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The thing is, they grew up in each other's pockets. Mi casa es tu casa and all that. So 'personal space' and 'personal belongings' have always been things that existed for other people. After the exploding meatball incident of 2009, minor details, like whose pants are whose, fade into the background so you can focus on the big picture, like cleaning up the evidence. (The exploding meatball incident of 2011 never happened. Ever.) For someone raised by a cop, Stiles is shit at hiding evidence. He gets distracted and doesn't finish. ("I'll do it in a sec, I just had this great idea, it'll be quicker this way, no really.")
(Scott has another theory, about Stiles's mom being sick, and the Sheriff always at the hospital, and a small kid running around with no one to watch him, but he doesn't talk about that one. He doesn't like to think about it either.)
Melissa McCall isn't half as easy to fool as the Sheriff. So while Scott's bedroom is just as messy as Stiles's, it's strategically messy. And a werewolf nose means all his clothes are clean. Stiles's room is just gross.
"I think something died in here." Maybe Scott should move off the bed, but it's soft and horizontal, so he's not going anywhere fast. He'll just have to hope he's immune.
"Yeah, my hopes and my dreams."
"No man, I mean I think something is rotting under your bed. Or in your bed. Hard to tell."
Stiles picks up a towel from the floor, unconcerned. "You say that every time. Not dead yet. This smell clean to you ? All I can smell is sweat. I think my olfactory bulbs were damaged by that last body check. If I'm not a school tomorrow, I'm probably dead. You know, brain trauma's a very serious thing; it can cause all sorts of problems..."
Scott doesn't even bother trying to stop the flow of words. Stiles is always extra chatty after lacrosse. Any kind of exercise really. He'll talk and talk and then crash and sleep for hours. Scott thinks it's hilarious. At least 14 different times now, Stiles has accidentally revealed Very Important Secrets because he started rambling and couldn't stop.
Scott tries not to leave Stiles unsupervised now.
"... 'kay ?" Stiles (finally) pauses, looking expectant.
"Yeah sure bro." Scott has no idea what he's agreeing to, which should probably worry him more than it does. In his defence, even if he knew, he'd still say yes because it's Stiles. That's just what he does.
As a reward for his selfless generosity, he gets a facefull of dirty towel. "What the hell man ?"
"Clean, yes or no ?"
"No !" Scott chucks the towel back at Stiles.
"Dammit. Probably should do laundry. Lame." Stiles wanders out of the room, off to find a clean towel. Scott continues to lie on Stiles's bed, trying to breathe through his mouth. A few moments later, the shower turns on. Faint, slightly off-key singing follows moments later.
Alright, teenage boy or no, it is foul in here. Scott flops his head to the side, trying to spot the laundry bin without actually moving. No luck. Stiles so owes him for this. As he (very slowly) lifts himself off the bed, Scott makes a mental list of foods to request. The laundry bin is buried deep in the closet, already full of clothes. This has to be worth several potato pancakes, at least. Maybe even pierogi. He starts to pile the clothing in the centre of the room, tossing his own sweaty shirt in as well. Loose-leaf pages go one half of the desk, dirty dishes on the other. The sheets need a wash too.
Scott has cleaned Stiles's room so many times, he's on autopilot. (Lube in the bottom drawer of dresser, kleenex on top of the desk, messy doodles go into the middle desk drawer, Rescue Heroes toy from when they were six on the top shelf of the closet...) By unspoken agreement, they don't talk about it. Stiles is a pig, Scott cleans up, Stiles makes food. It works for them. (If it weren't for Scott, Stiles would probably be dead of some brand-new disease incubated right here.) He always takes a second to admire Stiles's drawings though; most are unfinished and rough, but some are finished in ink, shaded, maybe even cleaned up a bit. The Sheriff's sun glasses, the camero. Lots of objects, boring (unless you know the story, like an inside joke).
Scott strips the bed methodically, (maybe a bit grumpily, because seriously Stiles, your room stinks so bad, you're lucky you're human) grabbing the sheets, yo wait, that's ... not a sheet.
It's a small sketchbook, shoved between the bed and the wall, tangled in the sheets. And it's filled with sketches of Scott. Beautifully rendered sketches of his hands, caricatures of his jaw, (fuck you, it's not that uneven) his tattoos...
Scott will admit he is sometimes a little slow on the uptake, but this is obvious (even to him). It's not quite SM + SS 5EVA, but it's close.
The water shuts off.
Scott throws the sketchbook on the pile of dirty laundry, and covers it with a pillowcase. "I'll be in the basement ! Laundry !" He yells (maybe a little desperately) and grabs the load of clothes.
Safe in the basement, clothes in the machine, book in his hands, Scott proceeds to panic.
They had a rule god-fucking-damnit. No secrets. There was a contract ! Like, signed and shit. (History class gets boring, okay ?) Stiles got them into all sorts of shit, but he always told Scott ahead of time so Scott could help cover it up. That's how they worked. They'd already had the hey-bro-I-like-dudes-as-well-as-chicks conversation and the subsequent shit-man-no-way-me-too one. That was freshman year crap. They'd agreed to marry each other if they were still single at 30. (Scott fucking proposed ! With a ring-pop and everything.) There were (supposed to be) no secrets between the two of them. That's why they worked !
That settles it. Scott stomps upstairs, barging into Stiles's room. Stiles yelps and yanks his pants up.
"Woah bro, ever heard of knocking ? I could have been naked !"
"The first time we met, you pulled your dick out and peed on my sandcastle. I don't care." Scott sat down on the bare mattress and waved the sketchbook at Stiles. "But this ? This, I care about. What the fuck man ? I thought we were bros ?"
"You were going through my stuff ?"
"I always go through through your stuff. I was cleaning 'cause your room smells like shit."
"So you go through my fucking stuff ?"
"That's not the point ! Why didn't you tell me ?" Scott stands and moves into Stiles's space.
"Why would I tell you -- "
"-- 'Cause I freaking told you !"
"There's a bit of a difference between 'yo I like the new chick' and -- "
"-- No man, I mean about you !" Scott is aware he's gesticulating a little wildly, but whatever.
Stiles's mouth drops open. "W-- what the fuck ?" He sounds a little hysterical.
"September of freshman year ? In the bleachers ? Ring any bells ?"
Stiles continues to blink very quickly. It doesn't look like bells are ringing. Scott moves back and drops into the desk chair. "Right after Lydia started dating Jackson. I told you I would date you. And you said Lydia was the only one for you. "
Stiles just stares at him. Scott may have broken him. Now that the anger is leaving him, he's just sad. And hurt. There's no desire to shift, he doesn't have to fight to stay human. He's just desperately trying not to cry. He wishes he still had his shirt. Some imaginary armour, to feel less naked.
"And I was cool with it. Like, the friendzone is bullshit, I wasn't gonna be a douche. You don't have to like me. Or date me. But like, I thought we were bros. So what's the secrecy ?"
"I thought that was a joke." Stiles says eventually. He's still standing in the middle of the room, in a worn t-shirt and sweatpants. He looks safe and warm, and Scott kind of hates him right now. "I thought you were just trying to cheer me up. You know, plenty of fish in the sea, life is a box of chocolates... Kidding around."
Scott can't deal with this right now. "I'll just shower at my place." He gets up to leave.
"Woah, no !" Stiles grabs his shoulders. "I"m not done talking. I didn't know that's what you meant. I didn't know !"
"You're supposed to be the smart one ! You needed me to spell it out for you ?" Scott is aware they are standing way too close to one another, even for them.
"Yeah !" Stiles is right in front of him. Scott isn't usually aware of being taller than Stiles; like that thing from physics, measuring Stiles seems to change him, diminish him. But here, Stiles is very still, and very quiet. He's smaller when he's still. Without the restless, relentless vibrating energy, Stiles is delicate and fragile. He's hard to look at, but it's hard to look away.
"Fine. I've liked you since the day I met you, right after you told me I needed wet sand to build a really good castle and so you peed on it." Scott does manage to look away, and instead stares determinedly at the floor. "I've wanted to kiss you since the summer before ninth grade, when you bought me that plaid shirt so we could match on the first day. And four freaking years later, I still want to kiss you." He shoves his hands deeper into his pockets. (The floor is still dirty. He really should of vacuumed. He's standing on a lump big enough to feel though his socks -- maybe it's a rock ? )
"Well fuck." Stiles moves so his head is right in Scott's line of sight. "I like you too. Since junior high actually. It's why I bought you that shirt." He's grinning like the cheshire cat, mouth too big for his face.
Scott is getting whiplash from this emotional roller-coaster. "So what now ?" He's chilled but still somehow too hot, and if he moves at all, he's like 80% sure he'll shatter into a million pieces.
"Not gonna lie, I'd really like to make out with you." Stiles still has a massive grin, but he's blushing now. It's a good look for him.
Scott really wants to get it right this time. "Can I kiss you ?" He carefully puts his hands on Stiles's hips. Stiles feels warm and reassuringly solid under his hands. Scott's surprised his hands aren't shaking. He's a little overwhelmed.
"Abso-fucking-lutely."
Slowly, carefully, Scott slides a hand around Stiles, straightening his back and pulling him close. Then he lowers his head. Stiles is warm and inviting, and moving just as cautiously as Scott. It feels a bit too real; Scott is hyperaware, all his senses on overdrive. He can smell the soap and shampoo Stiles used (Dove and citrus-lemongrass respectively, same as always) and the drops of water still clinging to his skin (in his hair, the base of his neck, down his spine). He can hear Stiles holding his breath, having forgotten he can breathe through his nose. He can taste the chapstick (plain, kind of chemical tasting) Stiles put on just seconds ago, and the heat of Stiles's hands on his sides.
And then, like a rubber-band snapping back, the hyperreality (or surreality) of the situation disappears and all Scott can think is Stiles. He presses closer, one hand squeezing Stiles's hip, the other sliding up his back to his neck. He angles his head and Stiles tastes like home. He entwines their tongues, teasing and tasting, learning what makes Stiles moan. Scott wants to know everything about Stiles, and this is no different. He coaxes Stiles's tongue into playing, teaching him how to kiss. When to nip (now) and how to move his head (yes like that, god, you're perfect).
He draws back a little, only to move down to Stiles's neck. He wants to paint it in hickeys, covering it in kisses and bites.
"Hell of a first kiss." Stiles sounds like he's laughing inside. It's cute. "Ten out of ten. Would definitely kiss again."
"Mmm." Scott nuzzles behind Stiles's ear. It's hard to nuzzle with a huge smile, but he manages it. "Cool. Me too."