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Scott is shocked his body can surprise him after all these years, but it does. Lately he’s felt constantly riled up, on edge, nervous like he’s waiting for something. But he doesn’t know what it is. Perhaps his subconscious senses are picking up something his conscious mind refuses to explore; a tremor in the earth’s electro-magnetic fields, or scents carried on the wind. Maybe the nemeton is exerting its effects again, though he’s usually wise to that, will have dreams that accompany the insistent mystical pushes the druidic energy issues forth.
He doesn’t want to tell Stiles, because Stiles has only this year started acting like there actually may not be a monster lurking in every shadow. He’s been back in Beacon Hills for five years, but yep, it’s only now that he isn’t hypervigilant. And that’s not to say he’s relaxed at all: he’s still vigilant.
He doesn’t want to ask Alan about it for similar reasons.
“Have you been feeling weird, lately?” Scott asks Lydia via skype. The last time the nemeton made its presence known, it did so by bombarding her with nightmares for weeks.
“No, should I?”
“I don’t know yet,” Scott answers honestly. “I just… I feel like something’s coming.”
“Keep me in the loop?” Lydia asks, frowning.
“I will,” Scott promises, then asks her about how everything’s going in Cambridge.
He contacts Malia, Kira, Liam and Mason too. None of them are feeling any ill effects.
But the feelings persist, his nerves keep jangling, and nothing he does seems to help. Scott buzzes with adrenaline and can’t settle down. He meditates, he does yoga, he regularly calls his mom. He has a silent timer on his phone that reminds him to unclench his jaw and shoulders, to drink water and take some deep, steadying breaths.
He’s at Stiles’ apartment hanging out when he decides he should probably mention it. Stiles has been gazing at him sidelong throughout the movie they’ve been half-watching, and Scott’s worked really hard on not omitting important information since graduating college. He had one too many bad happenstances from covering shit up and keeping secrets. He’s too old and tired to do that now.
“I’ve been feeling kinda hinky lately,” Scott says to a question Stiles hasn’t verbally asked when they’ve paused to grab extra snacks. Sat on the couch with the screen freeze-framed makes it easy for the words to come. “Like something’s on the horizon and my senses can’t tell if it’s good or bad.”
“It’s the 10 year anniversary,” Stiles says. When Scott frowns at him, he continues. “Of you getting bitten. You didn’t remember that?”
Scott gazes at Stiles, the calm, easy confidence of his proclamation edged with a slight undertone. He didn’t remember that.
“No, I didn’t realize. Already? You sure?” Scott asks, though he knew it was true the second Stiles said it.
“Next week,” Stiles confirms.
Scott digs himself deeper into the couch, hugs the cushion he’s been idly holding closer. Stiles reaches over and cups his shoulder firmly, then lets go with a shake and wriggles until their thighs are touching. Stiles presses play and Scott attempts to refocus on the movie, but what concentration span he had has dissipated.
He made his peace with being a werewolf a long time ago, has even thought about what his life would be like if Peter hadn’t bitten him and decided he hated the result. He’s fairly sure Peter would somehow, someway have killed and/or turned all humans in Beacon Hills. But even though he’s accepted the responsibility of these powers, this role, there will always be part of him that remembers what it was like to be wholly human. It’s not even a rose-tinted nostalgia. He recalls the asthma attacks and how he felt so small when his dad was raving drunk and being ignored by most of his peers. He isn’t ever complacent about how much stronger he is now, in every way. It taps against his ribcage, though, the echoes of lives passed.
“I don’t know if I ever said I’m sorry,” Stiles says through a quiet part of the movie, not looking in Scott’s direction.
“You didn’t,” Scott replies, ever-honest. “But I know.”
“Still, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry I dragged you out there that night. I’m sorry for…” Stiles flails his hands wide, encompasses the room and the whole situation.
Scott turns in his seat, spreads his hand over Stiles’ forearm. The movie is long-forgotten. “Do we have to have this conversation?” he asks, leaning his head against the back of the sofa and gazing at Stiles.
Stiles mirrors him, clasps his hand over-top of Scott’s. “Yeah, sometimes. If we always push it away we get into situations where you forget it’s your wolfaversary and I start to let the guilt I feel fester inside until I’m a ball of grouch and malice.”
“Okay, then, I accept your apology. You shouldn’t’ve dragged me out there that night.” Scott lightly punches Stiles’ arm. “And I should’ve been more assertive in saying no. But no one could’ve predicted the rest, so don’t even try to lay all the blame at your feet. We were sixteen and stupid.”
Stiles’ face runs through a series of complicated expressions and settles on soft; warm searching eyes, half-smile, relaxed brow.
“It’s easier, now that we’re twenty-six and stupid,” Stiles says, quiet.
“Well, yeah. We have so much experience.”
“I mean… to tell you how I feel.”
Scott is suddenly very aware of how close they’ve gotten -- legs tangled, hands pressed tight, foreheads only inches apart. His senses go into overdrive again and he pays attention to their shared chemosignals, to the heat of their breaths, to the drumming of their hearts.
“How do you feel, Stiles?” Scott asks, thinking maybe what he’s been sensing all this time wasn’t an anniversary at all, but a new beginning. He’s been waiting, but sometimes in anticipation, sometimes with an undercurrent that makes him feel sparked to life.
“Super sleepy,” Stiles says, stretching up his arms and fake-yawning.
Scott tackles him back into the cushions, laughing. Stiles moves with no resistance, smile widening. He lifts his hand and brushes Scott’s hair away from his forehead, caresses around Scott’s jaw. There’s air trapped in Scott’s lungs but it doesn’t hurt.
“I love you,” Stiles says. “In all the ways. I didn’t realize before that’s what it was, but lately it’s been hard to ignore.”
“Thanks for telling me, I appreciate it,” Scott says, waiting a beat, four. Stiles gazes at him, steady, no hesitation or concern. He knows. “I love you too.”
Scott doesn’t know who closes the distance first, only that it happens in a breath, in a heartbeat. The kiss they share is one with intent. It’s long and slow and careful. Scott moves his lips against Stiles’ and presses deep. He moans when Stiles sweetly opens his mouth and lets him in. It’s so good, so right, Scott feels dizzy from it.
When they stop for a while, Scott stares at Stiles’ kiss-plumped lips, the blush in the hollows of his cheeks, the shakiness of his breath and thinks ‘I did that. That was me.’ He wonders how else he can see Stiles, what other reactions he can evoke. Stiles traces the curve of Scott’s lips with his thumb and he thinks he’s probably doing the same thing.
Soon, it will be a time for marking a remembrance, of everything that’s gone before – of lives irrevocably changed and lost, of thoughts Scott usually pushes aside so that he can focus on now. But also soon, Scott will make new memories with Stiles, filled with newfound experiences and love.