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It’s amazing how much you can learn about a person in three weeks. Well, two weeks, six days, and maybe two hours? Not that, erm, Stiles has been counting or anything, because he hasn’t. He couldn’t care less about how long he’s been fake-dating Jackson Whittemore with false-hand holding and lie-kisses and—
Anyway.
The idea was bound to fail from the get-go; there honestly is no word that can define the whole situation besides stupid. But, Stiles still rolls with it, because you just never know, right? He thinks that maybe while he and Jackson play up the whole “We’re dating,” bit, Lydia will actually get jealous. And, maybe, she will look at Stiles instead of the pigheaded werewolf on his arm.
It’s why whenever Stiles sits too close to Jackson or throws an arm around his shoulders or presses a quick—emphasis on quick—kiss to his cheek, his eyes are firmly on her, because she’s why he’s doing this. He’s doing this for her, watching, hoping, waiting for that moment when the wonder in her eyes turn to jealousy, want.
But, when days pass and Lydia’s still issuing gentle encouragements and embarrassing sex tips at the lunch table, Stiles starts to lose faith. Even though he always knew it would fail, the reality of it hits so much harder.
“It’s not working,” Stiles insists, standing beside Jackson at the urinals in the men’s room. “We should just stop before we’re in too deep.”
This moment passes between them. Jackson gives him a look-over, his eyes sweeping from Stiles’ eyes to the cock in his hand and back up, and shrugs. “Maybe we just need to up our game,” he says simply, his lips suddenly so close.
Jackson calls it practice, you know, for when they’re in front of the others. Fake dating or not, they’ve got to be convincing, right? Sometimes Stiles thinks he knows more about Jackson than any fake boyfriend should. Like, Jackson has this trio of moles on his hip, all arranged in a triangle, that Stiles likes to call his personal Triforce. And, there’s this spot behind his left ear that Stiles just has to brush over with his thumb and Jackson’s a mewling, werewolf mess.
Fuck, he knows how Jackson looks when he comes and, scarily enough, vice versa. There’s something seriously wrong here. This isn’t how fake relationshipswork.
That’s when they finally reach the final straw. Somehow that final straw isn’t that exchange in the men’s room or the full week of spontaneous make outs or even that time they jacked each other off in the Porsche. It’s now, right now, as they lay on the overgrown lawn of the Hale property, their fingers entwined between them. As the minutes tick by and they get ever closer to their three week fakeversary, the horror and curiosity get the best of Stiles.
He turns his head towards his (fake) boyfriend and finds him lightly dozing in the warm, afternoon sun, eyelashes bright as the light catch in them and—oh god. Oh god, oh god. This is serious, this is real, this is a problem.
Because the first word that comes to Stiles’ mind when he looks at Jackson is love.
“Stiles.” Jackson’s voice is thick, drowsy, and when had he stopped calling him Stilinski or Spazlinski? “You having a coronary over there?”
Stiles bites his lip. “Jackson, we’re—you and I, we’re—We’re dating, aren’t we?”
“Wha? Of course we—”
“No.” Stiles squeezes Jackson’s hand tightly, sure that it stings just a little. “No, I mean we’re really dating, Jackson. Like seriously dating dating.”
Jackson stiffens at the words, but says nothing.
Shit, word vomit in three, two— “I think I love you.” Stiles sucks in a sharp breath. “Seriously.”
Jackson turns to face him, eyes wide, and god he’s gorgeous when he’s insecure. “Yeah?”
Stiles nods slowly. “Yeah.”
The silence that falls over them is cool, like a breeze. Stiles squeezes Jackson’s hand again and, after a moment, Jackson squeezes back. It’s the closest Stiles will get to reciprocation, at least for now, and he’s strangely okay with that. After three weeks of not-dating, just lying beside Jackson, having his hand in his is enough.