Work Text:
Stiles stood in the middle of the aisle, trying to decide which color was right. He reached out and ran his fingers over a couple, frowning when they didn’t feel right. He moved to the end of the aisle, where he saw a large bin marked “Clearance.” On top of the mismatched assortment of colors and textures sat a ball of cerulean mohair that called out to him.
Hurrying forward, he reached out for the ball, tripping when he got close. His hands bumped the ball. It wobbled for a second before rolling off the top of the pile. Stiles scrambled and managed to catch a loose end. His fingers knocked the ball, and it moved out of reach. It bounced out of the bin and headed down the aisle at the back of the store.
Stiles held his end and hurried after the ball, trying to wind it up as he moved. The yarn collided with a stack of easels in the corner and turned to go down one of the aisles. “Are you kidding me?” Stiles muttered. “Who designed this place? Haven’t they ever heard of a level?”
He would give up, but the longer he held that bit of yarn between his fingers, he knew it was the perfect yarn for his project. He turned the corner and saw that the yarn had taken another detour, probably due to the small child sitting on the floor next to his mother’s feet. Stiles took a second to ask him about the yarn and followed the child’s finger.
“Thanks, little dude,” Stiles said, trailing after the yarn.
He knew the ball would eventually run out, so running after it was probably pointless. Slowing down, he concentrated on rolling the yarn up. He watched as he wrapped it, turning the growing ball every couple of times to keep it even. He felt the effort in his arms and wondered if this counted as arm day so he could skip the gym later.
The wrapping became hypnotic, and Stiles stopped paying attention to where he was going until he ran into something and stumbled backward. He managed to keep a grip on the yarn as he steadied himself. Looking up, he froze as his eyes locked with a pair of blue-green eyes wide with surprise. Stiles noted they were nearly the same color as the yarn he’d been chasing.
“Sorry,” the man said. “This ball of yarn hit me in the foot, and I was trying to find the other end.”
Stiles laughed, holding up his ball of yarn. “Well, you found it.”
“I see. I’m Derek,” he said, holding out his hand, not holding the small ball of yarn.
“Stiles,” he responded, taking his hand, amazed by the warmth engulfing his own and the shiver that ran up his spine. They stood like that, hands clasped, gazing into each other's eyes until the little boy from earlier ran past them, his harried mother hot on his heels.
Stiles cleared his throat and pulled his hand away to rub at the back of his neck, cheeks warming. He was at a loss for words but didn’t want to walk away.
Derek chuckled, the sound vibrating through the air and into Stiles’ chest. “Well, this isn’t exactly red,” he said, holding up the yarn.
“Red?” Stiles asked, and this time, Derek’s ears turned pink as he went on to explain the red string of fate. “Oh, yeah, right.” Stiles grinned at the idea of this yarn linking them together. “But blue is just pretty, don’t you think?”
Derek smiled and ducked his head before looking back up at Stiles. “Yeah, blue is just pretty,” he said before inviting Stiles to lunch.