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It’s nearly one in the morning when the knocking starts, shocking Jackson out of fitful sleep. He just lies there a bit, because why is this his life right now? Why is he back? His eyes squeeze shut as he prays, pleads, that he’ll fuck off, but no, the knocking continues. And, when he glances up—yep, that’s Stilinski all right, his face pressed against the glass.
“Jack. Son,” he hears faintly, syllables punctuated by fierce bangs. “Come on!”
Jackson rolls over to his stomach and groans, but he does worm his way off the bed and crosses over to the window. Stilinski’s face lights up when he unlocks it, but drops when Jackson blocks his way.
“Let me in.”
“Why?”
“Wha—Because!”
“Because why?”
Stilinski swears under his breath and throws a glare to the night behind him like he’s holding back a tantrum. Then, he returns with this look and, fuck, Jackson knows he’s lost.
Stilinski sighs, licks his lips. “Jackson, have you, you know, heard from her? At all?”
Lydia. It was only two months ago that he and Stilinski had helped her load her dad’s car with her luggage and stood side by side as she was driven away to college. Once she’d gone down a hill and disappeared completely, Jackson remembers just looking at Stilinski and him looking back and knowing, knowing that things were going to be different.
That’s why when he was woken up at some ungodly hour to find Stilinski crouching on his roof, he had, rather reluctantly, let him in.
Now, Jackson shifts to the side, drops his head against the windowpane, into the slight breeze. “Yeah. Yeah, she’s fine.”
“Oh.” Stilinski visibly eases, deflates. “Oh, that’s—that’s good.”
Jackson nods. “Mm.”
Silence falls over them, the two of them focused on anything but each other. The awkward moment is broken by Stiles who pokes his head into the room. “Can I . . . ?”
“Yeah. Yeah, just—” Jackson shifts out of the way as Stilinski’s makes his way in. He leans against the wall, closes his eyes when he feels the tentative brush of fingers over his cheek. It’s only then that he realizes that he’s only in a pair of boxers and socks.
“You miss her,” Stilinski’s whispers, breath ghosting so close, too close to Jackson’s face.
Jackson huffs a mirthless laugh. “Of course I do, numbnuts. You do, too,” he adds a little softer. He swallows, eyes still shut, when Stilinski crowds him against the wall, presses against him. Because if he doesn’t see it, it will be easier to deny later.
“So much,” Stilinski mutters with the kisses to Jackson’s neck. “I miss her so much, Jackson.”
On cue, the dam bursts and they wrench each other into a sharp, violent kiss. Hands claw at faces, teeth nip at lips, and thighs wedge between legs with rough jerks. They break away gasping for breath and Jackson tilts his head back, letting Stilinski bite and suck his exposed neck.
He wonders what will happen when Lydia returns for Christmas. How will they break this to her? Will they ever tell her?
How will the three of them stand to be in the same room together with this hanging over them?
Jackson has no idea. But, that’s for the future, he supposes. The reality is, Lydia is still four fucking hours away and Stilinski’s here, shrugging out of his hoodie, his clothes, and that’s all he has to keep him together right now. What happens will happen, but for now, he can settle for this.