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1 am is way too early to be out of booze at the first party of the new semester. Not that Stiles would necessarily say he’s drunk — he’s had two beers and a Vodka Something that tasted as if it came out of a boot; don’t ask how he knows that — or in need of getting wasted. Being mostly sober at a frat party, however, is a special kind of torture Stiles certainly did not sign up for. But Lydia and Jackson are back together again, and she refused to go by herself, so Stiles was dragged here against his will by the mere duty of being her best friend. He loves her, he really does, but she needs to get a better boyfriend.
But since they’re a c couple again, Lydia and Jackson have been inseparable for the past four hours. Stiles can only stomach so much of Jackson before he gets the urge to set himself and everyone around him on fire. So, he’s spent his time here dodging jocks and cheerleaders alike. It’s not exactly the evening he’s had in mind. If only Danny were here. Or Kira. But they’re both tied up with family matters — leaving Stiles alone with Liam, who sulks in the corner of the couch, looking like he hates his very existence, and Mason, who is quite the opposite and probably considers this his piece of heaven.
Curling his lips, Stiles raises a bottle of rum. He shakes the measly content that’s left over and heaves a sigh. “Great.” He drops the bottle between the others. Someone’s gotta have some alcohol around here. His jock quota is reached, and he desperately needs some booze to make this bearable for another hour or two.
Stiles whirls around as someone touches his shoulder, only to find himself face to face with a v-neck covered by a varsity jacket. Stiles blinks and takes a step back, eyeing the guy in front of him warily. “Hey,” he says slowly, pinching his brows together. Why does Brett Talbot know he exists?
Brett flashes him a smile. He’s painfully attractive, but Stiles has never been particularly receptive to the charm of jocks. Perks of growing up with Jackson Whittemore. “What’s up?”
There’s movement behind him. A group of guys are trying to be conspicuous but failing spectacularly.
“You guys are out of booze,” Stiles informs him and pushes past him with a pat on his arm. If he does so just to get a feel of Brett’s impressive biceps, then nobody needs to be any wiser.
Brett, however, hasn’t given up yet. Still smiling his cocky yet awfully pretty smile, he steps in his way. Someone clearly is not used to his charm falling flat. “I’ve got some upstairs.”
Stiles struggles to keep his expression in check. Of course , he just so happens to have booze upstairs. See, under different circumstances, Stiles probably would’ve said yes , would’ve allowed Brett to drag him upstairs and fuck him against a wall, or into a mattress, or whatever he’s intending to do. His idiot friends, however, are currently very much cockblocking him. “Dope,” he says with a very obvious lack of enthusiasm and pushes Brett out of his way carefully — people are unpredictable, and he’s been around enough to know not everyone takes rejection very well; especially when said rejection happens right in front of his friends.
This time, Brett gets the hint. His smile slips, yielding utter confusion before it turns to anger at the howl of laughter coming from his friends.
Stiles makes a beeline to Mason and Liam, who suddenly looks more than excited while Mason is as confused, if not more than Brett.
“Dude, dude ,” Mason whisper-shouts just loud enough to be audible over the music and conversations. “That’s Brett Talbot. Did you just reject Brett Talbot ?”
It’s madness, really. Who doesn’t want to hook up with him? But Stiles has absolutely no interest in ending up as some sort of conquest. Not even Brett Talbot’s. He’s a senior in college, only a few months away from starting at the FBI. It’s about time he finds his pride and sticks with it.
Liam punches his shoulder. “He’s not done yet,” he says, his voice almost shrill with excitement.
Rolling his eyes, Stiles turns around to face Brett with raised brows. “I see you didn’t get your booze.” His friends, Stiles notes, have disappeared somewhere in the crowd. He wonders if he told them to piss off or to be less suspicious. He also wonders if being told ‘no’ is a turn-on, wouldn’t be the first time.
Brett rubs his left collarbone, scanning the faces of Mason and Liam briefly. His brows pinch slightly before he returns his attention to Stiles. Resuming this conversation in front of a very curious audience probably isn’t exactly high on his agenda, but Brett takes a breath and smiles. This time, it’s only half as bright as before. “I’m sorry,” he says, sounding awfully genuine as he tugs on his black v-neck before pushing his hands into his jeans. “See, the thing is…” Brett trails off, once again studying Stiles’ friends behind him. His shoulders drop, and for all but a second, he looks almost defeated. “My friend thinks you’re hot.”
What ?
Stiles blinks, checking out their immediate surroundings. That doesn’t make any fucking sense. Said friend would most likely watch them like a hawk, looking ready to throw up from nerves. But there’s nobody here who fits that description. “What friend?”
Brett’s face does something complicated as he’s going through a bunch of emotions in three seconds. Eventually, it settles on resignation. “Me,” he admits softly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “I’m the friend.”
“I’m—” Brett grimaces as if he’s in pain. “Listen, I’m not—”
“Usually this bad at getting into someone’s pants?” Stiles offers, crossing his arms over his chest.
Brett shakes his head, looking as if he’s in progressively more pain, and rubs his collarbone again. “I’ve been trying to talk to you for… a while.”
A while . Stiles uncrosses his arms. A while ? That sounds highly unlikely. Someone like Brett has issues starting up a conversation with his scrawny ass? Not that Stiles considers himself ugly. He grew into his gangly limbs in his senior year at high school, but he also has two sets of working eyes, and they’re telling him very clearly that Brett should be miles out of his league. “I think,” he mutters, shaking his head a little as if that would in any way shape, or form change what he’s just heard, “I’m having trouble processing—”
“You’re hot,” Brett interrupts him with a little more confidence this time around, “and… can we have this conversation somewhere in private?”
Stiles opens his mouth, closes it again, and stares at Brett with his heart in his throat. What the hell is happening? “Well, shit,” he mumbles, not even sure what exactly he’s referring to, “at least buy me dinner first.” Did someone give him drugs without him noticing? Because Stiles is pretty sure he’s having delusions.
“Sure thing.” Brett grins now, open and happy, and, fuck , Stiles wants to kiss him. “I’ll pick you up on Monday after your Criminal Law and Procedure class.” Winking at him, Brett turns around and shuffles away.
And before Stiles can even process what happened, much less that Brett knows his fucking class schedule, Mason pops up in his vision. “Did you just talk our resident golden boy into going on a date with you?”
Stiles can’t believe it either. Brett Talbot thinks he’s hot. Fucking hell. Without a reply, he pushes past him and grabs Brett’s arm before he’s got the chance to vanish into the crowd.
The smirk on Brett’s lips is a little too confident, but that doesn’t bother Stiles any longer. Instead, he pulls him down by the collar of his jacket and kisses him. His lips are soft, and the taste of beer clings to them. His heart lurches back into his throat because he’s kissing Brett, who very clearly needed a few seconds to process what’s going on. Then Brett grabs him by the hips and kisses him back with a hunger that’s dizzying. Stiles makes a sound in the back of his throat he’s very much not proud of, and Brett pulls them flush together. If he lets this go on for any longer—
Stiles pulls away, chuckling softly as Brett chases his mouth. Everyone can fuck their college's golden boy. But getting to date him? He leans close again. “Consider this a taste of what you can get if you play your cards right on Monday.”
“Trust me,” Brett smiles, blue eyes bright with excitement. “I will.” And with that, he’s vanishing into the crowd, giving him a perfect view of Lydia and Jackson pushing their way toward him. Oh, Jackson is going to hate this.
Stiles waves at him, grinning.