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Stiles really hated lacrosse, despite the fact that he was on the lacrosse team. In fact, Stiles probably hated lacrosse mostly because he was on the lacrosse team. It was a perfectly reasonable if slightly nonsensical sport back when he was sitting on the bleachers watching other people run around trying to throw a ball into a netted goal with the aid of another, smaller net at the end of a stick. But now that he was one of those people he was finding it significantly less reasonable.
And the most unreasonable thing about lacrosse? Summer practice sessions. Stiles never would’ve joined the team if he’d known about summer practice sessions. Stiles was expecting after-school practice, it goes with the territory of playing a school sport. He could deal with weekend practice, grumpily, because he could see the benefit of extra training before big, important games.
But summer training? When they wouldn’t actually have a game, important or otherwise, for at least another two months? When he wasn’t even sure he’d make the team again in his junior year? Lunacy. Absolute lunacy.
Which was not really that surprising considering Coach Finstock was a lunatic. But Stiles hadn’t known that when he’d let Scott beg and plead and puppy-dog-eye him into signing up for tryouts last year.
And now he was paying the price for his ignorance. During summer.
“I hate you so much right now,” Stiles muttered to Scott as they packed up their gear, the rest of the team plodding past them towards the locker room.
“Aw c’mon, it’s not that bad! Doesn’t it make you feel alive, being out here, under the sun, feeling the grass beneath your feet and the wind against your face and the solid weight of your crosse in your hands?” Scott said, grin lopsided, arms open wide toward the pitch before them.
Stiles stared at him for a while, because he felt he needed to.
Then, “No.”
There was a noise from behind him and Stiles turned to see the back of Derek Hale moving toward the low, squat wing of the school that housed the locker rooms. If Stiles didn’t know better he might’ve thought Derek had laughed. In reality Derek probably just had gas.
Turning back to Scott he continued, “No, it makes me feel the opposite of alive, because the sun is burning the shit out of my lily white Polish ass, the grass is generally beneath my face not my feet, the wind is usually getting pounded out of my lungs, and I’m far more likely to feel the weight of other dudes’ crosses getting smacked into me.”
Scott gaped at him.
“You realise that sounded, like, aggressively sexual, right?”
“Oh shut the fuck up,” Stiles grunted, and he hauled his bag over his shoulder, stomping off to the locker room.
*****
Apart from unreasonable training schedules, the locker room was the worst thing about lacrosse. Or, more specifically, it was the worst place to have to be, three times a week, during summer, when one was possibly maybe potentially having a small sexuality crisis.
Not that Stiles felt that there was a major crisis to be had. He was 98.3% certain that his dad and his grandma and Scott and Scott’s mom would all be completely accepting of a potentially not-straight Stiles. And Stiles knew he was extremely lucky in that sense, and he was grateful. But still, that 1.7% was enough to keep him up at night.
And it wasn’t as though Stiles really, deeply cared about what other people thought of him, outside of those four that really mattered. But still, he wasn’t naive and he was extremely aware that homophobia was well and truly alive in modern America. Particularly within hyper-masculine environments such as high school locker rooms.
And the most crisis-inducing aspect of Stiles’ not-major and yet also not-insignificant sexuality crisis was the simple fact that Stiles was not who he thought he was. And that’s not at all a bad thing, but it is a confronting thing. Thinking that you knew who you were, that you have known who you are for years, and then slowly realizing that you don’t, in fact, know yourself inside and out. To be certain and then to be suddenly not, it was overwhelming. It felt raw and jangly and new underneath his skin.
So Stiles felt edgy enough as it was, and all those male abs and backs and thighs in the locker room, three times a week, during summer, were doing nothing to help his already frayed nerves.
Stiles faffed and fiddled around his locker, double-checking he had his helmet, carefully wiping off his pads, until most of the rest of the team had finished in the showers. It basically guaranteed that there would be no hot water left for him, but it was worth a cold shower if it meant he wouldn’t be surrounded by naked dudes on all sides. Plus it was the middle of summer, Stiles could not stress this enough, and who was wanting a hot shower anyway?
When he could hear only two or three other people moving around the dark, humid room Stiles stripped the rest of his clothes off and grabbed his towel.
He spent a while in the shower, letting the lukewarm water soothe both his aching muscles and the stinging-hot parts of his skin that were exposed to the sun for too long. He was in there long enough that Scott shouted his goodbyes and left without him, but Stiles didn’t mind. He’d catch up with Scott later, probably to annihilate him in a virtual world. The undisputed natural and proper way to be spending summer vacation.
Once Stiles towelled off he headed for the door and blessed freedom, feeling relief and jubilation, planning to reward himself with an ice cold milkshake on the way home, the rest of that fine summer's day stretched sweet and sticky before him and -
The doorknob wouldn’t turn.
Stiles tried it again.
It still wouldn’t turn. It remained unmoved and unforgiving, like Coach Finstock when Stiles tried to weasel his way out of running suicides.
Stiles rattled and pushed and pulled and still the doorknob wouldn’t turn and the door stayed shut.
“Fuck!” Stiles shouted and kicked the closed door. Which, in hindsight, was a thoroughly idiotic move, so Stiles cursed some more as he hopped around on one foot, a hand clutching at the toe of his other sneaker.
“What’s going on?”
Stiles froze at the voice behind him. Because he knew that voice. And he should’ve known that horrible, embarrassing things come in threes. The locked door, his crumpled toes, and now…
“Derek!” Stiles squeaked.
It hadn’t started out as a squeak. But then Stiles had turned around halfway through the word to find Derek Hale, half-naked and wet, staring at him with furrowed eyebrows. His dark hair was plastered to his forehead, water droplets were gliding down his shoulders, his pale eyes seemed even paler in the dim light of the room, and a towel, a tiny scrap of material wrapped around Derek’s hips, was the only thing saving both Derek’s dignity and Stiles’ sanity.
“Uh,” Stiles said, super intelligently.
And then he just stared at Derek. Naked Derek. He ogled, there was no denying it. He was ogling, and he made himself stop.
“Stiles? What’s going on?” Derek repeated.
“The door’s locked,” Stiles mumbled at the floor.
“What.”
“The door,” Stiles said, slightly louder, no less squeaky. “It is locked. The way is shut. We shall not pass.” And he flailed with one hand to emphasize his point.
“What,” Derek said again, the same word, but entirely different.
He strode forward and Stiles made a garbled sound in the back of his throat, backing himself into the wall next to the door.
Derek grabbed the door handle, twisting it and pulling it, like he thought Stiles was lying to him, or like he thought his superior lacrosse captain strength would prevail where all others before him had failed.
But the door, surprise of all surprises, was still fucking locked.
Derek kept trying to open it though, and he was starting to look panicked, and his breath was beginning to rush in and out of him like frantic waves against a stormy shore.
“Dude,” Stiles said, but Derek either ignored him or couldn’t hear him at all. “Derek.” He put a hand on Derek’s warm, broad shoulder.
Derek stilled, and he looked at Stiles, and he suddenly seemed to notice that he was more or less caging Stiles in against the wall while he fruitlessly pulled at the door handle, and then an even more panicked expression passed across his face and he jumped, literally jumped, backwards.
Stiles held his hands up like he was trying to calm a wild animal, because it felt like he was trying to calm a wild animal. There was something extremely wild about the way Derek was looking at him.
“Hey,” Stiles started softly. “Are you okay? Are you claustrophobic? I have panic attacks sometimes, I could help you through some breathing exercises if you want,” he said, making his hands and his voice as gentle as he could.
Derek was clutching his towel with both hands like it was a liferaft, and at Stiles words his expression shifted, becoming no less panicked but now somehow longing too, like Stiles was the liferaft, and he couldn’t quite reach.
He took two deep breaths and Stiles could see him visibly trying to calm himself.
“I’m fine,” he said, but Stiles could hear the strained hoarseness of his voice.
“How about this,” Stiles said, his brain clicking into gear, “you dry off and get dressed and I’ll make some calls, see if I can get someone to come get us out of here.” Doing something proactive, something physical, working towards a goal always helped Stiles when he felt a panic attack coming on.
“Okay,” Derek said shakily and turned to go to his locker. Just as he was about to round the corner he glanced back at Stiles over his shoulder, and the same panicked, longing look swept over his features again.
Stiles swiped open his phone with determination. It was just his goddamn rotten luck that he got trapped inside the boys locker room, during summer, with the one person who was possibly maybe potentially responsible for kicking off Stiles’ not-major and yet also not-insignificant sexuality crisis in the first place. Jesus.
Stiles tried Coach Finstock first, because he had Coach Finstock’s number, because Coach Finstock insisted on each of his players having his phone number and him having theirs in return, because Coach Finstock was a lunatic.
And in keeping with Stiles’ luck, Coach Finstock didn’t answer.
Next Stiles tried his dad, and because his dad was a steady, solid, dependable presence in Stiles’ life he did answer his phone. Of course, he spent the first three minutes of the conversation laughing himself to tears about the newest ridiculous predicament that Stiles had found himself in, but after that he came through.
The Sheriff promised that he would try to track down someone with a set of keys to the school locker rooms, and failing that he would send over a locksmith to get them out. It might take awhile, but Stiles and Derek had access to running water and working toilet facilities, and Stiles was pretty sure he had a flattened Cliff Bar or two floating around in the bottom of his bag somewhere, so they could survive in there for a good few hours.
Sure, it wasn’t an ideal way to waste a day of vacation, but things could be worse. And Stiles could be stuck with far worse survival buddies than Derek Hale. All in all Stiles was feeling pretty positive about their situation.
Until he went in search of his survival buddy and overheard Derek on the phone.
“God, why did it have to be him?” Derek was whispering desperately to someone on the other end of the call. “Out of all the guys on the team why did I have to get trapped in here with Stiles fucking Stilinski.”
*****
It took about half an hour but eventually Derek came looking for him.
He found Stiles sat on the cool tile floor, back against the wall, arms curled around his legs and his chin resting on his knee.
He looked confused, and a little bit hurt, but Stiles couldn’t be bothered wondering why that was. Stiles’ stomach still felt all hollowed out and empty, his fingers still tingled with humiliation and unspoken rejection.
Worst of all was the cavernous feeling inside his chest where his bruised heart bounced and echoed around.
In all honesty he never truly believed he ever stood a chance with Derek. Derek Hale was handsome and popular, respected by his teachers and revered by his peers. He was as intelligent as he was athletically gifted, he volunteered at the local animal shelter in his spare time, and he loved his family unabashedly. And he knew who Stiles was. By name, even. Sometimes he’d stop and give Stiles little tips about hand placement and throwing technique when they were on the field during practice, and he always nodded at Stiles when they passed each other in the hallways.
So although it was fun to fantasize, to daydream about holding Derek’s hand, Stiles never honestly believed Derek would ever want to date him.
He had thought they’d been sort of friends, though. Friendly teammates at least. And to hear Derek say his name with such utter anguish, like being forced to spend time with him was the worst punishment in the world, was a fist to the gut that Stiles was entirely unprepared for.
“Where have you been?” Derek asked, and it was such a stupid question that it punched an ugly laugh out of Stiles’ throat.
“I’ve been here,” Stiles replied slowly. “Locked inside the locker room.”
The hint of a smile that had begun to grow on Derek’s lips withered quickly at the sarcasm in Stiles’ voice.
“Well, yeah, obviously,” Derek said. He looked at Stiles in confusion. “I meant, why didn’t you come back to m- um, why didn’t you come and tell me what’s going to happen. Is someone coming to get us out?”
“Yeah, my dad’s working on it.”
Derek nodded.
And then, when he seemed to be waiting for more, Stiles just couldn’t help adding, bitterly, “And I thought I’d give you some space, seeing as how you wish you weren’t trapped in here with Stiles fucking Stilinski.”
Stiles had never seen Derek’s face get so pale so quickly. In fact, he didn’t think he’d even seen Derek’s face go pale at all.
“You heard that?” Derek asked, and he sounded pained.
“Yep,” Stiles said, popping the P, because his assholish tendencies kick into overdrive when he feels hurt.
“It’s not what you think, I swear.” Derek sounded urgent and he crouched down onto his knees in front of Stiles.
“Really?” Stiles hated it, but he couldn’t help the way his voice went all high and disbelieving. “Because it sounded like being alone with me was the worst possible torment you could ever face. And that’s a real ego boost, dude, thanks.”
“No, that’s not what I meant.” Derek was wringing his hands at this point.
Stiles just raised his eyebrows as if to say, ‘please, do go on’.
Derek sighed, then squared his shoulders.
“The truth is, I like you.”
Stiles snorted. A real, guttural, wholly unattractive snort. “Could’ve fooled me, dude.”
“I’m being serious, doucheface.”
And didn’t that make Stiles sit up and listen. When he finally looked Derek full in the face he could see that Derek was serious. Also kind of pissed, but mostly just very sincere.
“I like you, Stiles. A lot. Probably more than I should considering you’ve never shown any interest in anyone outside of Lydia Martin. But,” and here Derek shrugged helplessly, looking away from Stiles for the first time, “I guess we don’t have much control over these sorts of things.”
Stiles was so shocked he lost the unusual restraint he’d had over his body, arms unfolding and legs flopping down onto the floor.
Derek’s cheeks were pink, as were his adorable, small, sticky-out ears. He wasn’t making eye-contact and he was picking at a hangnail on one of his fingers.
“Really?”
Derek sighed and glared at him, but hey, at least he was looking at Stiles again.
“Right, sorry, stupid question. What I’m trying to say is, I like you too.”
Derek’s mouth dropped open. Stiles could see bunny teeth.
“Yeah,” Stiles said with a spreading grin, slow and unstoppable. “You’re adorable as hell and I like you.”
Derek leaned closer to him, and Stiles knew what was coming and the air shivered inside his lungs. The meeting of their lips was slow and dry and impossibly sweet. It was a soft kiss, quiet, and it spread through Stiles like the most delicate breeze, soothing the raw parts of him, silencing the jangling. It was still new, but it felt right, and instead of feeling like he didn’t know himself this felt like greeting an old friend.
Derek pulled away from him when Stiles’ smile became too wide, rather than continuing to awkwardly kiss his teeth.
“I knew summer practice sessions were one of my greater ideas,” he sighed.
“Wait, what!?” Stiles squawked.
*****
Stiles and Derek were finally released from the locker room after a couple of hours, a severe tongue-lashing from Stiles, and then a different kind of tongue-lashing altogether. The audience to their triumphant emergence included Stiles’ dad, Scott, Coach Finstock, a good half of Derek’s extended family, and a random locksmith.
If Stiles had known they’d attract so many spectators he probably wouldn’t have tumbled out of the door holding Derek’s hand and trying to bite his ear. As it was, Stiles’ coming-out-of-the-closet moment was a lot more literal than expected.
That 1.7% had Stiles freezing in fear, but his dad gave Stiles a knowing smirk, Scott gave him a perfectly indiscreet double thumbs up, and Laura Hale cheered “I knew it!” and snapped a photo.