Archive of Our Own

The lines at the supermarket stretch for miles, metal carts bouncing off other metal carts as the people struggle to get to the last gallons of water. Scott's sitting in the child's seat as his father wheels them through the aisles, bypassing the bread and drinks and going straight for the meats and dairy. They have a party later which means Stiles is coming, and all Scott can think about is staying awake for as long as he can, watching his parents laughing as the clock counts down to the New Year.

Later, when the sun sets and Stiles finally comes over with his mom and dad, Scott pats the seat next to him on the large leather couch in their living room. There are assorted snacks on the coffee table in front of him, sparkling glasses with bubbling liquid and a small stack of chocolates. His mother and father are in the hallway welcoming Stiles's parents, but Stiles sees Scott, sees the empty space next to him on the couch, and goes straight towards him.

They sit together side by side, both of them squirming in their seats as they wait for their parents to walk into the living room. They want candy but they know better than to take anything without asking. After all, it's a privilege to be awake with the adults and neither of them wants to ruin the moment by breaking the rules.

They don't make it to midnight, of course. They're both too young and even the amount of chocolate they consume in the first hour does little to keep them up. When their parents look for them at midnight, Stiles has his head on Scott's shoulder, his mouth wide open as he snores. Scott's head is against the couch, his long hair falling over his eyes as he breathes. Their hands lay between them, nestled in the nook between their little legs, fingers intertwined so hard their knuckles are white.

For a long time, this will be Scott's favorite New Year.

At eight years old, Scott stops growing. No matter how hard he tries, he doesn't get taller. Everyone else around him seems to keep going, Jackson and Lydia stretching together, perfectly matched in height. Even Stiles towers above Scott, with his messy limbs and uncoordinated body. When they line up, Scott always gets put in the front of the line and Stiles ends up in the middle towards the end. Which means that they don't walk together in between classes and they don't get to sit together either. And, quite frankly, Scott is tired of it.

He twitches in his seat at the front, his eyes on the blackboard as his teacher goes over their times tables. He can feel Stiles's eyes on the back of his head, and he can sense the ball of paper that's about to hit him. He glances at their teacher but she has her back to the class, her chalk dragging against the board as she writes. Scott watches the chalk powder fall, little white flakes that land on the edge of the blackboard and on the cuff of his teacher's sleeve. He wonders if she notices, or if this is just something she's lived with for so long she no longer realizes it's happening. The same way Scott resigned himself to a New Year without his father.

It's been a little over a year since his dad packed his things and left the house without saying goodbye. It'd been rough at first, all those nights where his mother pretended she wasn't crying and Scott pretended he believed her. But eventually, breakfast stopped being a careful dance of avoidance where they ignored the extra seat at the table. Melissa stopped wiping her eyes whenever Scott came into the room, and eventually, Scott was allowed to spend the weekends with his dad. Sometimes the weekdays, if his mother was working an extra shift at the hospital. It wasn't ideal, but it was what Scott had now.

Visits and the New Year is what his dad had gotten out of the divorce, and it was enough even if it meant missing out on New Year's Eve with Stiles. Last year had been great. Scott was older, had managed to make it to midnight. He'd eaten grapes out of the little plastic cup his dad had given him and made a wish on each one as the clock counted down the New Year. Each grape was a different wish, a GameBoy Advanced for him, one for Stiles, more time with his dad, new shoes, some games. When he was done, he got to sit on the lawn outside of his dad's house and watch the fireworks, great bursts of color that seemed to eat up the entire sky.

He'd never seen so many colors, had never known that fireworks sounded like thunder breaking out across an open sky. And even though he didn't get to spend that New Year with Stiles, he got to be with his dad. And even though his parents weren't together, it wasn't all that bad, and at the end of the night, he'd been looking forward to the next one. Which is why this year, he can't help the sadness that settles in his chest the closer they get to Winter break. He didn't get an explanation, just an apology and a new game for his GameBoy Advanced.

He sighs as his teacher turns back to the room. She's frowning, her eyes on a spot behind Scott. He can tell from the pull of her mouth that it's Stiles, and a second later, his suspicion is confirmed when a paper ball hits him in the back of the head.

"Really, Stiles?" his teacher says, raising one perfectly lined eyebrow. "Right in front of my face?"

Scott turns with the rest of the class, his eyes finding Stiles's unapologetic ones as he shrugs.

"It was an accident?" he says.

Their teacher scoffs and Stiles's eyes go wide. He turns to Scott and mouths, "help." And because it's almost winter break, because there's really nothing for Scott to do at home, he leans down, picks up the balled-up piece of paper, and throws it right back at Stiles.

-

Stiles is still talking about their lunch detention on New Year's Eve, waving his hands everywhere as he trips over the pots and pans lying on the kitchen floor. Melissa shakes her head every time Stiles gets to the part where Scott threw back the paper ball, and Scott ducks his head to avoid his mother's eyes. The note his teacher sent home that day still hangs on the fridge. For educational purposes, his mother had said. To remind Scott that his actions had consequences.

He avoids it as best he can, all too aware that he's disappointed his mother. She'll have told his father, of course, but Scott won't know what he thinks until after the New Year. Still, a part of him can't help but feel pleased every time Stiles throws his arm around his shoulders and says, "We're best friends for life, Scott. Forever. Ride or die."

"No dying," Melissa says, even as she maneuvers her way around the kitchen clutter. "And no more detentions."

"No more detentions," Scott promises.

Stiles opens his mouth in affront and Scott pokes him in the side.

"Hey," Stiles says, squirming away as Scott rounds on him. "No fair. You know I'm ticklish."

"Best friends forever," Scott says, pouncing on Stiles.

They knock over the stack of pans Melissa has in front of the stove and bang into the preheating oven. Stiles gets tangled in the dish towels hanging from the oven handle and Scott ends up with flour in his hair. They both need a shower before dinner, and though Melissa pretends to be angry, Scott can tell she's amused.

That night, the Sheriff and Claudia come over and Stiles sits next to Scott, in front of the table that holds their snacks. There's apple juice, orange juice, alcohol that the Sheriff pours into short glasses, and tiny empanadas that Melissa made that morning. Scott and Stiles hold hands as the countdown starts on TV, both of them focused on the cheerful news reporters and the crowds of people in the city.

They watch the numbers tick down to zero as their parents hug, the Sheriff and Claudia exchanging a quick kiss. Scott looks at his mom. She smiles at him, a small sad thing that reminds Scott that his father couldn't make it this year. He grins back, letting her pretend that she's happy, allowing her the courtesy of thinking she has him fooled.

Claudia Stilinski died in the summer, when the sun was shining and the sky seemed an endless blue. Scott remembers sitting on Stiles's porch steps, watching the blades of grass blowing in the wind. Stiles sat next to him, his arm pressed against Scott's, their feet on the last step, sneakers scuffed and dirty. It was summer, so they'd been out riding their bikes earlier that day, both of them racing back and forth along the street in front of Stiles's house. They didn't have parental supervision. Melissa was at the hospital, the Sheriff was at the station, Claudia was sick, and Scott hadn't seen his father in years.

They were still together when they got the news, both of them with their arms around their knees, their shoulders touching. Neither of them said a word when the Sheriff came to get them. Scott went with Stiles to the hospital, went with him to the wake, to the funeral. He stayed by Stiles's side, both of them quiet for days afterward, neither of them knowing what to say.

Their parents let them, didn't say no when Stiles showed up at Scott's just before bedtime. They got used to being together, just assumed that they would be a part of each other's lives even after Stiles stopped having nightmares. Scott left his window open in case Stiles needed to get in and Scott didn't hear him knocking at the front door. Stiles saved a seat for Scott in every class, told him where to find the spare key to his home, and refused to leave Scott's side the minute Winter break started their last year of junior high.

Stiles is there on New Year's Eve in 2005, his clothes strewn over Scott's floor, his toothbrush in one of the holders hanging from the bathroom. His towel is next to Scott's on the floor, their glasses of water lined neatly on the bedside table nearest the window. Scott's windows are locked tight because the holidays tend to bring out the worst in some people. At least, that's what the Sheriff told them before he left for his shift, an apologetic look on his face as he rubbed a hand over Stiles's head.

Scott's mom is working a double shift again because the money is good. Scott heard her talking to one of the other nurses so he said nothing when she told him she wouldn't be around this New Year's Eve. She left money for pizza on the kitchen table, and after a quick kiss to Scott's forehead, she walked out the door. A few minutes later, Mrs. Benson from next door came over with a plate of cookies and board games.

She's asleep now, right in front of the TV in the living room. Stiles is in the kitchen getting the pizza, and Scott is in his room, supposedly making space on his bed so that they can sit. He eyes the mess on his floor, the comforter balled up in the center of his bed. He kicks at a pair of sneakers and can't tell if they're his or Stiles's.

He's still standing in the middle of the room, looking forlornly at the piles of clothes, when Stiles comes back. He kicks the door open, arms full of pizza and orange juice. He's biting two plastic cups and making distressed noises at Scott.

Scott looks at him and smiles slowly. "What?" he asks. "I don't know what you're saying."

Stiles frowns and makes an annoyed noise in the back of his throat, the pizza starting to slide down the topmost plate. Scott moves across the room at the same time that Stiles bends his knees to try and keep the pizza on the plate. They meet in the middle, Scott's hand banging against the plates in Stiles's hand, a sharp jab of pain running up his arm. He winces, moving his hand away reflexively and knocking the bottle of orange juice to the ground.

The two of them watch sadly as two slices of pizza flop onto the ground, cheese-down.

"That's a waste of good pizza, Scott," Stiles says, staring sadly at the slices on the floor.

They say nothing a moment, both of them just staring, and then almost at the same time, he and Stiles turn together, their eyes meeting.

"I mean, the floor isn't that dirty," Stiles says.

"And there is the five-second rule," Scott agrees.

-

That night, they eat pizza until they're too full to do much but doze on Scott's bed, their backs against the headboard, eyes on the wall in front of them. The TV is still on downstairs, Mrs. Benson still asleep, and in the distance, they can hear the sounds of the town coming alive in celebration. They don't know how long it is until midnight but neither of them moves as the minutes pass.

Then, just as the first of the fireworks break across the sky, Stiles leans across the bed and says, "My mom always liked New Year."

Scott thinks of all the New Years he can remember, of the excited chatter the closer it got to midnight, of how this is the first year he's spending it alone with Stiles. He inhales and feels his chest pull. Without thinking, he reaches out to press his palm to his sternum. He can't tell if it's his asthma or the pang of loneliness that hits him every New Year that passes without his dad.

He's done his best these past years to pretend that his father doesn't exist, the same way that his father must pretend Scott doesn't exist. He can think of no other reason why his father abandoned him without a word, why he refuses all of Scott's calls, why all of Scott's letters go unanswered. He doesn't think it's fair that he has a father who doesn't want him when Stiles can't have his mom.

They sit in silence, both of them lost to their own thoughts, as the sounds of the New Year wash over them. There's someone yelling in the distance, cheers coming from the houses down the road, and the far-off echo of a horn. And in the suffocating quiet of his room, there's Stiles, the reassuring warmth of his presence and the white-knuckled grip of their intertwined hands.

Lydia Martin has big green eyes and beautiful strawberry blonde hair that shines like her lip gloss. When she smiles, it stretches across her face like something hungry and dangerous. She wields her laughter like swords, the blade of her humor cutting down everything in her path. She's bold and unafraid and the haughty lift of her chin tells everyone around her that everything she wants is hers, always was and always will be.

"I'm going to marry her," Stiles says, every chance he gets. "I promise you, Scott. One day, Lydia Martin is going to be my wife."

Scott watches her at the beginning of their sophomore year, wondering what about her pale skin and delicate wrists has Stiles so captivated. Scott follows her across the room with his stare, eyeing the cut of her skirt and the shine of her lips. He's entranced, obsessed even, as he tries to understand what it is about her that rubs him the wrong way. Every time she turns a corner, he can feel a pang of annoyance stirring beneath his chest as Stiles inevitably stops in his tracks to stare.

"You could be less creepy about it," Scott tells him.

Stiles never seems to hear, too busy eyeing the sway of Lydia's hips, the way her skirt rides up. Scott watches the long lines of her legs, the swell of her breasts, as she goes. He thinks Stiles might like the way Lydia uses her body like a weapon, how every bit of skin exposed to their eyes is only possible because she allows it to happen. She chooses what to wear and how, and everyone else is just supposed to thank her. Scott thinks perhaps Stiles likes being told what to do. And he wonders, just for a moment, whether that desire extends only to Lydia or if Stiles would like it from anyone else.

But he's fifteen and the thought of Stiles in that way sparks a terror so deep, Scott pushes it to the back of his mind. He chooses instead to focus on the coming New Year, stops looking out for Lydia, and doesn't linger on why his skin feels like it doesn't quite fit whenever Stiles is near.

Scott knows himself. He isn't someone who fights. In a room full of people, he's the silent partner to Stiles's boisterous, dismissive, fifteen-year-old self. They work because together they make someone resembling a well-rounded human being. But more than that, they work because when they were five, they fell asleep holding hands on Scott's living room couch. Because ever since then, they haven't let go, have held tighter when it mattered, when things got difficult. They work because they're forever in every way that matters, over any other person that could ever walk into their lives.

Including Lydia Martin.

-

On New Year's Eve, Melissa buys grapes and places twelve in each of the three plastic cups on the counter. The Sheriff is on duty that night so Stiles comes over a little after six and follows Melissa around the kitchen as she prepares dinner. He keeps asking the same question, rubbing his hand over his buzzed head as he tries to think of other ways to phrase it. Every once in a while, he'll glance at Scott as if asking for help. But they're fifteen and Scott doesn't exactly like Lydia, which means he doesn't exactly like Stiles when he's talking about her.

"But what do girls like?" Stiles asks, raising his eyebrows at Scott, but directing his questions to Melissa. "How do I get them to like me?"

"Girls like it when guys are themselves," she says for the fifth time that night.

She's taking Stiles's questions in stride, frowning as she pauses to check something in her cookbook. Scott can tell that she isn't really listening. She probably hasn't even realized that this is the first time that Stiles's shown this much interest in girls. She doesn't even know Stiles means Lydia, but Scott does, because it's always about Lydia. Even when they're playing video games in Stiles's bedroom, or lamenting over their lack of playtime during Lacrosse games, somehow, Lydia always slips in.

"I know she likes Lacrosse players," Stiles will say. "Do you think she knows I'm in lacrosse?"

"We aren't really in lacrosse, though," Scott will answer. "All we do is sit on the bench."

"But do you think she knows?" Stiles will press.

And they'll end up talking about Lydia for the next hour, Scott sitting and nodding as Stiles convinces himself that all he needs is one good game for Lydia to fall in love with him. He never seems to talk about Jackson, even though he and Lydia have been dating for years. Even though Scott's seen the muscles on Jackson's shoulder and the sharp edges of his jaw, how his hand around Lydia's waist seems to have been made to fit there. She looks good in his letterman jacket, Jackson's arm thrown around her neck, his fingertips on the edges of her collar.

Scott doesn't know why watching them makes his skin buzz, why it suddenly seems harder to breathe, or why he can't look at Stiles for too long. He tells no one because the only person he talks to, aside from Stiles, is his mother. Before her, it was his dad. But neither of them are around, his mother pulling longer and longer shifts at the hospital ever since his dad left. Scott works with Deaton after school and there just never seems to be a moment where he and his mother have time to talk. He hasn't told her that he wishes Stiles would shut up about Lydia, hasn't been able to say that he's starting to suspect there might be something wrong with him, something angry growing in the pit of his stomach.

It sits like lead within him, heavy and ugly, poisoning everything inside him. It's a secret that festers the longer he keeps it to himself but he has no choice. It's not like he can tell Stiles.

See, the problem is sometimes Scott thinks he might be in love with Lydia.

It's the only explanation he can come up with for why the mere thought of her and Stiles together makes him so incredibly angry. Why his body feels so constricting, and why he's seconds away from telling Stiles to shut up as he asks Melissa how to get a girl to like him for the third time. He thinks it's Lydia, feels the truth of that betrayal sink deep into his bones, as Stiles fidgets at the kitchen table.

Except, midnight rolls around, Melissa cheering as Stiles stuffs grape after grape into his mouth, half-laughing as he takes a swig of sparkling cider to wash it all down. He's grinning, something boyish and elated, his skin catching the blue hue from the TV, his eyes meeting Scott's.

"Happy New Year," he says, reaching out for a hug.

It's the most natural thing in the world to return to the embrace, Scott's finger finding the ridge of Stiles's spine, his palm fitting over Stiles's side as though it was made to be there.

The kiss when it comes is hard and fast, Stiles crashing right into Scott's cheek for the briefest moment before he pulls away to hug Melissa. He's laughing again, and Scott follows him almost helplessly, his cheek burning where Stiles touched it.

"Hey, Scotty, my man," Stiles says. "You didn't finish your grapes. You gotta finish your grapes."

Scott fishes the last grape out of the cup, and with his eyes on Stiles, he puts it in his mouth and makes his last wish.

New York City is in constant motion, people moving through the streets as though they all have somewhere important to be, no time to stop, no time to make a mistake in the well-rehearsed dance that is walking. There are few trees near NYU, even less the closer he gets to Midtown and the further he is from Central Park. In New York City, Scott can't possibly hear the howls of an enemy pack through all the honking cars. Even if he wanted to, there are too many smells permeating the sidewalks for him to ever pick up the scent of another supernatural creature. Besides, it's New York City, it would be rude to point it out even if he did run into someone.

He doesn't talk to Stiles much anymore. Even though, out of all the people Scott left in California, Stiles is still the person he talks to the most. They text once in a while but being away changes things, even though Scott never wanted it to. Even though they all swore they wouldn't lose touch. Lydia is in Stanford, an hour away from Kira and Malia. Stiles is in Virginia, and Liam is still in Beacon Hills.

They're all living separate lives, and New York is so much bigger than Scott ever imagined. He's gone on multiple walks through Union Square, dined at the never-ending restaurants that line every street. He watches movies on thirteenth, in the little theater that plays indie films and charges six dollars per person. He makes friends, gets lost in studying and the general rush of being surrounded by people who need to get good grades. He's never been more focused on school, has never wanted to do as well as he does now.

There's too much happening in his life, too much to see in New York City, so he doesn't go home for winter break his first year. In his second, his mom comes to visit him. They go to Times Square early on New Year's Eve and set up camp along the street as they wait for midnight.

The streets fill up quickly, crowds of college students intermixed with tourists and the occasional native New Yorker. He waits in the cold, his nose and the tips of his ears going numb. His mom stays with him the entire time, her arm looped through his, her eyes on the buildings, the flashing billboards. She doesn't say much, just stands there next to Scott, doesn't ask why he didn't go home last year, doesn't ask why he didn't go home this year.

They wait and as the day wanes and the roar of the crowd picks up, Scott's hit with a sudden pang of longing so deep it feels as though someone is trying to claw their way out of his chest. He's surrounded by people in scarves, by mothers and fathers, children, lovers, all of them laughing in excitement, the buzz of their happiness increasing the closer they get to midnight. Everywhere he turns, someone is there to meet his gaze, to grin with reckless abandon as they look to the sky.

He inhales sharply and the air doesn't quite make it into his lungs. He smiles at his mother when she catches his eyes but he can feel how stiff it is, how automatic the movement of his muscles are.

Something is wrong.

He exhales, a long, slow puff of breath that shakes as it leaves his mouth. He can feel his heartbeat at his throat, his cellphone burning a hole in his jeans.

It's all the people around him. It's his mother's arm through his, how there's obviously someone missing.

"What's wrong?" Melissa asks.

"Nothing," Scott says, the same way he's been saying it for over a year now. "Everything's fine."

But his body doesn't quite fit and his skin itches, a sense of wrongness settling over him as the night goes on. He's not himself and he is, at the same time. It's as though he's back in Beacon Hills, watching the nogitsune taunt him with Stiles's mouth. Except this time, he's the one with the darkness inside of him, something haunting and painful. And he knows, if he presses too hard, if he falls too deep, there will be no one to save him.

Healing is pulling pieces of glass out of a wound. It's dirty and painful, and in order to make sure that the wound heals, every jagged piece has to come out. Going to Beacon Hills is like pulling out the last piece, that particularly nasty one that sinks all the way into the center of the skin and refuses to let the wound heal. It takes years for Scott to realize that he wants to go home, years of missed therapy appointments and unsuccessful relationships, years of pretending he lost everyone's number.

He moved back to California a year out of vet school, got himself an apartment in San Diego, got himself a boyfriend. But the years went by and everything felt just a little off, as though that life he'd built didn't quite belong to him. He tried anyway because he owed it to himself, to the people in his life. And when that inevitably didn't work, he decided to go back to Beacon Hills.

He drives down Main Street, past the high school and the shops, past Malia's cafe and Kira's bookstore. He's caught off guard by the way even the air seems to smell familiar, how he can recognize the new stores even though he hasn't seen them before. Malia's cafe used to be an ice cream parlor run by Mrs. Lopez, an old lady with white hair that always let Scott taste as many flavors as he wanted. Kira's bookstore used to belong to Mr. Johnson, who was famous for his unsold collection of encyclopedias. And even though the old stores are gone, there's something comforting in knowing that Malia and Kira have grown roots in Beacon Hills.

He doesn't stop to see them though. Not yet. He drives home instead, unprepared for the way the faded blue of his house makes him so incredibly sad. He eyes the peeling paint and the off-white edges of the house, the worn wooden steps and the missing chairs on the porch. The rosebush that grew on the left side of the house is finally gone. His mom had tried to get rid of it for as long as Scott can remember, and he's surprised to find that it's finally lost the battle against his mother.

His room is different too, no longer filled with scattered pieces of paper or old articles of clothing. His bed is neatly made, his dressers waiting for him, mostly empty save for the odd shirt or two that didn't make it to New York. He sits on his bed and lets the silence of the town settle into his bones. He inhales, and it sounds loud in his empty bedroom. He exhales in a rush and it echoes the beating of his heart.

It takes him a moment to place the ache in his chest, something tight but not painful. It's as though he's been holding his breath too long, every muscle on his body tensed so tight it's starting to hurt. He exhales once more, marveling at how quiet it is around him. He settles more comfortably onto his bed and as he closes his eyes, he can feel a wave of calm wash over him, and he knows, for the first time in a long time, that he's home.

-

He goes to Stiles's house on New Year's Eve and finds him on his way out, dressed in his Deputy's uniform, a pair of sunglasses hanging from his hand as he fumbles with his keys, a coffee, and his cellphone in the other. He doesn't notice Scott right away as he struggles to get the door closed. But it's all right. It gives Scott enough time to take in Stiles without being seen, to follow the curve of his elbow and the muscles along his arms, the strands of hair that are falling out of the slicked back hairstyle Stiles has going on. He's older, noticeably so, and Scott doesn't know why he was expecting a lanky young man with too many moles and a buzzed head.

He can't tell what he feels as Stiles turns and Scott gets a look at his face, at the bags under his eyes and the beginning of crow's feet at the corners. He drinks in the surprise on Stiles's face, that flash of hurt that he buries away so quickly, Scott is sure he imagined it. There's a bright splotch of red on the side of Stiles's face, a smear like fingerpaint, and Scott can't look away from it.

"Scott," Stiles says in a sudden rush of breath. "You're here."

Scott looks at him and thinks of another New Year, of so many New Years he's lost count. He can still feel the phantom press of Stiles's lips on the side of his face, the weight of his hand in Scott's. He never told Stiles why he kissed Lydia, how desperate he'd been to feel closer to Stiles, how Lydia always knew even if she was too polite to say anything about it. He wishes it were easy to say that he left everything behind because he had to, because if he'd stayed he'd have never survived. He wishes it were easier to pretend he hadn't seen the pain in Stiles's eyes, that he had a better excuse for why he never came back, for why he rarely texted.

The truth is that Scott has loved Stiles for almost all of his life. And sometimes, even that isn't enough.

"Are you working today?" Scott asks.

Stiles shakes his head. "Dropping off some things for dad."

They say nothing else for a moment, both of them looking at each other and away, the distance between them seeming almost insurmountable. But Scott is home and Stiles hasn't left yet, and he has to believe that means something.

"I was thinking," Scott says, watching the color high on Stiles's cheek, "That if you weren't doing anything later, we could go back to mine for some shitty pizza and orange juice."

"Mrs. Benson doesn't babysit anymore," Stiles says.

"And we're not thirteen," Scott answers.

"No," Stiles says, meeting Scott's eyes, "We're not."

Stiles tastes like grapes and champagne when they kiss at midnight, the sounds of illegal fireworks and police cars echoing in the distance. His hands are large and warm as he holds Scott's face, his fingers fitting at the edge of Scott's jaw as though they're meant to be there. He matches Scott almost pound for pound, so when they kiss, Scott can push back just as hard, can get his own hands on Stiles's back, fingers digging into his shirt to pull him closer.

They kiss at midnight and again an hour later, stealing kisses in the McCall kitchen where they're supposed to be picking up. They kiss until they're laughing, until Scott presses his lips into the corner of Stiles's mouth intending to kiss the smile off his face. Until Stiles moves too fast and his nose catches the bottom of Scott's eyes. Until they're laughing because they don't know how to stop, because they don't want to.

They kiss again in the darkness of Scott's bedroom, as they lie nose to nose, their hands clasped in the space between their bodies. Outside, the police sirens have long since faded, the sounds of revelry giving way to the silence of small towns.

"Hey," Stiles whispers, dragging Scott's attention away from the night and back to him.

"Hey," Scott says, his smile coming easily, as though it's always been there, as though he never spent years in therapy thinking he'd never be happy again.

"I was thinking," Stiles says.

Scott can't help himself. "Oh no," he says. "That's never a good sign."

But Stiles doesn't smile.

"What's wrong?" Scott asks.

Stiles shakes his head, a single strand of his dark brown hair falling over his eyes. Scott reaches out to push it away from his face, his fingers lingering on Stiles's cheek, tracing the patterns his moles make. He can't help but marvel at the fact that Stiles is lying in bed next to him, that he can just reach out and kiss him, that he's allowed.

"Hey," Scott says, knowing this moment is it, feeling the certainty settle into his bones. "We should get married. You should marry me."

Stiles inhales sharply, his eyes boring into Scott's as the moment stretches, the silence settling like a blanket over them. His exhale when it comes is shaky, a quick huff of breath that almost sounds like the beginning of a sob. But Stiles is smiling when Scott looks at him, his face lighting up with the force of it, his eyes dancing in the moonlight.

"Yes," he says at last, murmuring the word between kisses to Scott's face, saying it again and again, until it echoes in the silence of Scott's bedroom, bright and perfect and wonderful.