more humiliating—almost impossible at this point, I’m sure.”
Scott glances at the diamond, goes even wider-eyed, and says, “Bro, I think—“
“Yeah, death glare, ‘I’m better than you’, et cetera, I’ve got it, let’s go.”
He fairly kills himself running down the bleachers like he does, and hears a “Stiles, wait!” come from the diamond. It’s Derek’s voice.
Stiles only walks faster, head down. He should’ve just stayed with chess. They didn’t talk back or create messy feelings.
“Stiles!” It’s closer this time, and Scott’s nudging him, whispering that Derek is literally running after them.
“But isn’t there a game going on?” He’s…confused.
“I don’t care. Coach put in a relief pitcher cuz he knew I would be useless for the rest of the game after I heard that.” Derek’s breathless and right behind them. Oh God. Oh God.
Slowly, he turns around, heart in his throat. This was probably going to be very bad. “Why?” he asks. “Because you were trying to think of ways to use this? Because I’m a nerd and so below you and it’s just not going to happen?”
Derek’s eyebrows do that scrunching thing that, combined with the massive frown on his face, makes him look hurt and adorable and in desperate need of a hug. “No, it’s because I like you, Stiles.” He sounds painfully earnest. “Because you wear plaid and big shirts that cover up your body and can spout chemical equations faster than anybody I know—and it probably shouldn’t turn me on as much as it does but it’s hot. You always chew those stupid pen caps and I can never stop staring at your mouth. Because you’re gorgeous and snarky and like Taco Tuesdays as much as I do. Because you’re you.”
Scott had quietly left when Derek somehow started Declaring His Undying Attraction to Stiles (who gives himself a surreptitious pinch on the arm to make sure this is actually happening. It is.) and Stiles is left alone with a gaping mouth and a sweaty, hot baseball player in front of him who, if he were a cartoon, would have literal hearts in his eyes.
“We’re talking about me, here, right?” Stiles points at himself, double-checking. “Like, Stiles Stilinski, son of the Sheriff and universally acknowledged unpopular guy?”
“Yeah.”
Stiles grins, feels his heart begin to hammer even harder as he steps forwards into Derek’s space. “Just making sure,” he says, “considering it would make doing this incredibly awkward.” And with that, he cups Derek’s face in his hands and full on kisses him, swallowing Derek’s muffled sound of surprise and pleasure.
They’re still making out twenty minutes later when the baseball team passes by him on the way to the locker room. “Yeah, get it, Derek!” Isaac whoops, fist bumping Boyd.
Stiles breaks off and presses his forehead against Derek’s, laughing breathlessly. “So,” he says, twining their fingers together. Derek looks at him, smiling at him with those green eyes of his, a dopey smile also stretching across his face. “Wanna...study for chem tonight?”