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Stiles has got champagne problems.
No, really. He's had way too many mimosas.
He'd like to blame Lydia for supplying the Dom Pérignon for tonight's festivities, but really, it's his own fault for thinking he had the stamina to keep up with the brunch quartet. Allison, at least, has the decency to look sympathetic, but Lydia, Isaac, and Danny haven't stopped laughing for a good ten minutes now, ebbing to a series of breath-catching sighs, only to start right back up again with a hastily stifled snort the second Stiles stumbles over his words, doubled over and clutching each other in an attempt to remain upright.
Which, under any normal circumstances, would be totally fine. It's just that drunk Stiles tends to be a bit of a talker. Okay, fine. More of a talker than usual. Like, the kind that has absolutely no reservations about spilling his deepest, darkest secrets to anyone who will listen; no filter, no shame. And Stiles? Yeah, he's determined to take this secret to the grave.
And if, by some stroke of bad luck, he does manage to run his mouth tonight, well…he's had a good run. Twenty-two is a ripe old age to curl up and die from embarrassment, right? At least he can pride himself on the fact that he's made it six whole years without the pack of human lie detectors he calls his friends and family sniffing him out.
Or so he thinks.
What he doesn't know is that nearly everyone in the pack, including Scott's mom and Stiles's dad, has known for years now that Stiles and Derek have got it bad for each other, and that they're both too stubborn and stupid to do anything about it. Being the meddlesome lovable assholes that they are, they've finally decided that enough is enough, and that it's time to take matters into their own hands.
Which is how Stiles ends up in a crowded corner of the living room, swept up in a game of tipsy Truth Or Dare.
It starts off innocently enough, spilling truths about kindergarten crushes and drunken college escapades, daring each other to take shots of awful combos like watermelon Smirnoff and Bailey's Irish cream. But then it starts to get weirdly specific, and Stiles can't help but feel like maybe the universe is conspiring against him, because—
"Stiles, truth or dare?"
"Truth."
"Who are you going to kiss at midnight?" Allison asks, giggling when Scott leans in to press a kiss against her dimpled cheek.
"Uhhh, no one," Stiles frowns. "You know, since I'm pretty much the only one here not coupled up in disgustingly adorable romantic bliss."
He gestures between the two of them and mimes vomiting rainbows.
"Everyone except for Derek," Danny helpfully supplies.
Stiles swallows nervously.
"Right, yeah. I, uh…forgot."
Like hell he did.
"Stiles…truth or dare?"
The smile Lydia gives him is downright predatory.
"Uhh…dare, I guess."
Stiles watches Lydia exchange conspiratorial glances with Allison and Danny, and narrows his eyes in suspicion.
"I dare you to kiss the last person you texted at midnight."
Which — of fucking course — just so happens to be Derek, of all people.
Which Lydia knows damn well, having stolen his phone for a group photo just moments before.
Stiles is beginning to sense a theme here…
"Yeah, okay," Stiles chokes out around a nervous chuckle, rolling his eyes. "I think I'll pass. I don't feel like going into the New Year with my throat ripped out, thanks."
He can't be certain, but he thinks he hears Lydia mumble something to the effect of god, you're both such oblivious idiots under her breath. And…yeah, Erica definitely just rolled her eyes. What the hell?
"Fine, I'll choose another one. I dare you to…" she taps one perfectly manicured finger against her chin thoughtfully. "…send a sexy selfie to the last person you texted."
Stiles gives her a pleading look, but Lydia just stares back at him expectantly, one threatening eyebrow arched.
With a resigned sigh, Stiles pulls out his phone, tilts the camera like it's 2003 and he's angling for the perfect myspace profile pic, and gives the camera a cheeky half-smile. He opens his text thread with Derek, smirking to himself as he reads over the last thing they'd written to one another just hours before — a heated debate over who made a better villain, Voldemort or Umbridge — and texts the photo to Derek with a hasty apology.
sorry, we're playing truth or dare, Lydia made me
Heart kicking up speed, he watches Derek glance down at his phone, chest puffing out as he takes in a sudden, sharp breath, before a smile that makes Stiles melt into a puddle spreads across his face.
Ugh. Curse Derek Hale for having a smile like actual fucking sunshine.
A few seconds later, Stiles's phone buzzes.
I don't mind. It's a good photo of you.
The blush that burns across his face could start a bonfire.
He doesn't realize it's his turn again until Erica is threatening to steal his phone and use it to send Derek one of the many unsolicited dick pics she's received over the years, complete with a winking emoji and a cheesy pick-up line. Stiles blanches, gaze snapping up from his phone screen to catch the mischievous gleam in her eyes.
"Whoah, calm down there, Satan," Stiles teases, slipping his phone back into his pocket, hands held up in surrender.
Erica smiles sweetly at him. He's never felt more terrified.
"Now that I have your attention…truth or dare, Stilinski."
"Truth," he says, which, judging by the positively wolfish grin that spreads across her face, is a mistake.
She asks him if he's ever wanted to kiss anyone in the pack, which devolves into a game of Never Have I Ever, which somehow ends up turning into a round of Fuck, Marry, Kill during which Stiles accidentally chooses to both fuck and marry Derek.
(In his defense, his only other options were Gerard Argent and a Berserker, so…)
"Shit," he says, a fresh wave of heat swimming through his veins from the victory shot he'd just done for winning Never Have I Ever. He's pretty sure whoever manages to put the most fingers down first is supposed to be the one who drinks, but…well, who's counting?
"I just chose Derek twice, didn't I?" he asks sheepishly.
"Yes you did, sweetie," Erica giggles, ruffling his hair affectionately. "Yes you did."
Stiles chances a glance over at Derek, who's standing at the kitchen island with a champagne flute in his hand, deep in conversation with Boyd, Isaac, and Jackson, and breathes a sigh of relief.
"Alright, buddy, I've got one for you," Scott chimes in, slinging an arm around his shoulders and swaying a little on the spot. Looks like someone went a little hard on the wolfsbane-laced whiskey. "But you've gotta pick truth."
"O…kay," Stiles agrees reluctantly.
"Do you have a crush on anyone?" Scott poses with a knowing smile. And like, okay…Stiles is vaguely aware that Scott has probably suspected for quite some time now, but he didn't think his best friend would ever call him out on it.
Stiles brushes it off with a laugh and scoffs, "What are you, five? Who even says 'crush' anymore?"
"Uh…you do," Scott frowns. "Remember? Just last week, when you said you had a crush on that guy who plays Superman in that new show on The CW—"
"Yes, okay, fine," Stiles concedes, waving his hand in a dismissive gesture. "Whatever, I'm switching to dare."
Scott gives him his patented puppy-dog pout.
"Alright, fine," Erica simpers. "I dare you to tell us who you've got a crush on."
"Because we all know there's someone," Lydia insists, giving him a pointed look.
"Someone you've clearly been pining after for years now," Danny agrees, somehow managing to look both fond and exasperated all at once. "So just come clean, Stilinski. Tell us who it is."
Stiles, who is absolutely smashed off his ass at this point in the game, rolls his eyes so hard he sees stars.
"Nice try, assholes," he teases with a sing-song lilt and a self-satisfied smile. "But there's no way in hell I'm ever gonna tell you I'm in love with Derek, so you can just—"
Somewhere in the distance, a champagne flute shatters, and suddenly, Derek is just there, looming in the distance, eyebrows arched so high they practically straddle his hairline.
It takes a few seconds for his brain to catch up to his mouth, and then the realization of what he'd just said dawns on him. Stiles claps a hand over his mouth, eyes wide in comical horror as he sinks to the floor and covers his face in the palms of his hands. He suddenly feels a lot less warm and fuzzy, and about ten shades more sober.
Moments later, he feels a pair of strong arms lift him into a standing position. Hesitantly, he moves his hands away from his face and finds Derek standing right in front of him, wide eyes warm and bright, a tentative smile curling across his face.
He's so pretty when he smiles, Stiles thinks stupidly. He hopes Derek will let him down gently.
"So uhh…how much of that did you hear?" Stiles asks, sheepish smile coming across as more of a grimace.
"All of it," Derek replies with a hint of amused fondness in his voice.
Stiles is vaguely aware of how quiet the room has gone, music and chatter fading to a gentle hum as his entire world zeroes in on the man standing in front of him.
The rest of the pack looks on like they're watching a soap opera. He's not sure how, but he thinks he even sees Isaac produce a lawn chair and a bowl of popcorn, nudging it toward Scott and Boyd.
"Oh," Stiles says, sounding small, resigned. He winces, preparing for the inevitable rejection.
"Stiles," Derek says softly, and Stiles swears his name has never sounded so sweet. When he looks back up, Derek is staring at him with a positively radiant smile on his face, forest eyes sparkling in the glow of the fairy lights strung around the living room. He reaches a hand up to gently cup Stiles's face, his thumb rubbing soothing circles against the hollow of Stiles's cheekbones as he leans forward and kisses him.
There's an eruption of cheers and catcalls all around them, Derek's smile a hard line against his lips as a rumble of laughter vibrates through Stiles's chest.
They spend the rest of the evening curled up on the couch, too wrapped up in each other to care that they've missed the New Year countdown.
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