Work Text:
There isn’t a day Stiles doesn’t curse the sunlight that wakes him up. It comes from the same slim crack in between his curtains, a cosmic rudeness, if he’s to say anything about it, because he’s pretty sure no one's ever asked the sun for it to wake them up, and if anyone did, it was certainly not Stiles. He hates how red is all his sees for a full second, and how when he finally snaps out of his slumber, all there is is the blinding uninvited light.
“Fucking hell…” He mumbles, pulling the covers up his face and turning the other way. Now, when that happens, he usually scoots until his elbows touch the cold wall and he settles for the mostly unused side of the bed. But not today, no. Today it’s a warm wall, dressed in a dark green t-shirt. And it snores, too, from what Stiles gathers. “Oh my god!” He scrambles back, kicking the person beside him and falls back on the floor, taking the covers with him.
“Stiles?” Scott startles, sitting up quickly. He draws himself to the edge of the bed and looks down at Stiles, who’s fiercely struggling with his blankets (and maybe his own limbs, a little bit). “Stiles, what are you doing?” He hisses.
Stiles can finally breathe when his head pokes out of the mess of fabric. He can feel his hair flat on his forehead and fur from the blanket on his tongue. “Meh?” The boy spits the foreign element on his mouth, sticking his tongue out repeatedly until he deems it clean. “Me? Scott, what the hell?!”
“What?” His friend’s eyes widen as he sits himself right, legs out of the bed. “Get up.” He motions forward and pulls Stiles up by the shoulders.
“Why are you in my bed at,” Stiles glances at his clock. “eight in the morning on a saturday?” He frowns, waiting for an answer. He watches as Scott’s face fills with sudden clarity, like only now Stiles’ entire behavior makes sense. He can only huff in response to that.
“Oh, that.” Scott nods to himself. “I’m sorry, I just felt you were upset and I couldn’t sleep, so I just came here to make sure you were alright.” He explains lamely. “I guess I fell asleep? Sorry, dude.” He reached for the back of his neck, scratching it apologetically and gave Stiles a lopsided smile that absolutely did not make his heart flutter suddenly.
“That’s- uh… Thanks? I don’t…” Stiles narrows his eyes, not entirely sure what to say.
“You’re welcome, I guess. But I’m sorry I scared you, I mean… You fell on your ass.” He chuckles. Stiles looks at him blankly, trying not to encourage him much, then makes a face and sits back on the bed.
“Well, it’s good that you’re apologizing because it fucking hurts, you asshole.”
Scott falls back down beside him, still a little giddy, and Stiles punches his arm.
☾
Scott shows up for a second time, but now Stiles knows it the minute he's awake, sensing the settled heaviness behind him. He’s glad his reflexes don’t kick in and his body stays on the mattress, but in all truth he doesn’t know what to do. If he isn’t reacting on instinct on this, then what is he supposed to do? There isn’t a section in the book of life about your bro sleeping on your bed uninvited, nor the polite course of action, for that matter.
Stiles screws his eyes shut, thinking of just getting out of the bed and asking himself what is it with his heart rate and the sudden drive to reach for the skies, seriously. He huffs in annoyance, and Scott turns, his chest now on Stiles’ back. He tries to scramble forward- god, he swears he does-, but soon enough Scott’s arm swing over him, pulling his body closer. As if that isn’t enough to do a number on him, Scott adds to it, sighing in content and nuzzling against the back of Stiles’ neck.
There’s a voice in the back of his head and it reminds him of all hundred ungraceful ways he could flail his way out of this, but he shuts it in no time, sending it even further back, where it can't be heard. Instead, he stays still, contemplating a careful slip downwards, leading to a scape with no awkwardness, or the sinful idea where he sinks back into Scott’s body and makes peace with the somewhat (totally, completely) fortunate situation.
Damn it, he’s going to hell, he knows it, just… he’s going to hell so fucking badly.
“G’morning.” Scott rasps, his voice thick and low, sending sharp sparks up Stiles’ spine. He licks his lips quickly, trying to control his breathing- which he didn’t even know was uncontrolled until then- and replies a with a dry,
“Yeah.” And what is that even supposed to mean?
“Were you having a nightmare?” His friend asks genuinely- and, sincerely, fuck that. Fuck Scott’s worry and the way he doesn’t even question the position they’re in, just fuck it. He feels horrible for wishing he were actually having a damn nightmare.
He tries to scramble his memory for plausible lies, but comes up empty, unable to take his mind off of Scott’s knee bumping against the back of his, and other proximities. Again, he’s going to hell. “Nope, just mornin’ rush.” He answers rapidly, wishing the whole interaction would just end.
“M’sorry I spooned you.” Scott laughs, vibrating behind him, and the things that does to him are not to be spoken of.
“That’s alright, buddy.” He replies, silently scolding himself for the bare truth in his voice.
☾
He isn’t remotely surprised when Scott shows up again, nor is he amused in any conceivable way. No. This time he’s mad and sour about it.
Stiles spent the entire week watching Scott more attentively than he used to, learning him all over again, with different eyes, that is. He doesn’t know how he did it before-, the innocent friendship, arms brushing and quiet whispers, the absentminded touching or the way he kept looking at Scott’s lips like it was nothing. It wasn’t nothing. Or maybe it was, but it’s certainly something now.
Luckily, this time he’s up to see Scott rolling into his room through the window, landing skilfully on one knee.
“You’re awake.” Scott remarks, tilting his head like he can’t quite understand that.
“10 points to Gryffindor.” Stiles retorts and frowns to himself. “...Hufflepuff?”
“Why are you awake?" His friend insists, standing up tall this time. His voice is leveled and Stiles doesn't know what to make of that.
"I don't know, Scott. Why do you keep sleeping on my bed?" Stiles licks his lips, unsettled. He didn't exactly plan a confrontation, but if it's about to happen he'll gladly take it- anything to get out of his current personal hell, full of temptation and unrequitedness.
"Because I have to." He says it like it explains it all, a sharp edge to his voice Stiles rarely hears. And it's sincere, as always.
"But why?" Stiles insists, though. No, that won't do. If he'll keep living this weekly boner test then Scott better give him a damn good reason to do so.
He steps closer, intending to crowd Scott, and looks him dead in the eyes like he doesn't feel something eating him inside. They've had three disagreements in their entire lives- once about Scott’s stupid one player games that Stiles just couldn’t deal with, then about the fucking inhaler and how Scott just wouldn’t let him get one (he just wanted to be safe about it!), and, finally, the infamous Lydia Martin, full moon, crazy wolf incident they’ve beautifully gotten past (after some meanness on Stiles’ part and a lot of guilt on Scott’s). Stiles was hoping they wouldn't have any other fights, doing his best to avoid and preferably forget the hollowing feeling of not having Scott by him.
"I don't know, I'm- it started with whatever you were feeling the other night, and then I just..." He trails off. "It's hard to sleep now."
"On your own?" Stiles breathes it out like a prayer and he's going to hell even harder now, because it's so good not be alone on this. Talk to Stiles about not being able to sleep alone, he's got essays on it, a thesis worth an award and six months worth of experience. He doesn't want Scott to know how it feels, but he doesn't know how to keep himself from wondering if someone finally gets it. Sometimes he wonders if all of them don't.
"Yeah." Scott slips into an expression Stiles knows all too well. It's guilt- the same one he sees when they talk about anything remotely supernatural. "I'm sorry, I just didn't wanna talk about it so I kept coming back unannounced when I shouldn't've."
"Hey, hey, no… It's okay. It's fine, Scotty, c'mon," Stiles waves it off, landing a hand on his friend's shoulder. "C'mon, let's go."
They walk towards the bed and Scott slips under the covers first, uneasily, looking up at Stiles like he's asking for permission. If they hadn't just had that very specific conversation Stiles would mock him about it and remind him of the other two times he didn't even hesitate. He follows his friend silently, like it's a ritual that isn't supposed to be disturbed, and lays quietly, eyes wide. There are a number of things going through his head, none of which help him in any way deal with the fact that he just agreed to sleeping (and only sleeping) in the same bed as Scott McCall, his newfound, extremely inconvenient crush.
"I like the cuddling." He says it like it's nothing, even if he knows the thumping of his heart could be heard miles in the distance.
Scott doesn't answer, but the careful wrapping of his arms around Stiles says enough. He tightens his grip and rests his forehead on his friend's hair, inhaling appreciatively. The boy melts under it, holding back a sigh, and tries his best not to recite a love confession right then.
He is so very, very, royally screwed.