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The Spirit Store at Beacon Hills High provides students with highly overpriced necessities during the day. Food mostly, but that’s where you can also order Beacon Hills High School themed decals, Beacon Hills High School shirts and jackets! Buy a mug, buy a sticker, buy a bedazzled cell phone charm to show your school spirit! Then, there’s the balloon delivery system that’s nestled in the corner. A wall of unblown foil balloons with congratulatory messages on them. The plain balloons that bulk up the balloon arrangements sit, without air, in boxes sorted by color. They make Stiles think of unused condoms whenever he sees them.
The balloon service is a commodity utilized by overactive parents on their children’s birthday. They send a handful of balloons and an overly cutesy card. Their child gets to walk around with the colorful declarations of their love and adoration tied to their backpack all day. It’s used by gangs of girls who are best friends to show their appreciation for each other. A foil balloon declaring the owner’s perfection is the new friendship bracelet. It’s used by couples to show their love on anniversaries or birthdays. That’s usually the modest arrangement, one or three pink and red balloons. Maybe a rose or a small stuffed animal. When asked what they’re for, the person holding them will blush and bite their lip and giggle. It’s gross and it sucks and it allows them to become a barricade of colorful latex all of the school.
Then, there’s Valentine’s Day and that’s a whole ‘nother creature. A gnarly, absolutely hated creature, that Stiles has been trying to kill with fire for the past three years, with no success at all. Valentine’s Day is the actual worst.
Stiles thought working in the Spirit Store with Scott would be awesome. A room full of food, air conditioning, the general lack of actually having to pay attention to a class. They got to learn how to use a cash register, they could actually put this on a resume as work experience. Wow, was he wrong. Especially, since they landed with the second hour time slot. This is when all the balloons get filled to be delivered during homeroom on the big day of the V, V-Day, Day of Reminding You That You’re Pathetically Lonely (Here’s Looking At You, Stiles). Or, the Friday before the 14th, in this instance.
The other things were good, great even, but the balloons.
Valentine’s Day on campus has turned into some sort of balloon banquet out-do-a-thon. Orders pour in during January, up until the second hour before balloons are supposed to be delivered. It’s no secret that Stiles will branish Allison Argent’s strict authority at people when they try to put in ridiculous orders, like 100 red ones. It takes hours to fills orders. Days, sometimes. This year is no exception.
Stiles blames Derek Hale and Jackson Whittemore, personally. Everyone blames Derek Hale and Jackson Whittemore. Freshman year, Jackson was dating Lydia and Derek was dating Braedon. They had an unacknowledged battle to out-gift give each other on the week leading up to Valentine’s Day. Every year since, people are take that as precedent. As seniors, it seems like their entire graduating class is taking it to heart. Some of the bundles are overly extravagant, completely unnecessary. They include giant stuffed animals and outsourced roses by the dozen. One kid asked if they would carry a radio and play a song to his Valentine. Another asked if there was anyway she could order a singing telegram.
“Why can’t anyone order green balloons? Blue balloons? Any color, but red. I feel like I’m going to be seeing in shades of red for the rest of my life,” Stiles grumbles. There’s a pile of latex balloons next to the helium tank. The ones that ended up with stretched out lips and punctured necks. The victims of Stiles’ impatient fingers stabbing through the latex, murder victims.
“Please, don’t do this again,” Allison says. “Don’t bother complaining about the inevitable.” Stiles thinks that’s a little hypocritical, seeing as she’s already got her forehead pressed to the glass of the counter in defeat.
“Fill balloons!” he demands, firing the latex blobs at her. The bounce off her with satisfying thuds.
“Where’s Scott? Why isn’t he helping us?” she asks, head popping up to survey the room. There’s no one browsing. Second hour isn’t usually busy anyway, but the day of Valentine’s Day deliveries, everyone knows to steer clear. Stiles and the others made Twitter and Facebook posts to the school’s feeds as well as their own. Stiles is pretty sure Allison threatened to cut a bitch if anyone bothered coming in.
“Scott had to run to the Student Council room to see if they have any balloons,” Stiles says. It’s automatic at this point to fit the neck of the balloon over the nozzle of the helium tank and press down to fill them. Remove, tie, repeat. Some asshole ordered 8 red balloons, 8 pink balloons, and 8 white balloons plus two foil balloons. Stiles feels bad for whoever is receiving this bunch.
The stupid bell over the door tinkles a greeting. Stiles watches as Allison’s body tenses, ready to challenge whoever’s coming through the door to a duel. It’s just a delivery guy, carrying two giant, plastic totes of single red roses in water. Scott comes in behind him with another tote and, presumably, the rest of the balloons from the Student Council.
“I forgot about the roses,” Stiles says, darkly. “How could I forget about the roses?”
“How could you?” Scott asks, placing his tote on the countertop with a flourish. “It’s only the most important part.” Stiles rolls his eyes at him.
“At least we don’t have to deliver them,” Allison says, unlatching the boxes and withdrawing a rose. For a flower that’s been packed in a small space with a bunch of other flowers, it still unfurls prettily, blood red and soft.
“I volunteered,” Stiles said, side eyeing the mass of balloons that have accumulated. There’s still more to fill, but Lydia promised him Monday’s chemistry homework if he helped the Student Council deliver them. Plus, he gets to get out of homeroom. This year he dropped out of honors and took a regular math class, so he’s constantly bored. All he does is stare at the back of Derek Hale’s perfect head and imagine scenarios where they end up making out somehow. It’s really terrible and his easiest class, so it’s better to just skip it anyway.
“Gross, why?” Scott asks.
“Lydia promised me chem,” Stiles says, with a shrug. He can’t afford to be distracted, there’s still a few orders left to fill and now they have to match the cards to the roses. It’s going to be a nightmare. Stiles wiggles a filled balloon off the helium tank and ties it, handing it to Allison so she can tie a ribbon around the bottom. Scott starts on the cards while Allison and Stiles keep making balloons. A well-oiled machine that runs on boredom and a lost sense of purpose.
“What did Jackson get Lydia?” Stiles asks, idly.
“A dozen red roses, a bouquet of balloons, and a giant dog stuffed animal that has to be delivered to her during lunch, since she’s delivering orders during third,” Allison says, with a roll of her eyes. “It’s pathetic. But, surprise, surprise, she’s going to go to spring fling with him.”
“No way,” Stiles says. “She was doing so well.” Allison snorts out a laugh through her nose, eyebrows hitching up in amusement.
“If ‘doing well’ is hooking up with him every couple of weeks, then yes, she was doing very well.”
“Gross,” Scott and Stiles say, in unison.
“What about Derek?” Stiles says, trying to be nonchalant, but landing on the wrong side of completely interested. Scott laughs at him, wiggling his eyebrows knowingly.
“I don’t think he ordered anything,” Allison says, exchanging a look with Scott. “I mean, he might have, but I didn’t check him out.”
“So, the winner of the Valentine’s Day Douche-Off will automatically go to Jackson?” Stiles asks. Scott and Allison shrug and nod. “I feel let down. I’m personally affronted by this lack of school spirit Derek is displaying.”
“Don’t be,” they both say, in a flat tone. They get all giggly and start kissing each other chastely, eyes glowing with love and warmth and whatever else people in love stare at each other with. Stiles feel simultaneously above it all and sick with loneliness, at the same time.
“Scott, did you not participate in the gift-a-thon?” Stiles asks, just thinking about it. Scott tried his hardest the last two years, but considering his allowance tops out at 30 dollars a month and Deaton still hasn’t staffed him over from “volunteer”, he isn’t exactly a top-gift contender. Scott looks embarrassed and shrugs, while Allison grins.
“I’m the one gifting,” she says, biting her lip and averting her gaze. She looks at Scott. It’s a gross display of affection. “It’s not exactly something for school.” Then, she winks at him. Stiles cracks up.
“Get it girl,” he says, wiggling around and thrusting his hips. There’s laughter and teasing, but they focus again. The sheer amount of balloons is overwhelming. By the time Lydia and her power team of Student Council reps get there to start sorting banquets, they can’t fit anyone else in the small space.
“This is ridiculous,” Lydia says, pursing her lips. “Jackson’s dumb ass got me all kinds of things. I don’t know why people think anyone wants to carry around this mess all day.”
Stiles can’t imagine. Some of the gifts are so absurd that it’s going to take two people to deliver them. It won’t be fun for whoever receives them to try and lug them around campus. Last year, the hallways were lined with Valentine’s Day swag, because the teachers couldn’t have more than a few in the classrooms without reaching maximum capacity. Stiles has a feeling it’s going to be the same this year, maybe worse.
Lydia claps her hands to quiet the assembly and starts handing out sheets of orders that are sorted by what’s being brought, the person it’s all going to, and what third period class they have. Stiles and the others have already organized the bundles, they’re all lined up neatly on the food counter -- and behind the counter and into the storage closet -- waiting to be distributed.
“Alright, Stilinski,” Lydia says, brandishing a couple of pieces of paper at him. He grabs them gratefully, abandoning a balloon on the helium tank. It lets out a squeak and deflates sadly. “This is your assignment, if you choose to accept it.”
“Will the way be fraught with danger? Will I encounter dungeon trolls and perils untold in this quest to unite the masses with their giftly riches?”
“This isn’t the fantasy section, Stilinski,” she says, with a good natured eyeroll and a small smile. Stiles smirks at her. “Your reward is chem homework and sitting next to me at the basketball game tonight.”
“The basketball game? Really, Lyds?” Stiles asks, with a bad-taste face. It’s more of a show than anything, they both know he’s going anyway.
“Yes, the game. It’s Scott’s first big halftime performance, Allison will be there, I will be there.”
Derek Hale will be there, Stiles adds in his head, thinking about Derek’s butt in basketball shorts. Derek sweaty. Derek’s arms and shoulders flexing as he shoots. Derek’s calves flexing when he jumps. Derek smiling at his team mates and maybe hitting them on the butt when they make a good play. Okay, Stiles is sold.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Stiles says, waving away her words. She smirks at him, knowingly. “I’ll be there, not square. Can we sit behind the team so I can throw various food stuff at their heads?” So he can stare at the back of Derek’s head and look at his ears while he’s on the bench. Lydia arches an eyebrow, too amused, and nods.
“Never again,” Stiles groans, head in his arms. There’s the general noise of agreement from everyone at the lunch table. Very few people bother to get up and get their lunches, just choose to slump dejectedly in their seats, exhausted. “Stairs, all the stairs. Why aren’t the buildings connected? We should start a petition for a sky walk.”
“Please, don’t complain until you’ve done this in three inch heels,” Lydia says, smacking him. Stiles jerks his head up, just in time to see Jackson’s douche bag smirk. Behind him is an entourage of basketball players with various gifts in their hands. Including Derek, but he doesn’t look particularly involved with the gift giving. There’s a single rose tucked into his pocket.
Stiles arches his eyebrows at Derek while Jackson goes through his various ministrations of trying to impress Lydia. It’s cute in the way that it’s not cute and is, actually, more annoying than anything else. Derek’s eyebrows arch in response, jerking his head towards the door. He wants Stiles to follow him? Stiles looks around and points at himself, confused. Derek rolls his eyes and nods, so Stiles gets up and follows him out of the cafeteria.
“Hey,” Derek says, once they’re out of the way of lunch traffic. Stiles’ eyebrows hitch up again, mouth dry. Proximity to Derek makes all his bits tingly. Including and not limited to his hands, feet, nether regions, and even his ears. He might have a little bit of a problem.
“Hey,” Stiles says, uncertainly. He shifts his weight between his feet. He looks around, wondering what the joke is. Derek’s face is red, he looks nervous. It takes a few more seconds, but Derek draws the rose of out his pocket and holds it out to Stiles. Stiles’ eyebrows are still up, posed in confusion. He’s waiting for a punchline.
“You should take it,” Derek says, he sounds embarrassed, voice low. Stiles’ hands might be shaking a little as he takes the rose gently. It’s blood red and looks like velvet. He has to restrain himself from smelling it and maybe rubbing it on his face. His fingers catch the tag. There’s a note in Derek’s small, precise handwriting:
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
You think I’m a douche,
But I really like you
Stiles laughs out loud, stomach flooding with butterflies. His ears are tingling.
“Are you coming to the basketball game tonight?” Derek asks. He’s not looking Stiles in the eyes, he’s looking at his mouth. Stiles flushes and licks his lips without thinking about it. Derek’s cheeks are still pink.
“Yeah,” Stiles says, with a shrug, but his heart beats off kilter. Lydia wants him to go to the game. It feels like some sort of setup. Derek seems to relax minutely at that and smiles softly.
“Good,” he says, shifting his weight. Stiles watches him, unsure of what he’s supposed to do or say. The whole thing has caught him on the spot. He doesn’t have the handbook for awkward school interactions with Derek Hale. They stand there in silence a little longer, until Stiles can’t stand it anymore. He meets Derek’s eyes, just as Derek’s mouth drops open to say, “will you wear my jacket?”
That makes Stiles’ brain stutter to a halt.
“Your jacket?” Stiles asks, eyeing said article of clothing. Derek’s letterman jacket that’s red and white with a giant “B” on the left side, meticulously stitched into the fabric. Stiles knows Derek got his letter freshman year, not from sports, but academic excellence. Stiles knows his mom sewed it on.
“My jacket,” Derek says, shrugging it off his broad shoulders, revealing a white v-neck that hugs his biceps and chest. Stiles swallows. Derek holds it out to him, eyebrows hitched up in anticipation. Stiles takes it, because he’s not going to leave Derek hanging, but --
“You know if you give me this, you’re making a very obvious sort of statement,” Stiles says, nervous hands in the fabric of the jacket. He knows the back says “HALE” in big, red letters. No one is going to miss that. Derek looks at him, from under his eyelashes nonetheless, bashfully.
“I know,” he says. Stiles exhales loudly, trying to ignore the overwhelming feeling that’s ballooning in his chest. Derek’s face moves into a tentative smile as Stiles slides the jacket on, letting its heavy weight sink over him.
“Thanks,” Stiles says, fingers catching the bottoms of the too-long cuffs. Despite them being the same height, Derek is bulky and solid, where Stiles is still growing into his own shoulders. The heady, masculine scent of Derek wraps around Stiles, blanketing him. He doesn’t even resist the urge to bring the cuffs to his face and inhaling. It’s embarrassing, but Derek just smells so damn good. When he looks up, Derek’s face is beyond amused. Stiles grows hot under his scrutiny. “Not a word.”
“My lips are sealed,” Derek says, with a chuckle. Stiles pouts at him, even as he watches Derek’s pale eyes light up in amusement. They’re suddenly much closer. Derek’s heat is all along his front, lips nearly touching. Derek asks, “can I kiss you?”
Stiles squeaks and nods, even though they practically are already. Derek exhales heavily in relief before sealing their lips together. Stiles doesn’t even think about it, just kisses back, lips parting eagerly for Derek’s tongue. The rose crinkles between them as Derek presses their bodies together. There’s only a moment of hesitation before Stiles lets himself touch. The edge of Derek’s jaw is rough with barely-there stubble, his sticky-out ears are soft and hot, the line of muscle in his neck is taut. Derek’s hands slide along Stiles’ waist, just barely touching the skin, making Stiles shiver all over.
When Derek pulls back, his lips are red. His cheeks are still pink.
“Come on, Hale, coach is expecting us,” Jackson says, with exasperated amusement. His presence startles Stiles and he jerks away from Derek, heart pounding. Derek looks at him and back at Jackson, nodding stiffly before giving Stiles one last, soft smile. The group of basketball players smirk at him, as a whole, when he joins them.
“Finally grew some balls, huh, D?” Stiles hears Boyd ask, smugly. Derek shoves at him, but he looks back at Stiles one last time before they all disappear around the corner.
Stiles goes back to the table in a daze, lips tingling. He’s all too aware of the name on the back of the jacket. It feels like everyone’s eyes are trained on him. Scott takes one look at him, blinks in exaggeration twice, and bursts out into raucous laughter. Even Lydia’s eyebrows migrate up her forehead in surprise. Pleasantly interested surprise.
“Is this why he wanted me to make sure you were at the game?” she asks.
“That was him?” Stiles blurts, heart thumping.
“Duh,” she says, dismissively. “It’s not like you ever miss any, but he was adamant about making sure you came.”
“Of course he never misses a game,” Scott says, staring pointedly at the jacket. Stiles rolls his eyes and hugs it closer around him.
“Guys,” Stiles starts, knowing he sounds petulant. Lydia raises her hand to stop him.
“Please, don’t get defensive. Pining after the captain of the basketball team isn’t anything to be ashamed of. Even if it is a high school cliche.”
“As cliche as getting back with Jackson after you’ve broken up multiple times?” Stiles asks, meanly. He’s not pining, not even close.
“Shut up, Stilinski,” she warns, cheeks pink. It’s quite a sight with roses and balloons surrounding her like gatekeepers. Stiles thinks the giant stuffed bear at her feet speaks far more for his point. He sticks his tongue out at her.
“Dude!” Scott says, finally getting with the program. He rocks their shoulders together in excitement. “Does this mean it’s, like, a thing?” Stiles winces.
“I don’t know,” he says, twirling the rose between his fingers. Any other person, Stiles would say yes, but this is Derek and Stiles doesn’t want to give himself false hope. There’s no limited supply of that in Stiles’ life. Stiles is Stiles and Derek is Derek. So, what Stiles doesn’t get is bringing the attention of the general public on Stiles. Derek could have just given Stiles the rose and Stiles would have been happy. Ecstatic, actually. Add in the jacket, that’s a different sort of demon.
After lunch, the rest of the day is painfully slow. The morning was so rushed with filling and delivering orders. It’s almost surreal, getting blocked in the hall by the fruits of his own creation. The balloons get annoying after 5 minutes of having to push through latex. High schoolers can’t resist being assholes, either. There’s at least five balloons popping between every class and the jealous, less fortunate (or more fortunate, depending on how you look at it) stab them with pens out of spite.
Moving through the halls, he can practically feel the eyes on him. All because of the damn jacket. The next time he sees Derek is before the last period of the day. Stiles is so tempted to give the jacket back to him. He’s tired of the attention, it’s almost if he’s carrying a 50-balloon bouquet all his own. But, then Derek sees him and his eyes light up, dragging a hot gaze over Stiles’ body and Stiles just, doesn’t care about the unwanted attention. He enjoys Derek’s attention. Derek’s attention is awesome.
Derek bounds to his side, abandoning his friends mid-sentence. That leads to laughing and jeering that Derek responds to with his middle finger. Their shoulders brush and Derek casually corrals them away from the small group of jocks.
“I think that was rude,” Stiles says, feeling flustered at the laughter. He gets the feeling they’re laughing at the situation more than Stiles himself, but it still makes him feel uncomfortable.
“They’ll live,” Derek says, easily, falling into step with him. Their shoulders keep brushing. “I see them a lot.”
“Are you walking me to class?” Stiles asks, abruptly. His ears are tingling again, just from the proximity. Derek grins, seemingly pleased that Stiles has caught onto his plot.
“Is that alright?” he asks, eyes on Stiles’. The intensity makes Stiles look away and tighten his grip on his backpack strap. He resists the urge to check if the rose is still stuck in the side pocket. That would probably be too obvious. Instead of asking ‘why now?’ or ‘what do you get out of this?’, he just nods. Derek grin, again, wider this time. The look he gives him strongly resembles relief.
They don’t talk on the way to Stiles’ class, which seems so far now. Derek is lucky the coach excuses him from 7th hour for pre-game prep or he would never make it to his own class. Stiles is too nervous to talk. If he blurts out something completely embarrassing, he’ll never forgive himself. He’d rather keep his mouth shut than ruin the moment. If he doesn’t, he knows he’s going to question Derek’s motives right off the bat and that’s not where he wants today to go for the two of them.
When they reach Stiles’ class, Derek grabs him and pulls him to the side, out of the way of the other students getting into the classroom. There’s already stuffed animals and balloons waiting the hall like a sad, funhouse queue.
“Thanks for wearing it all day,” Derek says, with a sideways smile, like he knows Stiles has been too hot in nearly all his classes, but refuses to take it off. Stiles scoffs playfully, stomach tangling in realization that Derek hasn’t removed his hand from Stiles’ arm.
“Most attention I’ve gotten all year,” he says, dismissively. That makes Derek roll his eyes. At least the gesture is familiar.
“Can I kiss you again?” Derek asks, with a smirk. He tugs Stiles in with the hand that’s been lingering on his arm. Stiles feels his face get hot all over again.
“You don’t have to ask every time.”
“We’re at school. Yes, I do.”
“Fine, I give you permission to kiss me. All the permission. Don’t ask anymore, you have blanket permission.
Derek laughs and kisses Stiles, lips pressing into his, making Stiles’ heart stop altogether before it starts pounding away like a kickdrum. Stiles has the thought that this is what they should do always, no matter what. When they pull away, Derek squeezes Stiles’ arm one last time, giving him a soft look.
“I’ll see you at the game,” he says. It almost sounds like a question.
“Yeah, yeah, you totally will,” Stiles says, with a blinding smile.
The smile doesn’t ever go away. It just stays on his face, stretching out his mouth, making his cheeks hurt. The whole day has him feeling like he’s in some sort of daze. His math teacher yells at him for spacing out. Stiles hunches and pulls the jacket closer around him and the whole class laughs. They all know exactly why he’s spacing out. Whatever, they’re all jealous.
By the time the game rolls around, Stiles has gotten dressed and redressed half a dozen times, fretting about what to wear under the jacket. It’s a game, it’s going to get hot. He needs to look hot when the jacket comes off. He hasn’t texted Derek, because he has no idea what to say. It’s all so insane and nothing he had ever imagined. There are no words, so he lets there be no words. Maybe Derek’s equally as nervous to have Stiles show up in his jacket, proclaimed as whatever for all the world to see.
Lydia and Scott are right. Stiles doesn’t miss games, ever, unless they’re away games. Not because Stiles is full of school spirit and the urge to support the Beacon Hills High Wolves. He likes watching Derek play. Derek gets this level of intensity that’s thrilling to Stiles. No one ever notices that Stiles is at the games, but today, it feels like the entirety of the student body is there and staring at him. Stiles wonders if there was a PSA on the school’s Twitter that he missed.
Lydia is waiting inside the door when he gets into the auditorium. She perks up automatically, winding her arm with his, pulling them close together. Allison gives a small wave and a smile. Stiles knows that Scott is in the locker rooms, getting his mascot outfit on. Stiles tried out for mascot as well, but Finstock said his dance moves were “lewd” and “not appropriate” and that “air humping isn’t even a dance move, Stilinski, get the hell out of here!”. Whatever, some people just couldn’t appreciate true genius.
“Right on time,” Lydia says, tugging him through the crowd of students. It feels like there are more students than usual for a non-playoff home game. Stiles tenses when he sees Melissa in the stands, next to his dad? What the hell. They both wave, Stiles waves back. The confusion intensifies when he sees Derek’s family. Usually, they’re all too busy to come to games this early in the year. That’s not suspicious at all.
“A wizard arrives precisely when he means to,” Stiles quotes, feeling blindsided. Lydia rolls her eyes and laughs dismissively, shoving him down onto the bleachers. Sure enough, they’re only a couple of tiers back from the player’s chairs, smack dab at center court. This is the closest Stiles has ever bothered to get to the floor, it feels weirdly intimate.
“Why is everyone here?” Stiles asks. Lydia shoots him another amused look.
“Apparently, this game is important,” she says, with a shrug. Stiles pulls out his phone, seriously about to check if there was a Twitter announcement. This amount of school spirit dedication is absolutely baffling. Lydia snatches it away, almost instantly.
“It’s about to start!” she says, pointing at the far side of the court where the players come out. The music starts up and the players run out onto the court, all basketball shorts and tank tops. Derek’s face is a wide smile as he jogs out, eyes searching the crowd. They land on Stiles and, if it’s possible, his grin gets wider. Stiles grins back, giving him a shy wave in return.
Once the game gets started, its more fun than he’s ever had at a school event. The amount of people makes the atmosphere more energetic. The team seems to feel it too, they play flawlessly. Stiles gets to watch Derek’s arms flex as he shoots and his butt as he jogs. Every so often Stiles can see Derek look at him, flashing him a quick smile. It makes Stiles’ skin buzz happily.
Between plays, Scott tears up the sidelines with energetic fist pumping and manic running. The mascot costume is a ridiculous furred monstrosity with giant, comical red eyes, but he works it. Stiles gets multiple high fives, probably due to his perfect seating. The howls Scott lets out are audible through the thick mascot head.
The Wolves are in the lead when the clock hits zero during the second quarter. Derek’s latest basket swishes through the hoop as the buzzer loudly announces half time. The whole auditorium stands up in excitement, screaming. Even Lydia hollars, gripping Stiles’ arm tightly. It takes a few minutes to settle, but when it does, the players are off the court. But, not in their seats, which is weird -- and no one is going to the bathroom or even getting up, for that matter. They’re just talking excitedly, eyes darting around the court, like they’re waiting --
The lights drop, all except a few. The song that comes over the auditorium speaker system is slow, lilting --
“Oh, that motherfucker,” Stiles snaps, eyes on the court floor while the cheerleaders parade out of the locker room with handfuls of red and pink balloons, bouquets of flowers, assorted teddy bears. Stiles’ heart tumbles through his chest. The fucking song is Celine Dion.
Three months ago
The alarm blares at 5AM on the dot, jerking Stiles out of his very warm, very comfortable sleep. It makes him angry, suddenly, as he stabs at the screen to stop the noise. He shouldn’t have to be setting an alarm on a Saturday, just so he can sneak out of his boyfriend’s window.
His boyfriend that’s currently sleeping away, obliviously, like the phone didn’t just foghorn at them both. Stiles shoves at Derek’s shoulders, maybe a little too hard. Derek grunts, burying himself into the pillows.
“I have to go,” Stiles says. His tone is too sharp for how early it is, all wrong. Derek seems to sense it, because he picks his head up. The moonlight cuts through his blinds and throws silver highlights on his skin. Stiles wants to bite along them. He doesn’t want to leave at all.
“Fuck, already?” Derek asks, rubbing a wide palm over his face. The sleepy scent of him clings to the air around Stiles, enticing him to stay.
“Well, if you didn’t keep me up until 2AM with all of your handsy shenanigans, it wouldn’t be so bad,” Stiles says, sounding put out. The handsy shenanigans are Stiles’ favorite part of sneaking into Derek’s room. Well, second favorite. First favorite would have to be when they get to curl together and fall asleep. Stiles sleeps best with Derek next to him.
“Right, next time no shenanigans,” Derek lies, giving Stiles a sleepy smile. Stiles’ heart clenches at the look. He’s so fucking sick of this.
“Probably not,” Stiles affirms, rubbing his hands over his face before he swings his legs over the side of the bed and roots around for his pants. When he pulls his shirt on he has the thought, not for the first time, that he wishes he could take one of Derek’s shirts home. He could have Derek’s scent on him all day, like a perpetual hug that will eventually wear out when Stiles sweats.
“What are you thinking about?” Derek asks, sounding more awake than he was. To be fair, Stiles usually doesn’t roll out of bed so quickly. Stiles still has a half hour before actually has to climb out Derek’s window and go home.
“I don’t want to keep doing this,” Stiles says, chest tightening with the words. Whether it’s from anxiety or just the truth of it, Stiles doesn’t know. He just knows that he feels sick about, well, everything.
“Not again, Stiles,” Derek says, voice flat and annoyed. Stiles sighs, he knows he says it a lot. More than he should. Twice, it’s led to a complete break up between them. This will be the third time, he knows that for a fact. It’s 5AM and he’s so done. Done has left the building. Stiles is 200 miles past done.
“Yeah, not again,” Stiles replies, tugging on his shirt with tight movements. “You know what I was thinking about? I was thinking about how I can’t even take one of your shirts home. I can’t because that might be too obvious.”
“It is, Stiles,” Derek says. He’s staring at the comforter, not Stiles.
“Is it?” Stiles asks, jamming his feet into his sneakers. They’re angry whispering, so they don’t wake anyone up. “God forbid someone sees me in a shirt of yours. It’s not like we’re actually friends, that is not the first conclusion they would jump to.”
“You didn’t want to be friends,” Derek reminds him. It’s a recycled argument that they’re having. “I told you we could, it’s fine if we are --”
“You actually think I can do that?” Stiles demands. There’s that tell-tale tightening behind his eyes. He blinks sharply. He will not cry. “Having to be around you and not being able to touch you? Oh my god, that would actually kill me.”
“It’s your choice.”
“That’s such bullshit! How long have we been together?” Stiles demands, flinging his hands at Derek. Derek doesn’t answer, just stares at him with his eyebrows perked up. “Almost a year, if you subtract all the times we’ve broken up. Being friends is my choice? When we’ve been closeted for a year? That is your choice.”
“What do you want me to say?” Derek asks, sitting up now, leaning forward now. Dedicating himself to their argument. Stiles relishes the attention, the way Derek’s eyes stay locked on his. “I’m not ready. Why do you have to hold that over my head?”
“Because I’m tired of it,” Stiles says. He feels the fight going out of him. They’ve had this conversation in every incarnation it can happen in: tender confessions, screaming matches, careful deliberation. The end result will be that Derek doesn’t want to come out and Stiles will do anything for them to come out. The finality of Stiles’ earlier statement will mean they break up. Derek will go party and probably hook up with Braedon like the first time. Stiles will drink an entire bottle of Jack Daniels and call Derek to yell at him for breaking his heart.
Then, Derek will need a ride home from the party or Stiles will need to be picked up off whatever curb he sat his drunk ass down on. They’ll go. They’ll pick each other up and they’ll answer each other’s phone calls. They’ll always text back. They’ll always end up back to where they started and never regret it. It’s who they are. No matter how many times they try to pull themselves apart, they end up sticking back together.
Stiles looks at Derek, highlighted by moonlight, and aches in his chest. He knows he’s never going to find anyone that lights a fire in him the way Derek does. If Stiles believed in soul mates, he would believe that Derek was his. If there are multiple lifetimes, they find each other in every one. Despite their shortcomings, they fit together without jagged edges.
“I can’t just be your friend,” Stiles says, voice soft again. If he raises it, he knows it will crack. “I can’t stop myself from touching you, it’s automatic. But, I can’t do this, I can’t hide us. You’re a huge part of who I am, I can’t keep that a secret.”
It kills him every time they fall out because he has no one he can go to about this. Nobody knows. The last time, he resorted to telling Scott that he met some guy on an RPG game and that was why he was acting moody and horrible.
“Fuck, you’re serious,” Derek says. Stiles can see his hands tighten on the sheets. Something frantic rattles around in Stiles’ chest.
“Yeah, I am,” Stiles says, resists say ‘this time’, because Derek knows that they’ve done it before. Stiles pulls his keys out of under the mess on Derek’s desk and shoves them into his pocket with his wallet and phone. Usually Stiles sticks around to argue it out, but he wants Derek to know that this time it’s different. This time it has to be different.
Derek scrambles out of bed, rubbing his eyes quickly. The time it takes him to cross the room and grab onto Stiles’ arm like an anchor has to be a record.
“Don’t, please,” he says, eyes big and appealing. Something in Stiles’ stomach sways like the ocean. “You can take a shirt, Stiles. Take whatever you want, just don’t. I can’t do this again.”
Stiles’ stomach sinks, unsure. He could just take the shirt and be happy with that. But, then, he has to go back to ignoring Derek in the halls, hating himself for it. It makes him feel like a coward, hiding such a large part of himself. His dad doesn’t know, Scott doesn’t know. They’ve been together for so long and nothing has changed. When it first began, Stiles was okay with it. He would do anything to have Derek and be able to keep Derek.
The constant stress of it is exhausting, though. Stiles can’t stand the way Derek acts when they’re around each other. It’s dismissive and cruel on a level that Stiles could never have anticipated. Not that Derek is intentionally being cruel, but there’s only so much apologetic kisses, given in secret, can make up for.
“I can’t do this either, Derek,” Stiles says, very seriously. There’s tears on his face, regret is practically choking him, but he can’t. He just can’t. Derek understands that he’s serious, Stiles knows, because he’s carefully still, eyes tight with sadness.
“Please, Stiles,” Derek says, voice catching in his throat like it’s sticky. Stiles sighs heavily as Derek pulls him in and presses a sweet kiss to his forehead, his cheek, his lips. “Don’t make me go through this again. I don’t want to lose you.”
Stiles kisses him back, desperately. He doesn’t want to do this, but he knows he has to. It’s all a journey of self-love, right? Stiles needs to do this because he can’t keep hiding. He’s going to come out, all the way out. Not just joking about thinking guys are hot, actively admitting he thinks guys are hot. He’ll be the official gay man on campus. Aside from Danny. He needs to do it with Derek beside him and out, or no Derek at all. He refuses to come out, but have a closeted boyfriend. That’s not how he wants to work, that’s not what he wants to do.
“We can talk some more when you come out,” Stiles says, low but firm. A small, hurt sound escapes Derek. This whole thing is complete shit, but Stiles refuses to keep doing this. It’s better, in the long run, if he can hold his ground.
“Can I have time?” Derek asks, softly. A few, melodramatic tears slip down Stiles’ face as he cups Derek’s cheek. Derek sighs and leans into it. Stiles heart hurts.
“You know I’ll always be here,” Stiles says, truthfully. “God, no matter what, you’re the one I want.”
“Then, why --”
“I just can’t,” Stiles says, cutting Derek off. He scoots so that he can rest his head back on the window, leaning away from Derek. It makes it easier to think. He sniffles harshly and wipes his tears away. “Until you’re ready, I can’t do this. I’m going to come out and I need you with me.”
“I can’t --”
“I know,” Stiles sighs. “I’m not asking for anything from you until you’re ready. When you are I’ll say yes, I know I will, and then we can be together. But, I’ll need like, a fucking parade or something. Balloons, flowers, maybe that stupid Titanic song. Declarations of love, so many.”
“You know I love you,” Derek says. Stiles nods quickly, because he does.
“It doesn’t make me feel any less like shit,” Stiles says, trying to crack a smile. His mouth wobbles out of it, so he stops trying. Derek sighs and looks away, eyelashes fluttering in the moonlight. God, Stiles doesn’t want to do this.
“I’m sorry,” he says. Stiles nods, throat dry, wishing Derek would just man up and do it. For Stiles, for them. To prove that he’s serious. It never happens. Derek kisses him one last time, slow and lingering, aching with regret. Then, Stiles leaves, sneakers hitting the pitch black streets. He lingers in his car, pretending like it’s not for the sole purpose of seeing if Derek will come after him. When the sun tinges the edges of the sky with light, Stiles drives home.
It’s been three months of feeling absolutely hollow. At first, Stiles thought maybe now they could be friends, but just looking at Derek’s face made him feel miserable. It wasn’t hard to avoid Derek, they had so much practice that it was second nature. Any time their social circles did overlap, Stiles wouldn’t even look at Derek. If avoiding Derek was an art form, Stiles was fucking Van Gogh.
But, today. Stiles definitely couldn’t ignore the jacket or the rose. He definitely can’t ignore My Heart Will Go On on the loudspeakers at the basketball game. Scott is going nuts, jumping up and down, hyping up the crowd. The cheerleaders march by where Stiles and the girls are, literally throwing the flowers on the floor in front of them, before peeling away in varying levels of enthusiastic tumbling. Lydia’s face is confused, surprised, absolutely priceless.
“What’s going on?” she asks, looking at the flowers on the ground, eyes scanning the court. The cheerleaders with balloons are actually going through a routine with them, shouting something Stiles can’t hear over the ringing in his own ears, the sound of that stupid Titanic song.
“Derek,” Stiles says, right as Derek takes the court with the rest of the basketball players. His eyes are right on Stiles as he takes the microphone, grin lighting up his face. He’s gorgeous. Stiles feels like he’s going to die from embarrassment. It takes a minute to calm the commotion of the auditorium, like they know exactly what’s going to happen. Stiles’ heart clenches in his chest, nerves ramping up a few notches.
“Stiles,” Derek says, voice low. The crowd cheers and Derek drops his head in obvious amusement, waiting for them to die down. “Stiles!”
More cheering.
“Let the man talk!” Boyd yells, into the microphone. Half kidding, half serious. The rowdy crowd dies down. Stiles hears a couple of girls squeal happily behind him.
“There’s some things about me that most of you don’t know,” Derek starts. Someone in the crowd screams. Derek laughs. “The biggest thing is that I’m bisexual.”
The auditorium erupts into cheering and whistling. Someone is yelling, “I knew it!” in a loud voice. It might be Danny. Stiles’ heart rate jumps, eyes starting to get watery. His skin feels too tight all over. Lydia is watching him with a frown.
“The second biggest thing is that I’m in love with Stiles Stilinski,” the auditorium goes quiet, a collective breath being held. Lydia ‘eeps’ next to him, but he doesn’t look at her. The only thing he can see is Derek getting closer, so sincere.
“I have been for over a year. We were dating, but I was scared of what people would think, so I kept it quiet. It was selfish and it hurt him and I’m so sorry, Stiles. More than anything. I talked to the guys first and my family. I’m out, I’m outing myself because I can’t do this without you. I’m tired of it. I want to be able to kiss you and hold your hand, but I just really miss you. More than anything, I miss my best friend.”
Stiles is crying, actually crying. Everything feels overwhelming, almost like a dream, it’s so damn surreal. Derek’s at the bottom of the bleachers now, just a few tiers down from Stiles, holding out his hand. Stiles walks down, ignoring the jostling of the people around him. He can’t breath when he takes Derek’s hand. There’s a hotness under his skin that he attributes to everyone’s eyes on them and finally touching Derek for the first time in months. Derek’s thumb comes up to wipe away his tears gently, which actually makes him cry harder.
“Stiles Stilinski, I love you, more than anything,” Derek says, into the microphone. His eyes are so green and so sincere. Stiles’ ears are tingling again. “Will you be my Valentine, baby?”
Stiles doesn’t answer, he just throws himself at Derek, pressing a kiss to his lips as the entire auditorium erupts behind them. Even the opposing team’s crowd is cheering, all 15 people who bothered to come out for the away game. Derek grips him tightly, like he can’t imagine letting go, and they melt into each other.
“Yes,” Stiles says, pressing kisses all over Derek’s face. “Yes, yes, yes, yes.” Derek laughs loudly and picks Stiles up by the waist, swinging him around before kissing him again, longer and harder and everything that Stiles needed. The way they fit together is perfection defined.
“I guess you won the Valentine’s Day Douche-Off,” Stiles says against Derek’s lips when they pull away.
“Just for you,” Derek says, laughing into his mouth.