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“Scott, I know he’s your best friend, but does he have to be here every night?”
Scott stares at his mom, open-mouthed. There are no words he can think of that adequately explain his horror at her question. Explanation is completely inconceivable. (Stiles teased him for not getting the point about Vizzini using that word, but Scott likes the way it rolls around his tongue.)
“Mom, his dad’s working the late shift every night for the next two weeks. Stiles’ll be all alone.”
“I know. But couldn’t you go over to his?” Melissa’s expression twitches bizarrely as she gazes at Scott’s enthusiastic response to her suggestion and she shakes her head. “On second thoughts, no. I didn’t mean that. I guess you boys can have your movie night here.”
“It’s a slumber party this time,” Scott says. “Full of traditional slumber party antics. We’re gonna make friendship bracelets and play truth or dare.”
“Do you ever think you need more friends? You’re fifteen, sweetie. You should be going out, not staying in all the time. Not that I want you out late, but you are aware you just said you’d be spending your Saturday making bracelets.”
“Mom, don’t be so narrow-minded and inclined to use gender stereotypes.”
“Stiles told you to say that, didn’t he?”
“Yeah?” Scott shrugs. “We found these awesome transformer beads on ebay, though. We think they’ll be an accurate representation of our everlasting love.”
“Are you…?” Melissa starts to ask, frowning at Scott with something less like concern and more like wariness.
“Platonic love. But I’ll totally tell you if that changes.”
Scott smiles and Melissa shakes her head again. She wanders out of his room slowly, as if she doesn’t trust her legs to work correctly. He’s long gotten used to the idea of her not understanding his friendship with Stiles, but she can’t expect him to abandon his best friend, can she?
*
It’s 3 am when he brings it up. He hadn’t meant to, he’d wanted to forget all about it, but Stiles is insisting on an early morning snack of homemade pancakes, so he just blurts it all out.
“Mom’s already mad at you. I really don’t think you should keep testing her.”
“Mrs McCall’s mad at me? What’d I do?” Stiles asks, face already mid-crumple. Scott would do anything to smooth that expression out.
“It’s not really you, I don’t think. It’s having the two of us eating all her food,” he amends.
“I can go to the store tomorrow and buy more flour and eggs, Scott. C’mon, I want to fill up on syrup.”
Stiles stretches up and makes to go out of the blanket fort they’ve constructed, but Scott wraps his hand around his wrist before he can. The friendship bracelet presses against his palm, the miniature Bumblebee trapped below his thumb.
“She doesn’t like me having you around every night,” Scott says, softly. “She didn’t say it, but I think she doesn’t think it’s all that healthy for us, to spend so much time together.”
Stiles goes still, shoulders rolling forward. “Do you feel the same?”
“No! Of course not.” Scott shakes Stiles’ wrist to point out his pledge of unwavering loyalty. He hadn’t realized he was still holding his arm but it’s… nice. It fits.
*
“I have a solution to our woes,” Stiles says. Scott doesn’t think he’s taken his Adderall today. He’s jumpy and not so focused, eyes darting around, overly furtive.
“What woes?”
“Dude, only the fact your mom hates me and doesn’t want me to step foot in your house ever again.”
“She doesn’t hate you. And she never said that.”
“Whatever. Anyway, the point is, I know what we can do.”
Scott waits for the answer, but Stiles seems to want him to prompt more. He rolls his eyes and plays along. “Tell me of your great plan, oh brilliant one.”
“I bought a tent. We can set it up in the woods. It’ll be awesome!” Stiles goes high-pitched at awesome, at the point where Scott wants to join in and maybe jump around a little, but then he pauses, thinks about it —-
“Why don’t we just sleep at yours?”
Stiles blinks twice, taps his toes. “I really don’t think you’re entering into the spirit of the occasion.”
“Okay,” Scott says. “So I’ll have to sneak out tonight, right?”
“Yeah. And bring warm clothes, because it’ll get cold.”
Scott huffs out a breath. “I know that.”
“I know you know. I just love taking care of you, you know that,” Stiles says with a small, self-deprecating grin.
The problem with Stiles’ sense of humor is that sometimes it’s so deadpan, he can’t tell if he secretly means what he says. The worst part is when he wants that to be the case.
*
The woods are dark and the noises that surround them suck. Badly. So, so much. Twigs snap and leaves rustle and a bird caws in the night. Stiles makes a point of saying “quoth the raven ‘nevermore’” which only serves to freak Scott out further because they’ve been reading that poem in English class and it is creepy as whoa. He’d always thought it was just an old Simpsons joke he didn’t get. No, it’s terrifying.
The tent smells weird and his stomach’s ooky from eating double the recommended dose of smores and he can’t sleep. This is not the majorly cool camping experience Stiles claimed it would be. It isn’t even a little cool. It’s tepid, edging on warm. Scott doesn’t like being frightened or encountering surprises, never has. He’s not a horror movie junkie and has only seen any because it’s supposed to be ‘a rite of passage’. He is not even a little ashamed that he’s curling closer into Stiles’ side.
“Tell me again why we couldn’t stay at your place,” Scott whispers. He doesn’t know why he’s whispering, except he thinks he’d rather not have a bear come tear off his face this evening. Or any evening. No bear encounters at all would be good.
“I don’t like it there at night,” Stiles says, hushed. “The silence is deafening.”
Scott raises up on his elbows and peers down at Stiles. “I’d be there with you,” he reminds him. “You always say I’m loud enough for the both of us. You tell me off for talk-shouting at least once a week.”
Stiles smiles. “Yeah, but.” His forehead creases and Scott automatically reaches out to rub it. Stiles stutters on his next breath, eyes going wide. “It’s hard to explain.”
“The answer’s inconceivable?”
There’s a beat, an expanding smile, and then, “Yeah. That’s it.”
“You know, there’s absolutely no risk of mom deciding to walk in on us here,” Scott says after a time.
He adjusts position next to Stiles, placing a hand very carefully on his abdomen. He can feel the heat of him even through a hoodie, checkered shirt and vintage t. He waits for permission, which comes in Stiles craning up and slowly, softly, pressing a kiss to his lips. It’s dry and closed-mouthed, chaste as chaste can be, and it makes Scott’s blood roar through his entire body.
The next kiss is not even a little chaste.
“If I had known the best way to get to this point would be to scare you out of your pants, I’d have tried this sooner,” Stiles says when they pull apart.
Scott laughs, then frowns up at the tent ceiling. “I think I need a chat with my mom.”
“Oh my God, I’m revoking your make-out card until you promise never to mention our parents when we’re like this ever again.”