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When Scott looks at Stiles he tries not to think about the change and how plans tended to drift off course, making his blood boil. First it’s teeth sinking ruthlessly on his skin, then it’s everything that comes with it. In summary, change usually goes for the worst in his life, and he'd rather keep his distance.
“Dude, your mom texted me five times this week, like some plot to have me persuade you into talking to her," Stiles whines, walking in his direction. "So, when are you gonna talk to her?” He drops by Scott's side, throwing his backpack sloppily on the table, phone loose under his fingers. Their knees bump and Scott can feel the friction of fabric sliding together as they adjust to each other.
“I-I’m gonna talk to her.” He nods to himself, sliding to the side so they’re not so close anymore. “I just don’t know how to yet,” he shrugs. “She doesn’t know about my trouble sleeping, I didn’t wanna worry her.”
Stiles looks at him with small frown and… is that a pout? “Of course you didn’t, Scotty.” He pats him in the back. “C’mon, modern Jesus, we gotta get to class and then tell your mom you need company sleeping.”
And Scott chuckles, the corner of his eyes wrinkling. But it’s a halfhearted sound, because what Stiles says isn’t entirely true. While, yes, he does need the company, it’s not just from anyone. Scott didn’t religiously jump into Stiles’ room every Friday (which grew to Wednesdays and Mondays as well as the weeks passed) because he needed someone. It was a very specific need for Stiles himself and no one else. He doesn’t understand the tug in his gut, the constant need for closeness and the protective urges that are starting to build up inside him, or why is it only directed towards his best friend, but they’re there and they’re very much real.
He needs to tell Stiles about it.
_
When school's over Stiles drives them to Scott's house, because it's a Wednesday and he didn't have his bike with him. Stiles tries to talk Scott's nerves down and pats him in the shoulder once or twice, following his actions with long sentences ending with 'okay, buddy?'s and 'right, Scotty?'s. It's all he can pay attention to and it freaks him out of his mind. Scott tells him he's fine and that he can do this, even if he knows Stiles can read him like a magazine, no special powers, no nothing. Stiles doesn't say anything when he parks the car sloppily on his Scott's driveway and they go in.
“Why are you two sitting still together?” It’s the first thing Melissa says when she crosses her door. She narrows her eyes at them, looking suspiciously at the boys, and stops mid action, waiting for an answer.
“We need to talk.” Scott says, breathily. And, oh god, this may be about to get awkward.
“Okaaay, should I be scared? Is about not sleeping home?” She pauses, “why is Stiles here?”
“Oh, hah, that did not offend me.” Stiles remarks, half whispering, more to himself than anyone else. Melissa doesn’t lay an eye on him.
Scott looks at the both of them before speaking, and tries gathering his thoughts best as he can. He's sure there's isn't much to be said but his mother's demanding look, even if it's somehow still soft and welcoming, makes him feel like he's about to read out a thesis. “Yes. Uhm, I… I've been sleeping at Stiles’,” He looks up at her earnestly after choosing his words very carefully. “Because I’ve been having trouble sleeping on my own ever since…uh, the funeral—Allison’s funeral.” He confesses. Those always seem to be the words to suck the air out of the room, even if Scott tries using them as lightly as humanly possible. Stiles never mentions it, which makes Scott queasy because Stiles was never against bringing things like those up, not even about his mom. Even if it happened rarely, it still happened.
Melissa walks up to him, crouches and takes his hands on hers, squeezing reassuringly. "Sweetie, why didn't you tell me?" She enquires, looking into his eyes.
Scott smiles something small because he can practically hear Stiles going "well, why do you think?" in his head, then something about Scott and Mother Teresa. He's wrong. They're all wrong. He's not that good, he's just trying really hard. "I didn't wanna worry you." He replies earnestly.
Melissa takes a deep breath, closing her eyes. He's so scared she might break, but she never does, "Scott, I worry." She says it like she's about to scold him. "I'm always worried, sweetheart, you're a werewolf. You've had more death in your life than anyone should have at four times your age, honey. You think I can't add something else to my count and keep going? Because I can." His mother looks at him fiercely, and it shakes him out of his doubt.
He feels stupid for ever thinking his mom couldn't handle things when he mostly can. But he's a werewolf, this is Beacon Hills, and he's allowed to be illogical. "I'm sorry." He smiles again, and feels his stomach twist under his mom's words. Death. The ultimate enemy, constantly staring at him in the face, and he just smiled at its mention.
"That being said, do whatever you need to do to get some sleep, sweetie, but you need to tell the Sheriff, if he doesn't already know." This time she looks at Stiles, who's halfway through eating the inside of his cheek at this point.
"He doesn't, but I'll tell him." Stiles offers, relaxing a bit on his seat. "I mean, I don't think he'll mind, but yeah, I'll tell him." He nods, and so does Melissa.
"I'm sure he won't, but it's his house and he should know about it." She pats her son's knee, getting up. "Anything else I need to know? Because I have to make dinner."
"What're you making?" Stiles' voice comes out high pitched and quick, like it does when he's euphoric about something (he's always euphoric about food). He coughs lightly and pats Scott in the back. "Asking for a friend."
Melissa sighs feigning impatience and leaves for the kitchen with the two boys on her six.
_
When Scott enters Stiles' room this time, he does it through the door. He's got one bag tucked under his arm and another hanging from the tip of his fingers. Stiles turns back at him, hands on his waist and he looks only slightly surprised. "My mom made me bring food. As a thanks." He shrugs.
"Huh." Is all Stiles says for a bit, eyes scanning his friend. "It's Thursday, Scott." He completes.
Scott nods apologetically, putting the bags on his friend's bed. "I know, I didn't come to sleep, I just wanted to give you back some of the pajamas you borrowed me. And the food, because my mom made me."
Stiles looks at him suspiciously, narrowing his eyes when he crosses his arms in front of his chest. "Bullshit," He decides, the word coming out in a no-harm kind of harsh. Stiles has a way of expressing himself that Scott knows too well to leave alone. "What is it? Is everything okay?" He loosens his voice this time, not letting his arms fall free yet.
Scott sighs, falling back into the bed. Things are most certainly not okay. He's not okay. "I don't know." He says it despite himself. "I need to talk to you about something. It might make you mad at me and I don't," Scott swallows, "I don't know how to tell you."
Stiles' entire pose crumbles almost immediately, leaving him with only a concerned frown. He hovers for a second, eyes meeting Scott's, and settles himself beside his friend, glancing a look at him. Scott can hear Stiles' heartbeat reach for the moon, and it's only then that he speaks again, "There's nothing you can't tell me." He says firmly, even as his heart slams against his chest.
Scott nods, because he knows that. It's a primal truth just like every inch of their bond. But being allowed to tell everything doesn't make this particular telling any easier. "Can I just say in advance that I'm really sorry?" He tries.
Stiles chuckles over the wildness of his heart. "Would be weird if you didn't, buddy."
He grimaces at that, feeling even worse, and shifts on the bed, trying to get a better angle to look right at Stiles. Scott balls his fists and closes his eyes, inhaling sharply before opening them again. Stiles is staring at him once Scott can see again, and his look darts all over his face, trying to connect dots and make assumptions, from what Scott knows. When he finally sets himself to speak, it's like he's walking over the edge. His heart racing, pounding in his ears while he's out of breath.
"I think I like you." The words drift off quietly, casual, and Scott doesn't know why. His eyes widen as they look for Stiles', ready to say it again, the way he means it, panicked and out of his mind. "Like, like you." He says again, and there's a silent beat. Two, three, four at most, and then Stiles explodes in words.
"Are you…? Holy sh—Scott!" Stiles stumbles upon his own tongue, sounding the least bit exasperated, "This better not be a joke, or I'm… Jesus, I don't even know."
Scott gets up, watching Stiles' meltdown, one hand over his chest, "Dude, of course I'm not kidding, I'm freaking out here! What are even you doing?"
"I'm freaking out too! Can't you hear it? My heart's literally trying to jump out of my chest right now, man. You can't just say that, Scott!" He whines, and now he's almost shouting, neck veins popping and hands all over the place.
Scott frowns, trying to figure out what that means, "What d’you want me to do, Stiles? I needed to tell you, I never not tell you!" He runs his hand through his hair, feeling a sting of disappointment in his chest. He couldn't've never seen that coming. He'd expect Stiles to be at least a little understanding. But maybe he's right, maybe Scott should've gone differently about this.
"You should've kissed me! None of this confession crap, it just makes things awkward!" Stiles practically lifts himself on his toes, gesturing towards Scott. "And are we fighting? This better not be a fight, Scott, I swear to god, man, because I should be throwing a damn p—"
Scott doesn't let him finish, grabbing Stiles by the elbows, bringing him closer until their stomachs touch, and that's when he presses his palm against Stiles' lower back. When their tongues meet they both hum approvingly, encouragingly, and Scott feels like he might be about the burst with Stiles' hands gripping to his hair, fingers absently swirling around some of it.
"Like that?" He pops the question smugly when he breaks the kiss. Stiles' face is red and his breath is hot after being kissed. Scott loves that he knows that now.
He licks his lips appreciatively, like he's trying to hold on to Scott's taste, "Yeah," Stiles says dumbly, "Exactly like that, actually."
"M'sorry I didn't tell you before." Scott let's his head fall forward, burying it in the crook of Stiles' neck and inhaling, taking all of him in. He kisses him there, nibbles even, and Stiles' breath hitches in the best possible way.
Stiles chuckles like he can't believe what he's hearing, "Hey, at least you told me, dude, I was planning on dying without doing so." He confesses. "I felt guilty enjoying you sleeping with me so much, y'know?" He huffs briefly.
Scott shrugs, pulling away to look at him again, "I felt guilty coming in the first place," He tilts his head half apologetically, "It was wrong, I shouldn't've." Admitting it makes him feel lighter instantly, like he's finally worthy of this, and it's the easiest he breathes in weeks.
Stiles leans forward, hesitating before kissing him again, but when he does, he curls his body against Scott's, heavy and warm, pulling lightly on the boy's hair. "I'm glad you did, Scotty." They touch foreheads and Scott chuckles because he didn't peg Stiles for a cheesy one. He accepts his reality wholeheartedly, though, pulling him closer by the waist and stealing a chaste kiss. Stiles is the one to pull out after a while, with an apologetic smile, "Hey, you know I love this, really, like, I could and will do this for hours in a near future, but I'm actually really hungry..." He glances at the food on the bed, chewing on the inside of his cheek.
"Hey, I'm all for eating." Scott shrugs, letting go of him and heading for the bed as Stiles does. They move in sync all the time and Scott never misses it when they do, smiling to himself. It's soothing, like a gentle hand in the back of his neck—like home, even, because he knows this, he's sure of it—he knows Stiles to the point where their limbs are bound to move similarly at times, to the point where he's gotten him down to a science now, and Scott's been holding familiarity close to his heart these days.
"Oh, nice, enchiladas!" Stiles cheers as he opens one of the bowls from inside the bags. "Wait, are we doing this every week now? 'Cause I'd like the continuity, y'know? Kisses and enchiladas... that'd be so awesome, man." He loosens his neck, throwing his head back slowly, relishing the moment.
Scott laughs, taking one of the bags himself, "I don't think my mom's gonna like either of us demanding enchiladas from her every week," He argues, "But we can do curly fries."
Stiles' eyes light up as soon as Scott says that, eyebrows shooting up, "Are you serious?" When Scott nods the boy almost groans in delight, "Dude, I love you so much right now, you don't even know. M'gonna make you with you so hard when I'm done with this." He says as he digs the bowls out of the bags. Scott watches Stiles fumble with the food now on his lap and hands, looking lost within his choices, trading the bowl's places once and again. It's endearing to see, reminds him of simpler times. He loves it.
"I'm okay with that." He replies, sated, even if he's unarguably beyond okay.