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It's 3AM and the once-pristine hardwood floors and marble countertops of Lydia's beach house are covered in polaroids, pink and gold glitter, and a smattering of empty vodka bottles that had, only a few hours before, poured the midnight toast celebrating Erica's 21st with glasses full of her favorite mixed drink, Sex on the Beach.
"Incidentally, it's also my favorite activity," she'd teased around a red-lipped grin, throwing a flirtatious wink at Boyd, who'd ducked his head and smiled back sheepishly, earning them a round of cat-calls and wolf-whistles from the rest of the pack. Not long after, they'd snuck out the back to "take a walk along the beach" giving the other couples an excuse to slip back up to their respective rooms for some alone time.
Pretty much everyone in their pack had been paired up for years now: Erica and Boyd, Lydia and Parrish, Scott and Allison, Isaac and Jackson, Kira and Malia. Everyone, that is, except for Stiles and Derek — still awake at three o'clock in the morning, drunk off their asses on vodka and schnapps, sat side by side on the living room couch deep in the throes of an all-out war over which one of them is better at Mario Kart.
Answer: it's not Stiles.
"You sneaky son of a bitch, how many fucking blue shells do you even have?" Stiles shouts as yet another barbed blue homing missile comes whizzing along the racetrack and sends Shy Guy spinning out of first place. Toadette Wins! flashes across the screen for the eleventh time in a row, celebratory music drowned out by the sound of Derek's smug laughter.
Positive he'll get lucky this time, Stiles starts up the next race, almost immediately slips on a banana peel, and in a petty fit of rage completely by accident, shuts off the gaming console mid-race, which only serves to make Derek laugh even harder.
"Listen, the only reason I suck so badly is because I'm drunk," Stiles insists, swiping Derek's controller out of his hands and settling it back onto the charger. "Under normal circumstances, I could totally kick your ass."
"Sure you could," Derek teases with a playful roll of his eyes. "Tell you what — I'll have another drink to even the score."
"Fucking werewolf stamina," Stiles scoffs and shakes his head, immediately regretting it when the room spins violently.
Derek shrugs. "I could go for another round of Sex on the Beach," he says, though admittedly, he's already quite drunk as it is, wolfsbane-infused vodka swimming giddy laps in his veins.
"The drink or the activity?" Stiles quips, and something about the way Stiles looks at him in that moment, eyebrows arched suggestively, big goofy grin plastered across his sun-kissed face, makes Derek let out a snort of laughter, and without thinking, he blurts out, "Oh my god, I fucking love you so much."
The rational part of his brain responsible for years worth of emotional constipation stirs feebly, but ultimately ends up face-planting back onto the couch cushions, and before he can overthink his big, accidental, liquor-inspired love confession, Stiles beams at him with a beatific smile so big it turns his eyes into half-moons, and without missing a beat, enthusiastically proclaims, "I fucking love you so much!"
And Derek— tries his damnedest not to read too much into it. Stiles says that to everyone in the pack, especially when he's drunk. It shouldn't — and it doesn't — affect him. He'll blame the rush of heat that tinges the tips of his ears on the sunburn that healed hours ago, caught in the midst of an afternoon spent chasing Stiles around the beach, kicking saltwater at each other's ankles and laughing when a swarm of seagulls tried to steal their fish and chips, the skip in his racing heart on the giggling fit the two of them collapse into just now, tousled chestnut hair tickling the underside of his chin as Stiles tucks himself into Derek's side.
It's almost too easy, the way the two of them fit so perfectly in each other's space, laughter subsiding to contented sighs as the gentle ebb and flow of ocean waves lapping against the shore pulls any remaining tension from their muscles. Moonlight spills in silver tendrils through the open bay window, carrying with it a balmy summer breeze scented with saltwater and orange blossoms from a nearby grove, cool night air carding its fingers through their hair, sending pleasurable little shivers down the length of their spines.
Lulled by the maritime lullaby, Derek heaves a happy sigh and leans his head against Stiles's shoulder, heart leaping into his throat when Stiles nuzzles his chin against the top of Derek's head.
"Soft," Stiles coos sleepily, stifling a stuttered yawn. "So soft. So fluffy. The best hair. The best everything."
Derek hums fondly, basking in the gentle scrape of Stiles's stubble combing through his hair, warm breath perfumed with peach and cranberry ghosting across the bridge of his nose.
"I really do, though," he mumbles softly, burying his nose in the curve of Stiles's shoulder and catching hints of cinnamon and clove underneath the thick layer of saltwater and sunscreen, his very own secret source of autumn in the middle of the summer.
"Love you," he clarifies, his voice soft enough that even a werewolf would have trouble hearing him.
He's met with silence, and for a moment, Derek worries he's said too much, gone too far.
"Stiles?" he prompts, shifting just enough to be able to glance up at him, only to find that Stiles has fallen asleep, head lolling against the back of the couch in a position that kinks Derek's neck just looking at him.
Derek chuckles and shakes his head, carefully repositioning them so that Stiles is resting comfortably with his head draped across Derek's chest, and settles into the couch cushions with an arm wrapped protectively around him.
• • •
Derek wakes the next morning with a newfound hatred of all things sensory that burns just as bright as the blinding sunlight streaming in through the open bay window. Well…almost all things sensory. The feeling of Stiles sprawled on top of him, heavy thigh strung over his hips, pouted lips pressed against the curve of his neck, isn't exactly the worst thing to wake up to. The sight of every single one of their packmates gawking at them from the kitchen doorway like they're a zoo exhibit, on the other hand…not so much.
Derek bolts upright, immediately regretting the way his head pounds at the sudden rush of blood, disentangles himself from a very grumpy, still very much asleep Stiles, who protests the sudden cuddle buddy deficit with an audible hmmf and a liberal amount of tongue as he mouths against Derek's neck, and follows them into the kitchen. Before he can even cross the threshold, he's ambushed by Erica and Lydia, sharp manicured nails fisting into the front of his t-shirt and hauling him bodily into a chair at the kitchen table.
He's gearing up to growl at them about boundaries and the radical concept of showing a modicum of respect for your alpha, when they set a steaming mug of coffee and the greasiest plate of crispy bacon and syrup-drowned waffles he's ever seen down in front of him — a classic hangover cure that would probably smell amazing if his stomach wasn't tangled up in knots.
He looks up to find his captors in question leaning back against the kitchen island, arms crossed and eyebrows arched expectantly, celebratory smirks fading to looks of genuine concern as they take in his miserable expression.
"Something's not adding up here," Erica observes. "You don't look like someone who just woke up in the arms of the guy he's been crazy about for the past five years. I should know." She shoots an appreciative smile at Boyd, who bites his lower lip to hold back a grin.
"Exactly," Lydia agrees, the corners of her lips quirking up ever so slightly as her gaze flickers to Parrish, busy at the stove plating a stack of waffles for Isaac. "I want details, Derek. Now."
Derek shifts his focus between the two of them, willing all manner of evasive maneuvers, scathing retorts, and sarcastic quips to the tip of his tongue, wondering if he could even get away with it in the company of a werewolf who could hear the telltale lie in a single skip of his heartbeat and a banshee with a knack for deciphering split-second micro-expressions, and lets out a sigh that hedges on a whimper, burying his face in the palms of his hands.
"Oof, that bad, huh?" Malia asks with an attempt at sympathy, setting her own plate of waffles down at the seat across from him and devouring them with gusto.
"Okay, now even I'm curious," Jackson interjects, chugging some kind of kale-yogurt-chia seed nightmare smoothie. "What the hell happened between you and Stilinski last night?"
Derek's hands shift to the sides of his face, shielding him from the prying eyes of his packmates, eyes wide in theatrical horror as the memory of last night plays on an endless mocking loop in his mind.
"I…think I told Stiles I love him last night," he admits, wincing as the kitchen explodes in a flurry of cheers and chants of oh my god, fucking finally.
"This is the best birthday present ever," Erica exclaims, snagging a piece of Derek's bacon and flashing him a shit-eating grin when he pouts at her.
"I was wondering when you were gonna make a move," Scott says around a lopsided grin, clapping him on the back like a stamp of approval.
"You two have been head over heels stupid for each other for years," Isaac adds in muffled agreement, cheeks stuffed so full with waffles he looks like a cartoon chipmunk.
Derek lets out a strangled whine and bangs his head against the table, which only serves to aggravate his hangover.
"You guys don't understand," he groans, words muted by the hard press of his face against the polished oak. "This is bad. This is very, very bad. This is totally going to ruin the friendship we worked so hard to build."
"So? Friendship is the perfect foundation for a romantic relationship," Lydia insists. "Look at me and Jordan. Look at Kira and Malia, Isaac and Jackson. All of those relationships started out as friends, and look where they are now: years later and still going strong."
He glances away from her long enough to catch the saccharine sight of Isaac and Jackson making eyes at each other, and Kira leaning down to kiss the top of Malia's forehead as she works her way through a third helping of waffles.
"I don't see the problem here," Lydia continues before Derek can have a chance to argue. "You like him, he likes you, and now that it's out in the open, the two of you can stop pining after each other like the world's worst will-they/won't-they rom-com arc and finally just be together."
Derek rolls his eyes and levels her with a scowl sharp enough to rival her favorite pair of stilettos.
"There's just one glaring flaw in your logic," he grumbles, but there's very little bite to the words, all the venom leeching out of his tone in favor of something softer and more wistful as he thunks his forehead back down against the kitchen table. "Stiles doesn't feel the same way. Never has, never will."
"You sure about that?" Stiles's voice chimes from the doorway, and Derek's head snaps up so fast he nearly gives himself whiplash, the tips of his ears burning scarlet. He's leaning against the doorframe looking adorably disheveled, hair sticking up in gravity-defying cowlicks, lower lip caught between his teeth as he struggles to hold back a rapturous grin, and Derek has half a mind to wonder whether Jackson swiped a claw across the back of his neck, because all he can do is just sit there and stare at Stiles like he's been whacked across the back of the head with a lacrosse stick.
Several tension-filled seconds pass before the pack takes matters into their own hands, Erica and Jackson all but throwing Derek out of his chair, Boyd and Isaac nudging him forward until there's only a few inches left between him and Stiles.
"Really?" Derek asks him, a little breathless, a look of cautious hope in his eyes.
"Yeah, really," Stiles chuckles, goofy grin in full bloom across his face now.
"I've never been so happy to be wrong," Derek laughs, closing the distance between them and kissing Stiles, far too wrapped up in the man he's been in love with for literal years to care about the eruption of cheers, cat-calls, and wolf-whistles from their meddling packmates.
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