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(616): Your brother just walked into my room, pissed drunk and butt naked, got into my bed and fell asleep. In knowing I am gay, you have one hour to deal with him before I do. + (602): I'm missing my left shoe, and there's a note on my foot (in my handwriting) that says "HAHA BITCH" Any explanation for this?
Derek says, “It’s not so bad,” and Laura makes a muffled noise that sounds suspiciously like she’s trying to tamp down on laughter.
“Are you referring to living with two juniors, or are you referring to living with two juniors one of whom is the guy you’ve been massively, embarrassingly crushing on since high school?” she asks, and Derek can picture her lifted brow.
“I--it’s fine,” he insists, ignores her teasing, because it’s all she’s been doing since Derek moved in with Scott and Stiles. Scott and Stiles, who introduce each other as brothers to everyone, who are awfully overzealous, and loud, and obnoxious; who talked Derek into living with them because they found this great apartment that’s too expensive between the two of them. Derek’s the fool who couldn’t say no; who couldn’t say no to Stiles when he said, “Derek, please. Do it for me?”
He’s hopeless. And a moron.
And Laura is laughing at him, she enjoys this more than is appropriate, but that’s always been the case with her. Derek sighs, resigned.
“Okay, come on, baby bro, lay it on me,” she offers once she stops laughing; Derek can hear her inhale deeply to calm herself down. “You know I’m here to listen.”
Derek pinches the bridge of his nose. “It’s not so bad,” he tries again, because he can’t admit that it’s driving him crazy. It’s not even the living with two juniors, it’s not the noisy video game nights, or the spontaneous showers at three-thirty in the morning; it’s living with Stiles and being around him when he’s--domestic. Homey. It’s getting to see Stiles walking around only in boxers, or seeing him sleep-ruffled and bleary-eyed with the most adorable and sexy bed head Derek’s ever seen; it’s coming home to find the apartment smelling like his favourite casserole, because Stiles made dinner, smiles at Derek when he sees him standing in the doorway; it’s Stiles flopping down next to Derek on the couch on lazy Sundays with a jar of Nutella in one hand and two spoons in the other. It’s walking past Stiles’ room at night sometimes, on the way to the bathroom, hearing him moan and gasp, when Derek knows he’s alone in there.
It’s bad. It’s terrible. Derek’s gonna die.
“You’re totally suffering, aren’t you?”
Derek bites his lip, but his silence is enough for Laura to deduce what he’s not saying. Sometimes, it scares him how well she knows him.
She sighs down the line. “Derek, seriously, why don’t you just tell him?”
“Because he’s my roommate. I’m living with him. If things get awkward--”
“Things are awkward,” she corrects him. “If you want it to go somewhere, you have to stop being a weenie and do something about your crush. You didn’t say yes to moving in with them, because it’s been your dream to do so.”
“I wanted to do them a favour,” Derek counters defensively, feels like crossing his arms over his chest even though Laura can’t see him. “They asked nicely.”
“Stiles batted his eyelashes, and your dick said yes.”
“Could you please not talk about my dick?”
“You know, you should stop thinking with your dick when it comes to Stiles,” Laura says, and Derek groans. “Use your words instead. Although, maybe if you whip it out in front of him, he might be instantly persuaded.”
“I don’t understand who let you be a guidance counsellor,” Derek mutters.
“Please,” Laura snorts, “It’s all those horny, hormonal teenagers that make me talk like this.”
Derek highly doubts that, but he knows when to keep his mouth shut, and this is Laura’s pep talk, kinda--she’s trying--and Derek appreciates it. He rubs a hand over his forehead, thinking off all the ways it could go wrong if he told Stiles; if he initiated...something.
“What if he has a girlfriend? Or a boyfriend?”
“Now you’re just looking for excuses,” Laura says, sighing long-sufferingly at him. “God, Derek, you’re giving me a headache.”
Derek hears the door open and bang shut; Stiles and Scott’s voices, they’re giggling like little children. Must’ve been a fun night. Scott starts singing a very off-key version of Rolling In The Deep, and Stiles howls with laughter.
“I’m--”
“Stop talking. Listen, dumbass, if Stiles had a partner, I’m pretty sure you’d know. You live together, he tells you everything, and if he was in a relationship, you would know. You know that. Don’t be a wuss, just go lock him down, and stop angsting over him. I should charge you for this. You’re not a high schooler anymore, I’m doing the counselling on my own time, and really, you sound just like the kids at scho--what is that noise?”
“Scott’s singing,” Derek answers, listening to his roommates’ heavy footsteps. It sounds like they’re tripping over each other, still laughing, and Scott’s now switched to Wrecking Ball. Stiles is making these tiny sounds, like he always does when he laughs so hard he can barely breathe. “They just came home from that party.”
“Anyway,” Laura is saying, but Derek only pays half attention, still listening out to what Stiles and Scott are doing outside his bedroom door. Scott’s an awful singer on a good day; when he’s drunk, it’s pure torture. For a moment, Derek considers throwing open his door and scare the living crap out of both of them, but they’d probably crash in Derek’s bed as retaliation or something. It’s happened before.
“Are you even listening to me, Derek?”
He snaps back to attention at Laura’s tone. “Yes, absolutely.”
She sighs dramatically, her patented I Don’t Know How You Survive On Your Own Sigh; Derek’s very familiar with it, unfortunately. There’s a pause before she says, “Do you know that even Mom asked about it?”
“About what?”
Derek’s pretty sure he can hear Laura roll her eyes. “About Stiles. She asked how you’re doing living together with that boy you’ve been crushing on since forever.”
“What did you--Laura, what did you tell her?” Derek’s mortified, to say the least. He doesn’t need his mother getting curious about his embarrassing, lame crush. It’s awful enough as it is that Laura knows about it--
“I didn’t tell her anything,” she replies defensively. “I don’t know why you’re still trying to tell yourself that no one but you and me knows about it.”
“Who else knows?” He should go live in the mountains somewhere. Away from people. Where nobody is around to witness his embarrassment.
“Practically everyone since you announced you’d be moving in with Stiles in a way that suggested you proposed to him and he said yes.”
“I did not.”
“I forgot you weren’t here for Aunt Faye’s birthday,” Laura says.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well, just prepare for a lot of people doing an impression of your announcement next time you’re coming to visit,” she explains, voice dripping with glee, and Derek’s just--gonna stay in bed for the rest of his life.
The noises outside his room have died down completely, and Derek can’t help but worry that the two idiots have brained themselves accidentally.
“I’m never coming over ag--” He’s half across the room, on his way to check on Scott and Stiles, when the door opens. Derek does a double-take, frozen on the spot, words dying on his tongue, as Stiles walks in, smiles lopsidedly when he sees Derek.
“Gotta go,” Derek barely manages before he ends the call.
“Dereeeeekkkkk,” Stiles slurs, coming over. He slings his arms around Derek’s shoulders, presses in close, and Derek can’t do anything; feels like he can’t breathe, because Stiles is completely naked and so wasted he doesn’t even seem to care about it. Stiles pushes his face into Derek’s neck, breathes in deeply, humming quietly. It shouldn’t feel as amazing as it does: having Stiles pushed up against him, naked, soft. “Missed you.”
It sounds genuine; as genuine as it can be when someone is intoxicated, and Derek lets himself believe for a moment that this is real, that it means more than a simple gesture of camaraderie. Stiles lets go of him, though, sways over to Derek’s bed and drops down like a stone. He sprawls out over the whole bed, hugging the pillow, snuffling.
“Y’smell s’good,” he mumbles, burying his nose in the pillow. “Smells like you.”
He’s out like a light.
Derek stands in the middle of his room, a little helpless, unsure of what to do. He usually knows how to handle a drunk Stiles, and a drunk Scott for that matter, but neither of them have ever wandered into his room naked and then claimed his bed.
This isn’t how Derek pictured Stiles being naked in his bed. This is so far from how he imagined it’d be.
He feels like some perv, staring at Stiles’ form, soft light of his nightstand lamp cascading over his pale skin; casting shadows, making him look like a figure from a dream. There’s a mole on Stiles’ lower back, right above the dimple; Derek’s never seen it before, or never noticed. He quickly averts his eyes, tries to will down his heart that’s rabbiting in chest like crazy. But then Stiles shifts and stretches, sighs softly, and Derek’s staring at him again, unable to stop himself.
Derek turns away, goes to look for Scott. As it turns out, Scott’s nowhere to be found; Derek’s checked every room and made sure Scott didn’t accidentally fall asleep in his closet again. He scrubs a hand down his face. A post-it on the floor before Scott’s desk catches his attention. Derek picks it up, turns it over. It reads Allison in a barely legible scrawl. Of course.
He unlocks his phone. Your brother just walked into my room, pissed drunk and butt naked, got into my bed and fell asleep. In knowing I am gay, you have one hour to deal with him before I do.
Three hours later, Derek still doesn’t have a reply, but he’s covered Stiles with a blanket and resigned to sleeping in his armchair. He doesn’t want to leave him alone, considering Stiles probably had a lot to drink and probably won’t feel too good when he wakes up. So, Derek stays, curled up, hoping Stiles won’t throw up in his bed.
~
Derek jolts awake when a pillow hits him square in the face. He almost falls out of the armchair, having forgotten where he fell asleep in, but he manages to catch himself, blinks the sleep out of his eyes.
Stiles is sitting in the bed, sheets strategically placed around the lower half of his body, and Derek tries not to think about Stiles’ naked butt touching Derek’s bed. It’s too early in the morning for this.
Derek rubs at his eyes. “What are you doing?”
Stiles looks a little sheepish, sleep-rumpled, with his hair sticking out in every direction, creases of the pillow imprinted on his face, and, god, Derek’s so fucked. “I wanted to make sure you were fast asleep.”
“Doing a bang up job there,” Derek points out, lobs the pillow back at Stiles, who groans when it hits him in the head.
“Why am I naked in your bed?” Stiles asks, clutches at the pillow with both arms. There’s a pained expression on his face, it’s kind of adorable, because he’s still bleary-eyed.
Derek fights back a yawn. “You tell me. I was minding my own business when you walked in here and threw yourself on my bed. Naked.” He ponders if he should mention the hug. Stiles doesn’t seem to be too upset as of now, but who knows how he’ll react once he’s firing at all cylinders again.
Stiles groans again, dumps his head into his open palms; winces when he comes down too hard. “Did you--did I--I mean…?”
“Nothing happened,” Derek assures him quickly.
“Really?” Stiles says as he looks up again to cut a glance at him. His shoulders sag a little when he blows out a deep breath. “Thank god.”
Derek bites the inside of his cheek, feeling shot down, stupidly. It’s like icy cold water being dumped all over him, making him shudder involuntarily, as he thinks back on all the idiotic moments when he was being dumb over Stiles. He should’ve known. Why would Stiles even want him? He’s shy, doesn’t like to party; he’s working on his master’s degree in ancient history while Stiles is in med school, prepping to become a doctor. It’s not that surprising that Stiles doesn’t feel for Derek what Derek feels for him.
Or so Derek tries to tell himself.
“Excuse me,” he says, in an attempt to distract himself from his heartbreak. “I resent that you think I’d take advantage of you.”
Stiles flails, almost falls out of bed in the process; flashes Derek accidentally, but by now Derek’s seen everything anyway.
“I don’t!” Stiles yanks the covers up over himself, cocoons himself, so only his head is sticking out. “I don’t--of course I don’t think that, jeez, Derek! I’m glad that I didn’t, like, go all slutty on you. I didn’t, right?”
Derek draws his eyebrows together. “No. Why would you?”
Stiles flushes a delicate pink, ducks his head as he rubs at the back of his neck. “No reason. I get horny when I’m drunk.”
It sounds more like a question than a statement, not convincing at all, but Derek lets it slide, still hung up on the fact that Stiles isn’t interested. And if he were, it would only be alcohol-induced. Fuck his life.
Scott suddenly barges into the room, slaps a hand over his eyes and turns his back to the bad. “Sorry, sorry! Did you finally--”
“Scott!” Stiles scrambles off the bed, feet tangling in the sheets, trips and falls, knocking Scott over too. They sprawl over the floor, and Derek wonders why in the hell he decided to live with these morons.
Scott blinks at Stiles, then at Derek, realization dawning on his face. “Oh. I thought--never mind.”
“Where have you been?” Stiles asks. “I remember we came home together.”
“Yeah,” Scott says, grins dreamily. “Guess I decided to go back to Allison’s.”
Stiles punches him in the arm as they stand up again, face stormy. Derek admires the way they can drink and hold their liquor so effortlessly.
“Dude,” Stiles hisses, ushers Scott out of the room while he clutches one of the sheets over his crotch. They shut Derek’s bedroom door, but Derek hears them talking as they make their way over to another room. He’s not sure if they’re aware that they’re loud enough to hear through the door. “I walked naked into Derek’s bedroom!”
“So?”
“I walked into Derek’s bedroom, naked, with Derek in it,” Stiles repeats, anguished. “I can’t remember any of it. He must think I’m--”
He stops short, and then, “That’s a joke, Scott, obviously.”
“You sure?”
After that, another door shuts, and Derek only hears muffled sounds, not enough to make out a conversation. It’s better that way, he thinks. He doesn’t need to hear Stiles actually say anything, anything that might furthermore indicate that he’s not into Derek.
They meet half an hour later in the kitchen. Derek pours milk into his coffee as Stiles and Scott walk in.
“I’m missing my left shoe,” Stiles announces as he flops down on the chair next to Derek. “And there’s a note on my foot, in my handwriting, that says HAHA BITCH. Any explanation for this?”
He cranes his neck to look at Scott who’s ruffling through their fridge, while Derek peeks down at Stiles’ bare feet. That is indeed his handwriting, the ink of the black sharpie a stark contrast to his vampire tan.
“No idea, man,” Scott says. He dumps all the stuff he fished out of the fridge on the table. Stiles swings his foot up and stares at the note some more. Derek tries not to stare at the bulge under his sweatpants.
Someone’s out to torture him.
“Those were my favourite shoes,” Stiles mourns and drops his head onto the table. “No one ever let me drink alcohol again.”
Derek snorts. Stiles glowers at him, leans in and grabs the front of his shirt, pulls him in close so their noses almost brush. It’s a heart attack waiting to happen, Derek thinks faintly as his eyes flit down to Stiles’ mouth.
“I’m serious,” Stiles says. “You have to stop me next time. Or I’ll lose my other shoe too.”
“Like that’d be such a loss now that you only have one left,” Derek deadpans.
Stiles huffs indignantly, lets go of Derek’s shirt. “Maybe I’ll lose yours instead.”
“I thought I’m not allowed to let you drink again?”
“Oh, I can lose stuff sober too. Watch me.”
Stiles sneaks one of Derek’s books out his room later, one of the old ones, the valuable ones, but Derek doesn’t even notice it’s gone until Stiles gives it back, saying he only had it for an hour. The thought of taking something away from him was awful. Or so Stiles says. Derek ignores the way his heart skips a beat at that.
~
It’s Sunday, late morning. Derek usually doesn’t sleep that long, doesn’t know why he did today. He feels slow and heavy, stays in bed for a moment, and watches dust motes floating through the air. His pillow still smells like Stiles. He can’t bring himself to change the sheets.
Derek gets up eventually, slips into a pair of sweatpants and a ratty tanktop that’s too old and too thin, and is more of a rag than a piece of clothing, but it’s comfy, so it stays. He rubs the sleep out of his eyes as he steps into the hallway to go to the bathroom. It smells like coffee and waffles.
“Do you know what happened to my shoe?” he hears Stiles ask, stops short.
Allison’s voice drifts over as she snorts a little. “You don’t?”
“No clue,” Stiles says. “If the HAHA BITCH on my foot was drunk me’s way of reminding me it did a very poor job.”
Scott snickers, and Allison sighs, wistful, Derek assumes, and admits, “It was very cute, honestly. Very dramatic, but very cute.”
“Wait, what did I do?”
Derek tries not to breathe for fear of missing what happened. It’s stupid, it is, he could just walk into the kitchen and listen there instead of lurking in the hallway like a creep, but he can’t bring himself to move.
“You said you’d get rid of your shoe, deposit it somewhere, and if Derek found it, it would be a sign of true love and then you’d fuck his brains out and live happily ever after,” she explains, and Derek’s heart stops. “And then you threw your shoe into the river.”
The silence after stretches on for a couple of long, long moments in which Derek tries to actually get air into his lungs and attempts to will his heart rate down before he goes into arrest.
“That’s when you started laughing hysterically,” Allison adds, amused. “You wrote that note on your foot to remind yourself that you were stupid for believing Derek would find the shoe, and that you’re not in a Disney romance.”
Scott cracks up, laughs until he’s sobbing, and Stiles makes various noises of distress, trying to shush him.
“Oh my god,” he whines, high-pitched. “Derek can never know about this.”
Scott snorts hard. “Dude, Derek’s seen you naked, I doubt there’s anything you can at this point that would faze him.”
Stiles makes a wounded noise. “Of all the ways I wanted him to see me naked, this was not it.”
Derek’s not sure if he’s in heaven or hell; if he’s dead at all, because all of this seems surreal, like Sunday mornings often do. His heart is beating in his throat, mind racing with all the information, and he can barely catch on.
“And I want to faze him. I want to blow him away--”
Scott’s cracking up again, and Stiles adds, “No pun intended. I just--you know?” He sighs in frustration. Derek wants to walk into the kitchen, kiss him senseless; kiss him until Stiles is stupid with it, lips puffy and reddened; kiss him until Derek knows for sure he could’ve had this all along. He stays frozen on the spot, continuing to eavesdrop like a tool.
“I want him to see me, and be--I want his heart to skip a beat when he sees me, I want to take his breath away; I just want to make him happy.”
Derek’s starting to think he’s been living in some cave. How he could he miss this? How could he not notice that Stiles feels as strongly for him as Derek does for Stiles? Laura can never hear about this, he’ll never live it down.
He takes a deep breath, thinking back on all the little things Stiles has done for him, and realizes they were all little hints of deep affection. More than Derek thought they were, small gestures with big meaning, and Derek didn’t see. His heart swells; his chest feels too small with the affection that fills his ribcage when he realizes Stiles has been declaring his love all along.
Derek smiles to himself, smiles so much his face hurts, smiles until he starts silently cursing himself for being such a phenomenal moron.
“Dude,” Scott says quietly, and Derek zones in on them again. “You haven’t noticed the way he looks at you, have you? He can’t get much happier than that.”
“Oh, I know a few things that could make him much, much happier,” Stiles answers, and there’s so much confidence and promise in them. Derek practically sees Stiles’ dirty smirk, flashing back to Stiles pressing against him, naked, and he ducks into the shower.
He jerks off thinking about romancing the shit out of Stiles.
~
Derek’s sweating. He’s sweating profusely; so much, it’s ridiculous. He doesn’t even sweat so much when he runs. Stiles will probably laugh at him until he’s blue in the face. But maybe they could have hot shower sex after, because that’s what Derek’s gonna need first thing when this is done.
He feels kinda dumb now, unsure of what to do with himself.
Derek’s been through what feels like every shoe store in the city, trying to find a pair of the sneakers Stiles wears; the ones of which he threw the left one into the river. You wouldn’t think it’s that hard to find a pair of shoes. He did it, though, he found a pair, in Stiles’ size; tried to argue with the cashier to only get one, but she wouldn’t have any of it. Derek’s even thought about tacking a big red ribbon on top of it, though decided against it at the last moment.
And then Stiles is coming in through the apartment door. Derek’s brain just short circuits, so he ends up thrusting the single sneaker at Stiles, says, “Left shoe!” instead of the emotional monologue he’d prepared earlier, the one that would make Stiles sink to his knees, and be grateful...and this kinda turn a dirty turn, but his brain’s going wild with it.
Stiles is staring at him with wide eyes, lips forming a perfect O, and it’s really, really not helping.
“Found it,” Derek manages to add when Stiles continues looking at him in surprise.
It takes another couple of moments until Stiles catches on, a series of expression flickering over his face, and then a breath comes rushing out of his mouth.
He licks his lips. “You--found my shoe.”
Derek tries not to squirm. This isn’t going how he imagined it, not at all, and he’s not even referring to the porn his brain started playing a moment ago, but--anyway.
“Well,” he starts, takes a deep breath. “Not your--I mean yeah, but--I got the pair, actually, um--”
He doesn’t get further, because Stiles throws his arms around his neck and kisses him stormily; presses in close, and it’s all teeth and bites and no coordination at all, but Derek doesn’t care, because Stiles is kissing him, and it’s better than anything Derek’s ever imagined.
Stiles pulls back, starts peppering Derek’s face with kisses. “You got me my shoe,” he whispers, breathless, a kiss between each word; tongue flicking out to swipe over Derek’s lips. “You’re such a sap.”
“I even got you a note,” Derek remembers, pulls it out of the inside of the shoe. It reads, HAHA BITCH, FOUND IT.
Stiles laughs, delighted, cards his fingers through Derek’s hair and kisses him again, deeper this time, slower, thoroughly. He pulls back, panting slightly. The smile on Stiles’ face is huge, blinding; makes Derek’s bones melt a little, makes his heart flutter.
Yeah, Stiles does take his breath away, repeatedly. And he definitely knows several ways in which to make Derek so very happy.