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Stiles is not entirely sure that he’s a good person.
That’s not to say he’s a bad person, no, he goes to school and makes an honest living and pays his taxes. He loves his dad and adores his Jeep and respects the law. Or, well, he mostly respects the law. If you don’t count the underage drinking and the minor instances of trespassing and that one time he and Scott hot-boxed Mrs McCall’s car. But really that was mostly accidental, seriously. Also, Internet piracy. That is a thing that can sometimes occur. In Stiles’ bedroom.
Basically, Stiles is no plaster saint, and occasionally life turns up moments that make Stiles question his own decency. Moments, for instance, such as right now.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, in the deep dark recesses of his brain (which, let’s face it, Stiles doesn’t access very often) there lurks an emotion that begins in con and ends in cern. But it’s a really, really quiet emotion and it’s being drowned out as amusement gets louder and louder while Scott’s face gets redder and redder. It’s entirely possible that the poor kid’s about to burst a blood vessel.
“Help,” Scott croaks, listing sideways.
Stiles rolls his eyes dramatically – perhaps too dramatically because things go topsy-turvy for a second – and reaches for Scott’s neck, unwinding his tie before the idiot succeeds in strangling himself.
“How have you even survived more than two decades with yourself?” Stiles wonders aloud, but he does take a quick peek under Scott’s shirt collar to make sure there’s no permanent damage. Like he says, he’s not evil.
Scott forgoes answering that question in favour of leaning against the wall and gasping for breath.
Stiles scoffs and looks down at the piece of freaking silk that Scott managed to halfway kill himself with. It’s not a bad tie, actually. He holds it up against his chest and turns around to the mirror, considering his reflection. The black contrasts nicely with the crisp white of his dress shirt and the dove grey of his suit, and it even matches the little pocket detailing on his jacket. He looks fucking classic.
It is decided. Stiles will wear the tie. Scott can go without; they’ve had enough near-death experiences for one day.
“I still don’t understand why we keep doing this,” Scott pipes up from where he’s now lying across his bed, one arm flung across his eyes. Honestly, anyone would think he’d just gone toe-to-toe with a werewolf, not inexplicably managed to fuck up dressing himself. Four-year-olds have better life skills than Scott McCall.
“Sustenance.”
Scott removes his arm from his face to raise one critical eyebrow at Stiles.
“You crash complete strangers’ weddings for their hors d’oeuvres?”
Stiles finishes knotting his tie and turns back to face Scott.
“First of all,” he starts, raising a finger to gesture grandly (read: flail uncontrollably), “I have never crashed a wedding, okay? I am stealthy. Like a puma.”
Scott snorts. Then he makes a pained face and rubs his throat. Serves him right too.
“Second of all,” Stiles continues with a glare and another finger, “we are college students, Scott, and we are poor. I don’t know about you, but I live off day-old bagels and a fuck ton of coffee. And I need real, adult food that contains vitamins and minerals and colour or else I am going to waste away, Scott. I’m going to become a mere shadow of the boy I once was and I won’t be strong enough to prevent you from sticking a fork in the toaster, or putting foil in the microwave, or asphyxiating yourself with a cravat.”
“And thirdly,” Stiles looks back over his shoulder to the mirror, “my ass looks fucking phenomenal in dress pants.”
~
Scott and Stiles linger on the footpath outside the church until a suitably large group of guests walk by and then they slink in behind them, chatting and smiling and fake laughing with each other, looking completely 100% natural. They take their seats in a wooden pew about halfway down the aisle. They can’t sit up the front, obviously, because that’s where close family and actual, legitimate friends sit and they’d be caught out before the groom even had time to start sweating. But they can’t sit up the back either, because that’s where long-lost lovers and the ones that got away sit. Also it’s just super suspicious. So, through trial and error, Scott and Stiles have discovered that the very best place to sit when crashing a wedding (secretly and stealthily celebrating eternal love, Scott) is dead center. No one ever pays attention to the middleman.
“So,” Scott says loudly, picking up a glossy, mother-of-pearl coloured program and flipping it open, “who are we crying tears of joy for today?”
Two rows down, a woman turns in her seat to frown confusedly at them.
Stiles plasters on a grin and elbows Scott in the ribs, hard.
“What the actual fuck is wrong with you?” he hisses, once the woman has been distracted by bunting or flowers or something else pastel coloured and vaguely nauseating.
“Sorry, sorry,” Scott murmurs lowly, putting on his chastised-puppy face.
Stiles sighs and then gently punches his thigh. It’s so hard to stay mad when his best friend is the world’s most giant goober.
“We’re here today to delight in the holy matrimony of Erica Reyes and Vernon Boyd III.”
“Oh wow, the Third,” Scott whistles, eyebrows going up. “Is this a country club wedding?”
“Let’s hope so. They’ve always got the best booze,” Stiles mutters, rubbing his palms together.
It’s at that moment that a door to the right of the alter opens up and a hush settles over the assembled crowd as two men walk out. One is the very epitome of tall, dark, and handsome, with shoulders the size of a small vehicle and a chest that strains the front of his three-piece suit. He strides across the floor with such a sense of calm and purposefulness that Stiles feels grounded just looking at him.
And the second man…
The second man is the most attractive man Stiles has possibly ever seen, including Hollywood movies and well-lit porn.
Oh god.
He’s got long, ink black hair, probably stretching just past the right side of shaggy, but it’s been slicked back into a little pompadour that’s making all of Stiles’ most inappropriate Prince Eric fantasies come true. The beard covering his jaw is lush, all thick hair and sharp edges and trimmed to perfection. In fact, this guy seems to have some kind of facial hair theme going on because his eyebrows are exquisite, the exact right blend of scary and arousing.
He stops next to the first man and they share some kind of handshake-bro-hug-meaningful-eye-contact combo that ends in playful ass slapping and Stiles wants to die.
“Holy fuck,” he breathes.
“What?” Scott asks from beside him, fiddling with his cufflinks.
“I think I’ve just found my future husband.”
Scott looks up at that and then tilts his head to the side just slightly, in what Stiles thinks of as his considering-puppy face.
“Are you sure that’s not Erica Reyes’ future husband?”
Everything inside Stiles’ brain grinds to a halt. Which is kind of a good thing actually because inside his brain Stiles was walking down an aisle looking like a giant marshmallow and he’s pretty sure he was wearing heels under his wedding dress and sometimes Stiles’ brain is just a terrifying place to be.
“What!?” he hiss-squeaks. The woman two rows in front turns to glare at them again. Scott and Stiles both sink lower in their seats.
“Well,” Scott murmurs, “he’s one of two men wearing suits and standing before a priest. There’s a 50% chance your future husband is getting married to someone else in about five minutes.”
Aw hell.
“Aw hell,” Stiles moans. “I’m going to be one of those people. One of those people who can’t hold their peace when the priest says ‘speak now or forever hold your peace’ and it’s going to ruin their wedding day and his family will hate me forever and oh shit. I’m going to be a home wrecker, Scott, I am going to wreck a home.”
“You know what I’ve always wondered?” Scott muses.
“Now is not the time for your aimless wondering!”
“I’ve always wondered why you never took Drama in high school. You would’ve done so well,” Scott continues.
Stiles is just about ready to take off his appropriated ascot and use it to finish the job Scott started this morning when a group of musicians in the corner stand to attention and strike up a wedding march.
He holds his breath and looks to the front of the church… and sees his future husband clap Tall, Dark, and Dreamy on the back one last time before taking a step backwards.
“Thank god,” Stiles sighs, a little bit loudly. Quite loudly.
Multiple people turn in their direction. Including Future Husband. And if Stiles thought the rest of him was pretty he’s got no idea what to do with the pair of piercing green-blue-hazel eyes that are all of a sudden locked right on him. They make Stiles think of the way sunlight looks from the bottom of the ocean, the shifting, shimmering color of it.
They also make Stiles feel like he’s sitting at the bottom of the ocean, what with the way he’s stopped breathing and all.
Future Husband skims his gaze down what he can see of Stiles’ body and then looks back up at his face, arching a single splendid eyebrow. Stiles can feel himself flushing all the way down past his nicked neckerchief as he tries to become one with the wooden pew.
By some stroke of extremely good fortune that has thus far remained absent from Stiles’ life, the first of the bridal party begins the procession down the aisle and everyone rises from their seats, blocking Stiles from Future Husband’s scrutiny.
He takes a gasping sigh of relief and then shakily joins everyone else in standing.
The bride is, objectively, utterly stunning. Her dress is soft and satin and figure hugging, flowing gently down to the floor, and her hair has been done in loose curls pulled together at the nape of her neck, with braids and small flowers woven throughout. She’s elegant in a completely effortless way and ethereal in her beauty. And the way she’s looking at the man waiting for her could power an entire city, joy and anticipation and contentedness written all over her face.
Stiles may or may not need to wipe a tear from his eye. But in his defense, literally everyone else is crying too. There is no one unaffected by her glow.
The groom looks like he simply can’t wait for her to walk the remaining distance towards him, he looks like he’s just barely holding himself back from running down the aisle and scooping her into his arms. Stiles sees Future Husband silently reach forward and squeeze the groom’s bicep, and the groom remembers to breathe, his shoulders dropping.
The sheer elation pouring off these two people is making Stiles’ heart pound in his chest and butterflies take flight in his stomach.
He wants this. Someday, Stiles wants the kind of love that can bring a whole church to its knees and leave sarcastic, cynical college students trembling.
The bride finally reaches her groom and damn, Erica Reyes and Vernon Boyd III are going to make devastatingly attractive babies.
The ceremony is beautiful. Or more accurately, the snippets that Stiles tunes in for are beautiful. In all honesty he spends most of the wedding staring at the best man and counting the number of times he gets to see glimpses of some adorable bunny teeth as his future husband smiles.
And not to toot his own horn or anything, but Stiles definitely catches Future Husband sneaking glances at him too. His tiny elephant ears burn bright red whenever he makes eye contact with Stiles and it’s adorable.
At the end of the ceremony a jubilant Mr and Mrs Boyd III invite their guests to join them for the reception at the largest, grandest hotel in town. Scott fist-pumps, Stiles steals one last longing look at the best man, and then they both hurry from the church before anyone can engage them in conversation.
~
Sneaking into the reception is the most difficult part of crashing any wedding. It’s the moment when you either finagle your way into all you can eat mini quiches, or security chases you all the way into the parking lot.
Luckily for Scott and Stiles, there’s a stand set up at the entrance to the ballroom with place cards laid out on top and a list of which table each person is sat at. All they have to do is wait until everyone else has taken their name cards and then pray that at least two people haven’t shown up.
The gods smile upon them today.
“Do you want to be Abel or Claude?” Stiles asks, fiddling with two cards. Scott makes a face.
“Are either of them really worth it?”
“Suck it up and think of the cocktails,” Stiles says, slapping ‘Abel’ against Scott’s chest.
The table that Abel and Claude are sat at seems to be the singles-slash-don’t-really-know-where-else-to-put-you table. No one is familiar with anyone else and Stiles cannot believe the luck they’re having at this wedding. They engage in small talk and smile when they’re supposed to and clap politely at the speeches. They make no loud noises or sudden movements and try to remain as unobtrusive as possible. The don’t visit the open bar too often, and they limit themselves to second helpings of food (instead of the five Stiles really could go for), and they stay well out of the bride and groom’s way. All in all, they’re on their best behaviour for the whole evening and this wedding is going off without a hitch.
Stiles doesn’t know how this night could possibly get any better.
Until it does.
He’s on his way back towards the ballroom after a quick bathroom visit when he rounds the corner of a corridor and walks head first into a brick wall. A warm, firm, delicious smelling brick wall. A brick wall whose hands come up to cup him gently behind the elbows and prevent him from crashing to the ground. Honestly Stiles wants to stay nestled up to this brick wall for the rest of the foreseeable future.
He quickly realises that he’s got his head tucked into the crook of the brick wall’s neck and is subtly sniffing it, and he stumbles backwards, face flaming.
“Are you okay?”
Stiles’ future husband is standing in front of him with his magnificent eyebrows quirked and a little grin peeking through his gorgeous beard. He’s lost his tux jacket at some point during the evening, his shirtsleeves are rolled up to reveal strong, tan forearms and his tie is gone, his top buttons undone. The little vee at the top of his shirt gives Stiles a glorious view of collarbones and a furl of dark chest hair and Stiles just wants to lick everything.
“What, uh, yeah, I’m fine.” He’s pretty certain he’s gone past the point of endearingly flushed and into actual medically concerning levels of embarrassment. “Nice catch, by the way, thanks for that.”
“No problem.”
It’s at that point that they both become aware of the fact they’re still holding onto each other, Future Husband with his hands circled around Stiles’ biceps and, oh god, Stiles clinging to the other man’s hips for dear life.
Stiles untangles himself as fast as humanly possible and takes a large step back, scratching at the top of his head and studying the extremely interesting light fixtures.
“Sorry,” he mumbles.
“That’s okay,” Future Husband replies, his voice filled with laughter. God. “I was just about to go and get a drink, actually. Would you care to join me?”
Stiles looks up, and there’s a light in Future Husband’s eyes and a dimple in his cheek and Stiles would accompany him to the moon if that’s what he wanted. Stiles nods dazedly and follows automatically when Future Husband turns to head back the way he came and once more, with feeling, oh god. That ass.
Future Husband reaches the bar and orders them two beers and then just kind of leans casually against the bar top, looking like a centrefold, like actual sex on a stick. Stiles has no idea what to do with his limbs, he feels like he’s having an out-of-body experience.
“My name’s Derek,” Future Husband says, reaching his hand out. His grip is tight and warm and it’s giving Stiles feelings. In his pants.
“Oh right, duh, manners, I don’t know where mine ran off to.” Fuck. It seems the babbling portion of the evening has begun. “I’m Stiles.”
“Stiles? I don’t remember seeing a Stiles on the guest list.”
It’s the tiniest change, and Stiles wouldn’t have noticed it if he weren’t watching every move Derek makes like an exceptionally hungry hawk, but Derek’s eyes get sharper, his back a little straighter. Fuckity fuck. This is why you never ever ever talk to any of the bridal party when you’re crashing a wedding. It’s rule number one, Stiles has been drilling it into Scott’s head for the past two years, he cannot believe he fucked up this big.
“Yeah, well, no, you wouldn’t have,” he rambles, thinking fast to try and avert catastrophe. “Stiles is just a nickname, my real name is… Claude.”
Derek relaxes, and unsuccessfully tries to cover up a snort.
“I can see why you’d use a nickname.”
“Yeah.”
The bartender comes over with their beers and Stiles clutches his like a lifeline. He can’t believe his luck, he’s finally talking to the man of his dreams and he nearly outs himself as uninvited to the wedding the man of his dreams is best man at.
“So Stiles, how do you know the happy couple?”
And the hits just keep on coming.
“Uh.” Stiles’ gaze flits around the ballroom, desperately searching for some kind of subject change or exit strategy or anything, when his eyes land on the bride. Perfect. Derek’s the best man, right, he’s closest to the groom, he won’t know every single one of the bride’s friends.
“I’m here for the bride. Erica. We were friends in high school.” Derek is watching him with those jewel toned eyes and Stiles nods to himself, his story picking up steam. “We were pretty close back then actually, used to call each other Batman and Catwoman.”
“Oh really?” Derek muses, the corners of his eyes crinkling up in amusement, something sharp in his grin.
“Yeah, Erica even had a bit of a crush on me at one point.” Stiles has no idea where any of this is coming from, but it just keeps on coming. “Pretty safe to say she traded up though,” he says, nodding over to where Vernon is sweeping his new wife around the dance floor.
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Derek murmurs, and he reaches out to grasp the end of Stiles’ stolen tie between his fingers, tugging on it with just enough pressure that Stiles has to take a step towards him. “I think she’s always had pretty good taste in men.”
“Yeah?” Stiles stammers, trying not to be obvious about just how heavy he’s breathing.
“Yeah,” Derek whispers. Then, without ever breaking eye contact, he brings his beer up to his mouth and wraps his lips around the top of the bottle.
Stiles might actually be having an aneurism. There’s no way this is real life.
“So, uh, how did you meet Vernon?” he asks, partly to give himself a breather and partly to draw Derek’s attention away from where a sudden erection is ruining the line of his dress pants. They’re standing so close together now that one wrong move will make it completely obvious just how scintillating Stiles is finding this conversation.
“That’s a funny story,” Derek says around an annoyingly sexual sip of his beer. He swallows and then smiles fondly. “It was the very first day of our freshman year of college and I was sitting in a lecture hall with my best friend since kindergarten. And she leaned over and poked me in the side and pointed to Boyd and said, ‘That is the man I am going to marry.’” Everything inside Stiles goes cold. He no longer needs to worry about his inappropriate hard-on. “And my best friend, she’s incredible, she gets whatever she wants when she sets her mind to it, so five years later here we are and–”
“Your best friend is irreconcilably heartbroken because the man of her dreams is married to someone else?” Stiles interrupts hopefully.
“Nope,” Derek says, staring Stiles down. “She got exactly who she wanted.”
“Oh fuck,” Stiles whispers.
Derek stands up from his slouch, nothing at all casual about him now, and he fists the bottom of Stiles’ tie in a steadfast grip. He’s still staring into Stiles’ eyes and Stiles is pretty sure the ground must be vibrating with the force of his hammering heart and he’s about to get punched, he really thinks Derek is about to punch him. He’s been found out.
“Derek!” someone squeals, and they’re both distracted by a bridesmaid bounding towards them. She’s short and sweet, with dark, straight hair, and Stiles can see tiny Thor hammers dangling from her ears. And normally he would hang around to find out just how awesome this girl is but right now might be his only opportunity to live.
He tries to back away but Derek is still holding on to his tie, tethering him there. So he does the only thing he can do. He loosens the knot, slips the tie from around his neck, turns tail, and runs.
~
Stiles finds Scott by the dessert buffet. He’s out of breath and his knees are weak.
“Dude,” he gasps. “Dude, our cover is blown. I repeat, our cover is blown! We have to go, now.”
“What?” Scotts says dreamily, “no, we can’t leave now, I met this girl and–”
Well that’s it then. Scott’s met a girl, Stiles has lost him completely, it’s every man for himself.
“I’ll see you later then, I gotta go.” Stiles claps him on the shoulder as he hurries past, eyes on the door.
He’s so close, he’s almost out of the ballroom, freedom and safety are within his sights, just a couple more feet and –
He’s being intercepted.
By, fuck, the glowing newlyweds themselves, oh jesus.
“Excuse us, cutie,” Erica says, reaching out to grip Stiles by the wrist, and oh lord in heaven, her nails are really sharp. “I’ve just been talking with my gorgeous hubby here,” Boyd gives him a smirk and a little wave, “and you know, it’s the funniest thing, but neither of us actually recognise you.”
She pauses to arch one delicate eyebrow and Boyd shakes his head somberly, right on cue.
“So tell us, sweetie, how exactly did you come by an invitation to our wedding?” And though her tone of voice isn’t anything other than polite Stiles is feeling so threatened right now.
He opens his mouth and nothing comes out. He’s having visions of this angelic bride picking him up and snapping him in two with her bare, beautiful hands. Or worse, his own father leading him away in handcuffs and bundling him into the backseat of a cruiser. He just hopes Scott has the good sense to get out while he still can.
Stiles is about to say something, just what exactly he has no clue, when a shape registers in his peripheral vision. Then someone is swooping in beside him and there’s a sudden arm around his waist.
“I invited him actually.”
Erica lets go of his wrist and Stiles stares at the side of Derek’s face in bewildered shock, his jaw on the floor.
Derek pinches his side and Stiles snaps his mouth closed, leaning into Derek with complete ease, totally not awkward one little bit. Derek pinches him again.
“You invited him?” Boyd questions, somehow, with absolutely no inflection. But there’s a mischievous glint in his eyes and a twitch at the corner of his lips.
“Yeah. I’m really sorry, I should’ve told you guys, but it was kind of last minute. It’s a new thing, between us, Stiles and I.”
Erica flicks her gaze from Derek to Stiles and he tries to give her a semi-convincing grin. She raises her eyebrows skeptically again, pursing her lips, but ends up shrugging and clasping one of Boyd’s hands between both of her own.
“If you say so. But I expect a proper introduction when we get back from our honeymoon.”
Derek gives her a dorky little salute with his free hand and she leans in to kiss him on the cheek. Erica glances suspiciously at Stiles one more time and then glides away, pulling a smirking Boyd along in her wake.
Stiles is ready to just collapse in a heap on the floor, honestly, this night has been so stressful. He realises the ordeal isn’t over though when the body attached to his turns to face him.
Derek is staring at him expectantly.
“Dude,” Stiles says, and he’s slightly embarrassed to admit his voice is shaking. “Why’d you do that? I know you know I crashed this wedding.”
“Well, I figured that if I saved your ass,” and here he pulls something out of his pocket, Stiles’ tie, and holding onto both ends he loops it around Stiles’ neck, “you’d owe me.”
“I owe you, huh?”
“Yeah,” he says quietly, and reels Stiles in towards him. “I think you owe me pretty big actually.”
Stiles stops with his face just inches away from Derek’s. “I suppose I could buy you dinner.”
Derek laughs high and bright, his breath gusting over Stiles’ lips. “You can start with dinner.”
(They end up making out in the hotel cloakroom.)
(They hold their own wedding reception at the same venue six years later.)
(Scott can never know all the dirty, filthy deeds they used his stolen tie for.)