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It’s summer now. The lingering storm has finally passed over Beacon Hills. The clouds have finally parted, bringing sun and warmth back to this town. The quiet has come with it, the thunder dying out and the clip clop of horses disappearing, traveling down the tracks and departing from the train station. Beacon Hills has, now, reverted back to its facade of normalcy, like nothing has changed at all since the taking and returning of Stiles Stilinski.
Scott McCall, though, knows better.
Scott knows that, really, everything has changed. If not for the whole town, then, at least, for him and his friends.
For Scott, the passing storm has brought him to the other side of high school, to graduation and acceptance to his dream college. For Scott, the passing storm has brought his brother back to him and his brother wrapped in the arms of the girl of his dreams. For Scott, the passing storm has brought him to this evening, the sun just barely starting to sink towards the horizon and his watch ticking towards a new hour and a new beginning, a first of sorts.
A first date with Isaac David Lahey.
It doesn’t feel real yet. Scott’s not sure it ever will, though, maybe, he’ll find some proof in picking Isaac up at the loft, his arms looped around Scott’s waist as he drives them on his motorcycle. Or, perhaps, it’ll settle in reality when they get to their location, when they sit across from each other at the local Mexican restaurant – one that carries with it many fond childhood memories for Scott. It’s a special place and he’s bringing a special person there – a person Scott never thought he would have like this, in this context.
Scott never thought he would have this, so he’s, now, having some trouble believing that this is real.
He should be used to it. Their lips have touched more than once. They’ve shared their true feelings – maybe a touch diluted, no mention of that four letter word of love, but they’ve said enough and Scott… Scott understands why it’s too soon and too complicated for Isaac right now. There’s no rush to say it, but they both feel it and they both know it. Scott should be used to this by now when they’ve been official in their relationship for nearly three weeks, but it still feels out of this world. It still feels out of reach even when their first date is tonight, even when it’s drawing closer by the second.
It’s a little late, this date of theirs coming three weeks in, but, all things considered, Scott thinks they’re right on track. It’s a little delayed with the aforementioned storm and the chaos of graduation. It’s a little late with how long they’ve felt this way for each other, how long they’ve both wanted this, but Scott could wait a hundred years more for Isaac Lahey. He would wait forever to get to this date. As long as Scott knows it’ll happen, he’ll be patient, he’ll wait just a little more.
But he doesn’t have to.
It’s late, the culmination of this thing that has been building between them for months if not years, but the wait is over. Tonight is the night.
Scott keeps telling himself that, and yet, again, it doesn’t feel real. It doesn’t feel like something he’s supposed to be allowed to have. Not because they both don’t deserve something truly good in their lives, but because they’ve been deprived of it for so long. They’ve been stuck in this cycle of disaster and grief and holding back for so long that Scott, despite his usual optimism, never actually thought they would get here. He didn’t think this was in the cards for the two of them, thought they were destined for tragedy. Scott never thought he’d confess, never thought he’d feel Isaac’s lips against his, never thought he’d reach a day where he wants to thank Lady Fate.
Scott never thought he would get this, so he didn’t let himself imagine it either. He closed himself off to the possibilities. Only once, did he let himself get lost in a fantasy. Only once, were things dire enough that he couldn’t stop himself from going there, couldn’t keep himself at bay even if he wanted to.
Scott thought about it once. In one single moment he allowed himself that hope, allowed himself to imagine the possibilities, imagine what he thought he would never have.
When Scott was trapped in that ring of mountain ash, when Liam was raging and ranting before him, when Theo dug his claws in deep enough that Scott was actually and really dead for fifteen minutes. In the lead up to that darkness, in the lead up to the moment where he slipped between the cracks of life and death, Scott was thinking about Isaac.
At the time, it had only been a couple weeks since Scott had figured out his feelings for him. Watching Isaac take Corey’s pain, watching how easy it was for him to care about someone he didn’t even know, watching this moment so paralleled to that day back in the animal clinic… Scott couldn’t help but open his eyes, couldn’t help but realize how far he had fallen, how much he loved this boy. At the time, when the super-moon was high in the sky, there was so much else to think about. There was so much going on, but all Scott could think about was Isaac – the missed phone calls and opportunities, the distance between them, the fact that Scott would never get to tell him how he felt.
In the moments after, when Melissa brought him back to life, when he gasped and roared back to the land of the living on the floor of the library, Scott really almost did it. Isaac was sitting right next to him, hand clasped around his wrist, feeling his pulse – a habit that he still hasn’t broken, by the way, an act of affection Isaac still allows himself most days. Isaac was sitting right next to him and Scott almost said it, almost told him everything (ironic considering that that night was the same night that Isaac had his own epiphany, had his own realization about his own feelings, his own love).
But then Derek was swooping in and dragging Isaac away and they fell quickly into the next battle, into saving Stiles’ dad and finding another chimera in Noah Patrick.
And so, Scott didn’t say anything and he closed himself down to this possibility, locked it away and tried not to think about it. It was a near impossible feat with how often Isaac was so close to him, with how much his mind wanted to go there, with how much his heart craved Isaac. It was hard, but it was safe. It was safer not to expect anything, not to let his fantasies run away with Isaac Lahey.
Scott tried not to think about it, tried not to hope for anything. Until, of course, Isaac ran off with Mason in search of Corey – who, it seems, has a big hand in their relationship. (Scott will have to send him a thank you card.) Isaac and Mason ran off together, but, when Mason came back, he was alone, panting for breath and near tears with the revelation of Corey and Isaac being attacked by Mr. Douglas.
Scott thought he had lost Isaac then, and that, somehow, was worse than the thought of Isaac losing him. The thought of Isaac losing him before Scott could confess, the thought of Isaac finding him dead to the world on the night of perigee-syzygy was… painful, sure, but it wasn’t like this. This thought of Scott losing Isaac, this thought of having to live without him and with those things unsaid…
It was devastating.
So, the next time Scott saw him, standing in the preserve with the fading sunlight dappled through the trees and painting him with a halo of glow, he couldn’t hold himself back anymore, he couldn’t stay inside the ring of self imposed mountain ash, couldn’t do anything else but fight to cross it, break it, get to Isaac. The next time Scott saw him, unattacked by Douglas and untaken into the Hunt, he – he kissed him. Or, maybe, Isaac kissed him.
Scott is a little fuzzy on the details, but, either way, the story is the same. Isaac ran off to be heroic and Scott fell a little harder and they kissed. They kissed and, together, hand in hand, they brought Stiles back from the Hunt and banished the Ghost Riders from Beacon Hills. They sent the storm away, let the clouds clear from the sky, brought clarity with the sun now shining bright and uncovered.
Clarity like: Scott loves Isaac and Isaac loves him. Even if they haven’t said it yet, Scott knows and that’s all that matters, that’s all he needs to remind himself, again and again, that this isn’t going anywhere. Isaac isn’t going anywhere. There’s no rush anymore, there’s no urgency like that kiss in the woods. Scott has Isaac like he thought he never would. Has a date with him tonight, like he never let himself hope for.
And so, Scott stands at his closet, looking over his wardrobe and spending too much time on his outfit and hair. And he knows it doesn’t matter, knows it’s Isaac – Isaac, who Scott can just be Scott with, no pressure to be the perfect moral leader or whatever other titles have come to rest upon his shoulders. It’s just Isaac and none of this matters, but Scott puts the effort in anyway, so entranced with the task at hand that he doesn’t notice his mom standing in the doorway.
That is, until she clears her throat.
Scott turns quick to look at her, over his shoulder with something like nerves creeping up his chest, winding itself around his heart and ribs.
Melissa’s eyes narrow, only barely, and she says, “Going somewhere?”
“Yeah,” Scott says, swallows and nods at the same time. “Isaac and I are… going to dinner.”
Scott doesn’t know why he hasn’t told her yet, why he hasn’t spilled everything that’s hiding just behind his lips, dammed but ready to be unleashed. It’s not that he doesn’t want to tell her, not that he doesn’t trust her with this, it’s just… it’s new and fragile and Scott is a little scared to let anyone get too close. And, when he’s been holding this secret so tightly for the better part of a year, it’s hard to break those habits and instincts, it’s hard to be vulnerable enough to let someone take a look.
“Oh?” Melissa says, but she doesn’t push, not yet. She just asks, “Where are you going?”
“Cena Ladera,” Scott says, and he knows, then, that he’s compromised. He knows, then, that Melissa will recognize the spot, the place that restaurant holds in Scott’s heart, the pointed notion of taking Isaac there.
Melissa smiles at him, soft and a little proud, brown eyes glittering with something close to excitement. Her voice is soft too, subdued like she’s hiding her hope just as Scott had for so long, “Is this a dinner or a date?”
And Scott… Scott smiles back, grins with everything he has and breathes out, like an exhale of awe – something almost reverent, “Both.”
Melissa steps fully into the room then, comes right up and hugs him, pulls him in tight and dear. Scott’s a little surprised, but, not one to deny a hug, he melts into it. He lets her hand stroke at his back – a familiar feeling, like her sitting on the edge of his bed while he tried to fall asleep as a kid – and lets her have this moment to whisper, private and tucked in between them, “Proud of you.”
Scott doesn’t know what she has to be proud of when it’s only a date, only a confession of feelings, but he accepts it anyway, whispers back his thanks.
Melissa pulls back then, eyes assessing once more as she looks over his outfit, as she reaches a hand out to smooth down a wrinkle in his shirt. She says, kindly, “You look nice. Green is a good color on you.”
Scott smiles, says again, “Thank you.”
And it could be left at that. Melissa could walk away, could leave Scott with the finishing touches of getting ready, but, as she usually does, she goes above and beyond for her son, goes above and beyond as a parent – as a mom.
Melissa stays close, asks, “Are you happy?”
“Ecstatic,” Scott says, corrects.
Melissa beams up at him with eyes that seem a little glassier than they were before, a little more like tears that could be shed. Scott doesn’t ask what she’s thinking about, doesn’t pry because he doesn’t think he’ll like the answer, thinks it will be rooted in a love lost and the act of moving forward. Scott doesn’t ask because he doesn’t need to, knows that, more than anything, Melissa is just happy that he’s happy, just overcome with joy for him.
“Good,” Melissa says, easy as anything, and then, voice hinging on implications and light amusement, “Is there another conversation we need to have?”
Scott scoffs, rolls his eyes a little, says, “Again, Mom: I am not having the safe sex talk with you.”
Melissa pulls a face at him, like a mimicry of his own huffing breath and rolling eyes, but she sobers quickly. She falls into something a little more serious, sincere. She says, “I meant… Isaac’s a boy.”
“Is he? I hadn’t noticed,” Scott jokes, deflects. (Stiles is a bad influence.) But Melissa just looks at him, gives him no reaction, and Scott’s shoulders slump, deflating under her watchful care and her genuinely kind curiosity. He says, “Yeah, Mom. I guess I’m… bi?”
He’s not really sure, hasn’t really thought about it. Maybe that was part of his avoidance of hope or maybe anything labeled just seemed almost… irrelevant. It didn’t seem to matter when Scott knows, deep down inside, that there’s no one else but him. There’s no one else who could ever be the one.
Melissa says, “okay,” and that’s… that’s it. She pats a hand on his shoulder, two little taps, and then she leaves him to it, ducks out of the room with nothing more than a final backwards glance, a final smile in his direction and– “Break his heart and I’ll break your legs.”
Scott laughs, “Jeez, Mom, both of them?” And then, “Isn’t it supposed to be the other way around? Aren’t you supposed to be threatening him?”
Melissa doesn’t answer his second question, only the first, only winks and says, “Yes, both of them.”
She doesn’t give Scott a chance to reply, just closes the door behind her. And, as Scott listens to her footsteps receding, he stands in his room with laughter on his lips and a smile on his face.
He’s just so… happy.
—
The loft stands tall in front of Scott, but it’s completely overshadowed by Isaac. He’s standing at the base of the building, leaning back against the stone, this easy and calm slope of his body. If Scott got a little closer, he thinks he might hear his heart beating a little too fast, might notice little nervous ticks, but, from a distance, Isaac seems shockingly… normal.
Scott doesn’t know why he was expecting anything different.
He pulls his helmet off, motorbike parked at the edge of the curb, watching with no visor to disrupt his view as Isaac presses up, as he walks over. He’s dressed casually, one of those usual cardigans of his, but it’s his smile that knocks Scott’s heart loose, that drops it to the palms of his hands. The smile’s unabashed, no chains to inhibit it, just this glow to rival a full moon as he greets, “Hi.”
It’s a little stiff between them, a little awkward with the context of this new adventure they’re about to embark on, the unknown and not yet seen stretching out ahead of them. But it’s also… it’s also the easiest thing in the world when Scott says, “hey,” and catches Isaac’s sleeve, tugs him in a little closer to plant a tender kiss on his lips.
Isaac smiles into it, like he can’t stop even for this short moment, even for these few seconds where they’re pressed together. And, when they part, he’s grinning still, soft with rosy cheeks and his pulse rabbiting a little beneath Scott’s touch, his hand slipped under the sleeve of Isaac’s sweater and circling his wrist gentle and tender. Scott, it seems, has borrowed that affection from Isaac, has stolen his signature move to make it his own.
Isaac rubs his lips together, this smear of plush pink and a casual movement of hesitation, a moment to think before his mouth parts to say, “We should get out of here. Y’know, before Derek comes down to embarrass me.”
Scott huffs a little breath of amusement, but acquiesces, passes Isaac his extra helmet and puts his own back on.
Scott has picked Isaac up from this same curb a dozen times over. They’ve ridden on his motorcycle more times than Scott can count. All of this – Isaac in his spare helmet and his arms around his waist – is commonplace. This isn’t new and it shouldn’t be jarring, shouldn’t make Scott feel woozy, unfit to drive, but it does a little anyway. It makes his head spin with change so gradual, change so steady that Scott barely noticed until they were standing in the preserve with leaves kicking up around them.
It’s enough that Scott stalls, just for a second. He doesn’t kick up the brake and he doesn’t tear off from the building. For a moment, he just sits there with Isaac’s chest pressed to his back and the night quiet around them with the lack of the engine, with only the hushed sounds of their breath and the rustling of the street side. For a moment, he just breathes this moment down, lets it settle in his bones with an aching feeling of… right and belonging.
“Uh, Scott?” Isaac tests, voice painted with mirth. “You gonna… drive? Or are we going to sit here all night?”
And Scott would be happy with the latter, but he pushes ahead. He answers not with words but with a firing up of his bike and a kicking back of the brake. He answers with a revving of the engine and a departure from the curb. Isaac’s arms tighten around him just a little, just on instinct.
Scott can feel his heartbeat against his back, smiles at the thought of it.
—
The restaurant is exactly as Scott remembers it to be, so much like stepping back in time as he pulls into the parking lot and he and Isaac pull off their helmets. Scott looks up at the shape of the building, the exterior and the sign that’s fading with the weather but still reads Cena Ladera so clearly. Scott smiles, feels Isaac’s eyes on him and turns in his direction.
Isaac is looking at him, those blue eyes of his so fond. Those blue eyes of his not like the ocean or the sky, not like any comparison that can be drawn quickly, that can be drawn with clichés, drawn without hours spent studying every shade and fleck of color. Those blue eyes of his like a gemstone, like sapphirine, dull and plain until the light hits them, until the sun shines their way and they… glimmer. Those blue eyes are shimmering Scott’s way now, lit up with the warm lights from the restaurant and the almost fully faded sun.
Scott doesn’t say anything yet, doesn’t mention this spot and the importance it holds. He will, eventually. He wants to tell Isaac this because he always wants to tell Isaac. He always wants to call him up, wants to fill him in, wants him to know everything. He wants to, but they’re standing outside and it’s time to go in, so Scott hangs the thought up with his helmet alongside Isaac’s, on the handlebars of his bike, and joins him on the sidewalk up to the restaurant. He holds the door open for Isaac, welcoming him into the world of music a little too loud and colors a little too bright, because he’s a gentleman. (And because it brings a soft smirk to Isaac’s lips, a concealment of something genuinely touched and pleased.)
The restaurant is just as familiar on the inside as it is on the outside: warm brown tables and decorations in shades of blue, yellow, and red. It’s so familiar to Scott, a piece of his childhood that no one outside of his parents has ever seen, ever witnessed. Scott hasn’t brought anyone here – not Stiles and not Allison. No one but Isaac.
Isaac whose eyes go a little wide as he takes in the sight laid out before him, as he looks over his shoulder at Scott with something seemingly impressed, with something curious written underneath. He says, softly, “How have I lived in Beacon Hills my entire life and yet I’ve never been here?”
“Because you’re uncultured,” Scott says, a light jab. He ignores Isaac’s affronted pout and the shape of his lips, instead steps up to the hostess and says, “Reservation for McCall.”
It wasn’t necessary to reserve a table, not when it’s the middle of the week and a little too late for the dinner rush, not when there’s enough seating here that there will probably never be a wait. It’s not necessary, but it’s the principle of the thing. It’s what you do on a first date at a restaurant. You call ahead and you make plans and you grin at your boyfriend as he raises his eyebrows in something uniquely surprised.
Scott winks and Isaac scrunches up his nose, somewhere between disgust and shyness. Then, the hostess leads them back to a plush red booth, leather fading just a bit but comfortable nonetheless. She leaves them to it, says their waitress will be by soon for their drink orders and Scott and Isaac thank her.
She leaves and Isaac smiles across the booth at Scott, says, “Cool place.”
There’s still a chance they could be interrupted by the waitress – Scott remembers the service being a little slow here, but he was also a kid with the impatience of a six year old, so he can’t be sure – but it feels like the right time regardless. The opening is there and Scott is so excited, by the mixing of something old with something brand new. He’s excited to bring Isaac into this part of his life, to tell him, “I used to come here as a kid, like, basically every other week. With my mom and… with my dad.”
Things are a little better between Scott and his father now, improving steadily as he put down the booze and made an effort, as he helped Stiles get into his pre-FBI program at George Washington. Things have improved between them, but it’s hard to forgive him fully, to not have that little spark of negativity when his dad was gone for the years that mattered, the years when Scott really needed him.
Things are a little better, but there’s still a certain bitterness to his voice as he mentions his father, one that Isaac surely picks up on, but that he’s courteous enough to ignore. Because if there’s anybody who understands the complexities of a father-son relationship or the feeling of being left behind by your parent, it would be Isaac. Isaac mentions neither, though, just says, “When was the last time you came?”
It’s a gentle question and Scott gives a gentle answer, a shrug like he can’t remember it perfectly, like it isn’t seared in his mind as one of his last childhood memories where things were whole. It should be sad to think about, but it’s a happy memory and this one will be too, this new start with Isaac in this familiar background, that familiar scent of spices and the sound of music through poor quality speakers and the reminiscence of Isaac’s voice saying, “Dude, I love Mexican.”
And that really was so long ago, feels like they were two different people back then, but then Isaac is looking at him so intently and Scott knows that, while much has changed, the two of them haven’t. They’ve grown and evolved and gotten older, but at their heart, at their core, they’re just those two teenagers still. They’re just Scott with too much responsibility on his shoulders and Isaac refusing to let him carry the weight all on his own.
Scott looks in Isaac’s eyes, the questions hiding there, and gives a verbal answer to the question that has gone a little stale. He says, “Before my mom kicked my dad out.” And, because that feels like such a sad note to leave it on, he adds, “Some of my happiest childhood memories are here.”
Isaac nods and smiles and Scott figures he’d already pieced that together, already realized the role Scott’s father played in this space and the bittersweetness of it all. Isaac, though, is good about knowing where the line is, knowing what Scott does or doesn’t want to talk about. He proves it now, when he doesn’t dig any deeper, when he just says, truthful and sincere as anything, “Thanks for bringing me here.”
Scott says, a little cheesy because nothing’s stopping him now, “Wouldn’t want to be here with anyone else.”
—
There’s a lull between them after they’ve ordered their food, when they have drinks and chips and guacamole on the table that neither of them are really touching, when they’re just waiting and watching each other.
Isaac looks so pretty, here and always. Scott could look at him forever, could study him like Isaac studies those renaissance paintings of his, those sculptures that he fits in with so perfectly, like he was made with the gentlest touch despite the angularity of his features, the sharp line of his jaw and the biting words he can sometimes speak. He’s full of contradictions, Isaac Lahey, and Scott could spend forever unraveling them, unraveling him.
In the cheap lighting of the restaurant, Isaac looks like a work of art. With hair like straw spun into gold, curls fluffy and so soft so Scott has no choice but to touch, no choice but to reach across the table to cup Isaac’s face in his hand, the tips of his fingers skirting beyond his ears to the flaxen curls. Isaac’s skin goes warm beneath his touch, bottom lip bitten between his teeth and then released with, “What’re you doing?”
Adoring you, Scott thinks, doesn’t say.
“Dunno,” comes his answer instead, a lie they can both hear and see through.
Isaac raises his eyebrows a little, looks for a moment like he wants to shrug Scott off, wants to break away from the soothing touch, the fingers still tickling at his hair. But he doesn’t. He lets Scott have his way, lets him savor him and adore him, simply says, with a little snark but his own devotion underneath, “You’re a menace, Scott McCall.”
“Oh, pulling out the full name, are we?” Scott asks, but, secretly, his heart flip flops in his chest. Secretly, Scott thinks that Isaac should say nothing but his name, should communicate only with those two words, those three syllables. Secretly, Scott thinks Isaac says his name like nobody else ever has, like he’s cherishing it, cradling it gently between teeth that could sharpen and destroy it, could shatter him like broken glass.
“Shut the fuck up,” is what Isaac says in response, blushing still.
“Alright, honey,” Scott says, finally pulling his hand away, but continuing to push the boundary a little further, to watch that blush spread a little more.
Isaac sucks in a breath, harsh and fast, but it immediately tumbles out again. It falls from his lips like liquid gold as he laughs, something shocked and something… something else that Scott can’t understand. It’s maybe uncomfortable or maybe just undeniably affected. Scott can’t tell so he hesitates just a little, keeps silent long enough for Isaac’s flush to fade and his baby blue eyes to lock with his, long enough for Isaac to go quiet too, shy and tentative around the edges.
“Hey?” Isaac says, testing and hushed, brave when he doesn’t have to be, brave at all points, braver than Scott could ever hope to be.
“Hi,” Scott answers, faint with question. He’s thrumming with everything unsaid, with this moment locked between them. His chest feels busy, feels like there’s a swarm of bees raging inside him, like Isaac is a flower and they long to get to him, to break free and surround him, wrap him up and protect him, cherish him at all angles.
“I’m happy we’re… doing this,” Isaac says, slow and a little clumsy, but honest too.
“Me too,” Scott says, reaches out again, but, this time, he finds Isaac’s hand. He covers it with his own, bleeds his warmth into him, gives him everything he can – would give him the world, if it was his to share.
The waitress brings their food then and Scott pulls back, thanks her as the moment of profound feeling falls to something a little more casual, a little more easy to eat in.
—
They’re halfway through their food when Scott decides to bring it up. It’s been pounding at his mind for the past three weeks and, he thinks, it’s only fair to share it, only fair to get it out of the way now. There’s no part of him that thinks it’s going to be a deal breaker, thinks it’s going to have any real negative impact, and yet he’s scared anyway. And yet, he’s worried and unsure as he says, timorously so, “Hey, so, I have to tell you something.”
Isaac chokes a little on his bite, just the light clicking of his throat and a cough, all moon-eyed as he settles against the moment. He nods, rapid and without saying a word. He looks terrified and Scott regrets his own choice of words, regrets not being a little more tactful when he knows full well the abandonment issues that Isaac has, the insecurities that he still hasn’t gotten past. (It makes Scott want to tell him he loves him even more, wants to make it known and clear as the days they’ve had since the Wild Hunt left town. He wants Isaac to know that he’s not going anywhere, that he’s in this and he’s not changing his mind, not losing his feelings. He wants to give Isaac that reassurance and that certainty, but he doesn’t want to give him the expectation or pressure that comes along with it, so, unfortunately, he resists.)
Scott doesn’t explain quick enough, caught out by the chemosignals going wrought between them, going frayed. He doesn’t explain fast enough and Isaac clears his throat, that habit of his, that compulsive thing he does when the thoughts in his head get a little too loud, the fear and paranoia a little too all consuming.
Scott, rushing now, rushing to put to rest whatever conclusion it is that Isaac is jumping to, spills, “Stiles beat you to it too.”
Isaac blinks at him. He sets his fork down gently, on the edge of his plate so the ceramic doesn’t clang and clink too loudly, doesn’t risk being chipped. He sets his fork down and blinks and says, “What?”
“We kissed once,” Scott says, confesses like it’s his greatest sin, like it’s a crime against the boy sitting across from him. “It doesn’t, like, mean anything. We were young and stupid and curious and… It was a long time ago, is all. I just – I thought you should know since I know that Stiles gave you mouth to mouth in the ambulance–”
“Scott,” Isaac says, the one syllable turning to two as he laughs through it. The fear that was in him melts away, disintegrates and dissipates as he turns to something teasing, something that tells Scott he’s not going to let this go for a long time, that he’s going to make fun of him forever for this misplaced confession of his. “It’s okay,” he says, reassuring when Scott should be the one reassuring him. “But, Christ, you can’t say it like that. I… I thought you were going to say this was a bad idea or you realized it was just a friends thing or–”
It’s Scott’s turn to cut him off. Scott isn’t surprised by the revelation, by the fears Isaac admits to having, but he’s still quick to quell them, to say, “Are you kidding? Never. I am – I am so happy to be here with you right now. I just, like I said, thought you should know.”
Isaac smiles faintly. He says, nonchalant and relaxed now, “You literally call Stiles your brother every other sentence, I am… not threatened.”
“Okay,” Scott breathes. “Okay, good.”
Isaac’s smile widens then, grows as he dips into something playful, some tone of voice that makes Scott’s pulse skip and his limbs turn to jell-o, “You were really worried about this, weren’t you?”
Scott, a little embarrassed but too comfortable with Isaac not to be honest, admits, “Well, yeah. I just – I don’t want to do anything to jeopardize this.”
The humor falls away then. Isaac makes this soft sound, like a tut of his tongue against his teeth. His fingers fidget, like he’s thinking about closing the gap between them, thinking about letting his touch find Scott’s skin. In the end, though, he doesn’t reach out – a crying shame – and simply says, “You couldn’t mess this up if you tried. I think you’re kind of stuck with me.”
Scott splits with his joy, smiling with, “That sounds like something I can live with.”
Isaac picks his fork up again and they go back to eating, back to their first date and the start of something new, something that Scott really does want to bask in forever, really does want to live in from now till the end of time.
—
When the check comes, they do a little dance of who will pay, but Scott, in the end, wins out – his restaurant, his plan, his responsibility to pay. Isaac submits to the argument and the points stacked up in Scott’s favor, though he does pout about it a little, as endearing as that is. When the check comes and is paid for, they leave the restaurant, thanking the staff with wide smiles and soft laughter as they duck out into the evening air of Beacon Hills, the dry heat of California.
There’s a hesitation before the bike, a moment where they both stand on the sidewalk, where they both seem to want more. Scott certainly does at least, certainly doesn’t want this night to end.
He looks at Isaac then, under the light of the moon, all sated and happy. He looks at him and asks, “Everything you dreamed it would be?”
Isaac looks close to pushing him then, shoving him in annoyance, but, instead, he just jibes, “That’s pretty presumptuous, Scott. Who says I’ve dreamed about you? ”
“I can hear when you’re lying,” Scott says, even though he can’t actually hear anything happening to Isaac’s heart, not over the sound of his own pulse in his ears, his own blood pounding through his veins at the little smirk on Isaac’s lips, the little crooked amusement of his.
“That was a question!” Isaac complains, exasperated. “How can you possibly tell?”
Scott shrugs, gives, “True alpha.”
Isaac rolls his eyes impressively, shakes his head and smiles to himself, like he can’t believe this, like he can’t believe he’s here, like he can’t believe his luck. He looks down at the sidewalk and then up, towards the faint splattering of stars across the darkening sky and Scott…
Scott never wants to be apart from him, asks, “So. Derek say when you need to be home?”
Isaac looks his way again, something skeptical in his eyes, as if he knows the question isn’t entirely innocent. “Derek doesn’t really give curfews.” And, “Why? You tired of me? Trying to get rid of me?”
But there’s no insecurity there, no genuine question hidden under the teasing humor. It’s just Isaac pushing buttons, pushing Scott to go vulnerable and admit just how much he likes this, just how much he likes him. Scott, somehow, refrains from doing just that, says only, “Just wondering if we should do something else.”
“If you want,” Isaac says, which Scott knows means yes and please. Then, when a thought dawns on him, he continues, “Do you have a curfew?” And, a little timid, almost, “Does your mom – your mom knows you’re here, right?”
“Yes, Isaac,” Scott says, like it was a given, like he didn’t tell her only minutes before he left the house earlier this evening. “My mom knows we’re on a date.”
It’s nice to say it out loud, to hear the words and know that they’re true, that this is real. It feels more solid now, less liquid and wispy than it was back home, back when it still felt like this might be taken from Scott at any moment. It feels more real now. It feels real and special and important, but also… not as foreign as Scott was expecting. That awkwardness from the curb outside the loft and the instinctive jitters Scott couldn’t fight… they’ve vanished now, been abated by Isaac’s company and the familiarity between them. The context has changed, wrapped up in the words of first date, but this? Hanging out with Isaac, talking with him, laughing with him? This isn’t new, this is the reason Scott fell for him in the first place.
And, another reason, is the levity he feels following Isaac’s response, his tight toned, “Oh god. She’s going to give me the shovel talk, isn’t she?”
Scott purposefully doesn’t tell him no, doesn’t tell him that his mom actually threatened him instead of Isaac. He just ribs at him a little, still standing on the sidewalk outside the restaurant, “Are you scared of my mom?”
Isaac thinks about it for a moment, and lies, “Maybe a little.”
Scott knows it’s not true, knows Isaac and Melissa have their own little bond – something that never ceases to make Scott light up inside, shine with happiness. It’s just… it’s nice. It’s nice that Isaac is so close with the people Scott cares about so much, it’s nice that he’s close not just with Stiles but with Melissa too. It’s nice that there’s nothing really off limits between the two of them, it’s nice that their lives are so shared. (Scott doesn’t go there now, doesn’t want to dampen this mood, but, faintly, his mind strays to Allison, to all the boundaries between them, the lines between hunter and werewolf that couldn’t be crossed, even as hard as they tried to overcome it all.)
Scott says to Isaac, “Don’t know why you’re the one who’s freaking out when former alpha werewolf Derek Hale is so fucking protective of you.” And, because he’s a menace, he steals Isaac’s, “Oh god.” Followed by, “He’s gonna kill me.”
Isaac does shove him then, this light jostling of his hand on Scott’s chest, this gentle push and, “Shut up.”
Scott laughs, makes a display of catching his balance even though he really doesn’t need to, uses Isaac as support just as an excuse to loop his arm around his waist, and says, “So? Somewhere else?”
Isaac gives in, says, “I’ve got an idea.”
“What’s that?” Scott asks, curious and intrigued. He looks up at him now, at such close proximity, able to see every eyelash and every imperfection that doesn’t exist.
Isaac doesn’t answer him though, not really. Instead, he just tests the waters with, “D’you trust me?”
“You know I do,” Scott says. And Isaac flickers with feeling, the tiniest twitch of his lip before he pulls away from Scott, steps out of his hold so that he can find his wrist and pull him in, into another simple kiss before they take off from this location and to another, neither one ready to let the novelty of their first date end.
—
Isaac’s idea, it turns out, is an ice cream shop down the road from the comic store. It’s open for another hour, fortunately, but Isaac still hesitates outside, doesn’t rush right in even though the door is unlocked and the sweet treat is waiting for him just beyond the double doors. He hesitates, breathes in deep, likely catching the scent of confectionery. He hesitates, and says, like he’s steeling himself, preparing himself for battle, “Okay.”
Scott wants to press, wants to know what brings him to a pause, but Isaac didn’t question it when it was Scott outside the restaurant so Scott doesn’t question it when it’s Isaac outside the parlor. He just echoes, “okay,” and the two of them go in together.
They order at the counter – Scott gets chocolate and Isaac gets this garish thing of primary colors too bright to be natural – and, this time, Isaac insists on paying. Scott shrugs and lets him, leaves Isaac to do that while he claims a table by the window, where he can see out and down the street, can see the comic store in the distance and other familiar shops along the way.
Isaac joins him a moment later, sits across from him, but locks their ankles under the table. It’s this simple sort of affection, this gentle touch, this excess intimacy when they can’t seem to keep away from each other, can’t hold back when they’ve been doing just that for so long.
Scott smiles at him and takes a bite of his ice cream, hums a little at the rich and decadent flavor. Isaac smiles back at him – their faces are going to hurt from all the grinning tomorrow, werewolf healing be damned.
They’re quiet, for a while, just the two of them in this shop. The silence isn’t Scott’s choice, but he doesn’t mind it, it’s peaceful anyway, nice to just sit and share in each other’s company. It’s Isaac’s decision more than Scott’s, the quiet that stretches between them. It’s like he’s thinking, like he’s receded inward and lost himself in thought, but Scott doesn’t dig. He doesn’t try to draw him out, just eats his ice cream and waits, knows Isaac will say what he needs to say when he’s ready to say it.
And, just as Scott expected, Isaac thaws eventually. Several minutes pass and, spoon held halfway to his mouth, he finally says, “We used to come here after swim meets.” For clarification, “Me, my dad, and Camden.”
“Oh,” Scott says, doesn’t really know what else to say. It’s rare that Isaac talks about his family, that he speaks about them with so much candor – especially his dad. Scott, because he’s lucky, has heard a lot more than most people, has gotten descriptions of Camden and heard little anecdotes here or there, but this… this is different. This is something a little more. This is vulnerable in the sense that Isaac isn’t just telling him, , but he’s also letting Scott in. He’s invited Scott to this place dedicated to Isaac’s happiest childhood memories – the same role the restaurant plays in Scott’s life.
Except, in Scott’s life, those happy childhood memories aren’t an endangered species, aren’t such a rare and valuable commodity. In Scott’s life, the restaurant is important, but it isn’t delicate, fragile, sacred. Because, in Scott’s life, when his dad left, he still had Melissa. He still had a parent who loved him more than anything, who filled his life with light and care and love.
Isaac didn’t have that, not after his mom left and not after his brother followed in her footsteps. Though, maybe that’s an unfair way to phrase it when Camden didn’t run, didn’t abandon him, didn’t intend to leave and never come back. Scott has heard enough of Isaac’s older brother to know how special he was, how precious their relationship was, how much he would’ve liked Camden if they had ever gotten to meet. Scott knows enough to know that Camden’s leaving wasn’t an abandonment, even if it might look that way on the outside. Scott knows enough to know that Camden isn’t at fault, even if his leaving did leave Isaac alone with his father and their shared grief.
Scott learns of even more evidence in Camden’s favor now as Isaac says, “After they won state, Cam brought me here, just the two of us because Dad forgot.” He swallows. “That’s when he told me he was going to enlist. He… asked for my permission.”
Scott knocks his leg against Isaac’s, a soft acknowledgement because he doesn’t have the words for this.
Isaac looks down at his ice cream, spins the spoon in the ridiculous colors. He says, “This is the flavor Camden used to get, pretended to like it for years. But he was right, it,” Isaac looks up, tips his voice into a whisper for the sake of the worker still lingering somewhere in the background, like he’s trying to spare her feelings, “is disgusting.”
Scott laughs a little then, and, easy as anything, says, “Well, we’ll just share mine.”
The stories of old disappear as they share the cup of chocolate ice cream in a space that means so much to Isaac, in a space that he lets Scott observe, lets him see even when he has no obligation to. He could keep this to himself and Scott would be none the wiser, wouldn’t blame even if he was, wouldn't ever ask for more than what was offered. But… Isaac shares with him anyway, shares with him in words so Scott shares with him in ice cream. And it’s… it’s a little perfect, if Scott was asked his opinion.
This thing with Isaac is perfect.
It’s been slow and it’s still frangible, but it’s perfect. His feelings for Isaac are a frozen ground, a layer of snow, and a flower somehow poking through the surface, somehow surviving despite everything that should’ve stopped it from thriving, stopped it from coming into existence. It somehow exists even though Scott still thinks it shouldn’t, still thinks this can’t be real because it is so good, because Isaac is so good.
This thing between them is that delicate flower that couldn’t be stopped, a blooming of feelings and the coming of spring and the warmth of summer. This thing between them is special and Scott is going to nurture it with everything he has, going to be the sun for this flower, be the rain too. He’s going to make sure that it grows stronger, that it never gets stamped out or crushed. He’s going to keep this flower alive, no matter what it takes because Isaac…
Isaac is worth it.
—
When the ice cream is finished and they’ve lingered longer than they should, when it’s getting too late and there are no more excuses to be made, Scott and Isaac leave the parlor and Scott drives Isaac back to the loft. It’s still warm, but Isaac hugs him close like he’s cold, like he would rest his head against Scott’s back if the helmet wasn’t preventing the movement. Isaac clings to him and Scott drives a little slower than he needs to, adheres to the speed limit a little more adamantly than he usually would, just to get to have him this close for a little while longer.
But, eventually and inevitably, the shape of the loft comes into view and Scott makes it to the familiar sidewalk, stops and cuts the engine of his motorcycle. Their helmets are removed again, Isaac handing the spare over, but Scott discards it behind him quickly, drops it to the seat of the bike so he can focus fully on this final moment, on the happiness in Isaac’s gemstone eyes, eyes made of everything Scott could ever need.
They stand outside the loft and it’s something of a risk when Derek is probably waiting for Isaac’s return, waiting to get the rundown of their first date. It’s a risk to linger like this, where they could be interrupted or maybe even observed – though it’s doubtful from Derek’s top floor loft – but they don’t care. Or, at least, Scott certainly doesn’t.
“This,” Scott says, subtly nervous but mostly just happy, “was kind of the best night.”
“Yeah,” Isaac says, shining with his agreement, flushed with his joy. “Yeah, it was.”
And then they’re kissing.
Like their first kiss in the preserve, Scott doesn’t know who moves first, but he also doesn’t care. His hands just find Isaac’s waist as he tugs him in a little closer, kisses him firmly and fully, more properly than he has all night. They’ve been holding back, the both of them, for this date and for months before it. And so, on the sidewalk outside of the loft, they indulge.
Isaac melts into Scott and Scott holds solid at his waist, keeps him upright as Isaac’s hand finds the back of his neck, tucks into his hair there in a way that makes Scott swoon, makes him need the support more than Isaac.
They kiss with the warm June weather wrapped around them like an embrace, with the familiarity of this building and this street on either side of them. They kiss until Scott feels breathless and until Isaac’s lips are swollen, until they pull back and grin at each other, so unfiltered in the light of the moon and the clear, star-filled sky above them.
Isaac juts a thumb over his shoulder, a wordless gesture that means, I should go, but he doesn’t, not right away. He stays in Scott’s gravity a little longer, lets Scott keep his hands where they are, lets his fingers drum a nonsense pattern on his sides. Isaac makes this little noise like maybe it tickles, and Scott files that information away for later, in the corner of his brain where everything is Isaac shaped, where he’s studied him and learned him and loved him for longer than either of them could have realized.
They stand there longer than they should, but, eventually and inevitably, they have to part. Isaac chances a kiss to Scott’s forehead – what the fuck is his life? – and then pulls away. He takes two steps back, eyes still locked with Scott’s and says, voice so quiet Scott has to strain to catch it, to catch the three familiar words of, “Good night, Scott.”
“Good night, Iz,” Scott returns.
He picks up the spare helmet and leans back against the seat of his bike, but he doesn’t put his own helmet on and he doesn’t turn to drive away. He stays where he is, doesn’t move as he watches Isaac turn his back on him, as he watches him approach the door to the building that he calls home.
Isaac looks over his shoulder just for a second. Just for a second, Scott is tempted to do something ridiculous – like blow a kiss or call out to tell him not to go – but he bites his tongue and holds the helmet a little tighter, knuckles gone white. Scott doesn’t move and doesn’t say anything, just gives a subtle closed-lipped smile as brown eyes meet blue for one more perfect moment in an otherwise perfect night. Isaac returns the smile, fond and breathtaking, and then he turns away once more and slips inside, leaving Scott on the curb with his heart in his throat and the summer heat on his skin.
—
Scott drives back home in silence and enters his childhood home the same way. He half expects Melissa to pop out and ask him how his night was, but her car wasn’t in the driveway and he knows she’s on a night shift. She’s not here to ask and Scott is glad for it. He’ll tell her tomorrow, but, for now, he likes the idea of keeping this to himself.
Which, is why, when Scott goes to his room, when he slips into his pajamas and into bed far too early, he plugs his phone in and doesn’t even glance at the texts. He’s certain there will be at least fifty from Stiles, badgering questions about how things are going and how dare he turn his phone off for this, but, for now, Scott ignores them. In part because he’s not ready to face them yet, but, also, because if he touches his phone he knows he’ll end up dialing Isaac’s number. He knows he won’t be able to resist the routine and the habit formed between them, but, tonight, it’s not necessary. Tonight, Scott leaves his phone alone and takes this moment just for himself.
For now, for tonight, he stares up at the ceiling and smiles, thanks whatever force is out there that he got to have a night like this.
It took them far too long to get here, that much Scott knows. Stiles has certainly told him plenty of times, has complained with impressive vocabulary and extensive evidence of how long they made him wait for this culmination – as if his timeline with Lydia is better. Scott knows that they could have had this sooner, but he doesn’t have any regrets. He doesn’t regret how long they waited or the connections they might have missed. Because, if things had been different or sooner, that doesn’t mean they would’ve been better. If things had been different or sooner, then they might not have had this perfect night.
This night… Scott wouldn’t trade a thing for this night. This night is everything he could’ve ever asked for.
The storm has passed and summer has come to Beacon Hills. The clouds have parted and the sun has come to shine on them again, to grant them the warmth of this evening and the warmth of a shared sidewalk and a shared good night. The thunder and the lightning and the villains on horseback have gone away, have left the town like it was never touched by them, like nothing has changed.
And, Scott thinks, maybe that’s true. Because though it’s all out in the open now, though the clarity has come from the lifting of the fog and the cumulonimbus, it’s not new. This thing between them has been building for months if not years. It’s a confluence of events, of experiences, of shared memories. All the pain and all the joy they’ve had together, it’s all been leading to this.
This perfect night that’s ephemeral, that can’t last forever, but that can be a window into their future together. This perfect night that is everything Scott could have ever wanted, everything he never let himself hope for. This perfect night that is inevitable, more than anything.
It’s all been leading to this. To him and Isaac, to a Mexican restaurant and an ice cream parlor, to brown eyes meeting blue.