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Stiles bites his bottom lip, furrowing his brows, and focuses on the exploding lights on the large TV. The controller vibrates in his hands as the helicopter finally explodes. Finally. This stupid thing has haunted him for the whole fucking game. He rubs his left eye with his knuckle and scrunches up his face. Sleep is slowly becoming less and less avoidable. It’s already way past three am, and his eyes grow heavy.
Briefly, Stiles glances over his shoulder. Isaac is already sleeping, back turned to him and the blanket pulled up almost to his ears. Stiles taps a finger against the controller. Sharing a bed with Isaac is equally the worst and the best thing in the history of ever. He wants nothing more than to curl up in Isaac’s arms, fall asleep and wake up next to him. However, there’s the whole ‘not-actually-dating’ issue. Snuggling up to Isaac now — something his traitorous body might just be doing while he’s sleeping — would probably be not only awkward but also very hard to explain.
Fuck.
Stiles bites down on his index finger, scowling at the game again. Nathan Drake is patiently waiting for him to make a decision. Continue and ignore the fact that he’s tired as hell or jump over his shadow and go to sleep. The first option sounds a lot more enthralling, but Stiles knows very well he’s not going to be able to keep this up for a week straight. Stiles has no clue what the point of a luxury apartment like this is if there are only two bedrooms and one convertible couch. Isaac flying in from France to join them already makes this complicated. If Lydia and Jackson hadn’t started dating again a few weeks back, one of them would have to sleep on the floor. This apartment has so much space and yet basically nowhere to sleep.
Sighing, Stiles ends the game. Better to just get it over with. How bad can it be? They both have their own blanket. They have their own pillow. The couch is easily big enough for two. This is going to be totally fine. Stiles places the controller on the coffee table and shuts the TV off, plunging the room into mostly darkness.
“Finally.”
Stiles almost jumps off the couch. “Shit.” Pressing a hand to his chest, he turns around to look at the werewolf. “I thought you’re asleep.”
Isaac chuckles and rolls onto his back, stretching a bit. “I was too busy listening to you cursing. You’re quite creative.” His curls flop into his forehead. Grinning, Isaac brushes them away. “And then you started cursing in Polish…” he trails off and tips his head to the side just a little, studying Stiles’ face. “I didn’t expect it to be that hot.”
Stiles blinks.
What?
Exactly how tired is he again? This has to be a hallucination caused by sleep deprivation. Stiles opens his mouth then closes it, squinting at Isaac.
“What?” Isaac quirks a brow, face partially illuminated by the dim lamp in the corner of the room. This guy has absolutely no business being that pretty.
Stiles has absolutely no idea what to say, and he’s never particularly thrilled about being rendered speechless. That’s how people know something’s up. So, in a fit of mild panic, he grabs his pillow and smacks Isaac with it. There, that should give him a bit more time. Hopefully. Stiles is not ready for a discussion about why he’s flustered. “Jackass,” he adds for good measure.
Isaac chuckles. “I mean it,” he says and sits up, “it’s hot. You’re hot.”
What the fuck is happening? Stiles stares at him in confusion. Yes, Isaac has always been quite blunt. There’s no other way to describe it. But this is a lot. This is a bit too much — and way too on the nose. Isaac can’t know, right? He can’t possibly know about his crush six hours after they’ve seen each other for the first time in — what, two years? Stiles thought he was over it. Seeing Isaac lounging on the living room couch next to Danny with his stupid smirk and his soft curls, his feelings ended up back in junior year.
Great.
“Cat got your tongue?” Isaac scoots forward, legs nudging the small of Stiles’ back. He’s close. He’s very fucking close.
Stiles turns around to look at him. “Shut up.”
Isaac runs his knuckles over Stiles’ cheek, smiling softly, eyes dropping to his mouth before flicking back up. Eyes dropping to his mouth. “You’re still so awkward with compliments.” Isaac chuckles and, being the werewolf he is, completely disregards everything he should know about personal space.
“I’m not.” And that would be a lie. Stiles hates compliments. With a burning passion. It doesn’t really have anything to do with a lack of self-worth. He just doesn’t know how to react.
Isaac’s grin widens, eyes sparkling mischievously. “Oh, so you’re just nervous when I’m giving you a compliment, Pretty Boy?”
Stiles blushes, and he hates that he blushes. His body really is working against him once again. He’s not a fan. Not at all. This is so stupid. “I— uh…” he tugs at his sweatpants, unable to look away from Isaac even though eye contact becomes increasingly more intense. And then— and then Isaac’s mouth is on his, fingers brushing over his cheek before his hand slides into place on the nape of his neck.
His heart is about to explode out of his chest, and Stiles’ hands snap up, curling into Isaac’s loose shirt on his own accord. Something snaps into place, and he pushes against him. Groaning when Isaac doesn’t hesitate a second and hoists him onto his lap. He parts his lips, running his tongue over the wolf’s bottom lip. Isaac’s fingers twitch on his hips before one hand returns to the nape of Stiles’ neck. He shudders and wraps his arms around Isaac’s shoulders, pressing further against him.
“I’ve wanted to do that,” Isaac pants against Stiles’ lips, mouth parting into a smirk, “for so long.”
Stiles swallows. “You did?”
“I wanna do so much more to you.” Isaac pulls away a little and works his fingers through his curls. “But Jackson will rip out my spine if I have my way with you on his couch.” He wraps his arms around Stiles’ waist, tapping a finger against his lower back. “Maybe we can cuddle. You know…” he trails off and leans back, grinning slightly, “seeing as we’re already here.”
Cocking his head to the left, Stiles tugs on Isaac’s shirt. “You’re not kidding?”
Isaac shakes his head, expression softening, and cups Stiles’ cheek — a touch he immediately leans into. “You’re home to me. Always have been… at least ever since…” His eyes darken, and he looks down. Ever since the Hale Pack stopped existing. Sure, Isaac lived with Scott, yet Stiles couldn’t help but notice how he always managed to find a way to get to Stiles — sit next to him in class or at lunch, sign up for cross-country, return to lacrosse. When he left for France, Stiles felt it, too; a strange hole that refused to fill, that got even worse when Derek and Peter turned their backs on Beacon Hills.
Stiles nods and leans down, pressing his lips to Isaac’s softly. “I feel the same way,” he whispers and nudges their noses together. “And since we’re in London for a week, we should consider a hotel.” He chuckles when Isaac’s eyes darken and kisses him again. “I’d like for you to keep your spine.”
“Sounds like a plan.” Isaac moves them with ease, draping himself along Stiles’ back, and pulls his blanket over the two of them.
Sighing, Stiles closes his eyes, and the hole in his heart shrinks a little, now that part of his home returned to him.