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At 9:55pm, Stiles says “I can’t believe this.”
“That’s the seventh time you’ve said that,” Scott points out, leaning back against the subway doors with his eyes closed. “I feel like you should have moved a little closer to acceptance by now.”
“The train has been delayed due to a technical issue. We will begin moving momentarily,” says the conductor over the crackling speakers. It’s the same thing he’s been saying for the past half hour.
“I was supposed to be Lydia’s plus one,” Stiles says (again, not for the first time, but seriously). “At her notoriously racy office party. On New Year’s Eve. There has never been, nor will there ever again be a better opportunity to get in there. And I’m missing it.”
“She only invited you to get back at Jackson for not taking her,” Scott reminds him, and thanks, Scott.
“I know that,” Stiles says, pouting. “You think I don’t know that? I’m just saying, anything could have happened.”
“Anything except you actually getting over this crush because it’s embarrassing and pointless,” Scott says gently, taking off his giant sparkly 2013 sunglasses and balancing them on Stiles’ nose. “She’s too mean for you anyway, dude. You should be with someone sweet.”
“Just because you want to date Little Mary Sunshine doesn’t mean the rest of us do,” Stiles snaps. “No offense, Allison.”
“None taken,” Allison says, smirking. “I get it. Sometimes you need a little edge.”
“What?” Scott says, eyes widening in panic. “You do?”
“You’ve got more than enough edges for me, though, sweetheart,” Allison reassures him, winking at Stiles before kissing Scott so deeply that he apparently forgets what they were talking about. Stiles sighs, slumping down onto the hard plastic seats and feeling pathetically alone.
~*~
At 10:28pm, the conductor admits that they probably won’t start moving again momentarily, and Scott and Allison have already played three games of War. On the most recent game, other people on the train started placing bets.
Stiles is standing up on the seats and vainly attempting to get even the weakest signal on his cell phone.
~*~
At 10:57pm, the conductor stops providing updates, and then a kid wearing dreadlocks and draped in Mardi Gras beads comes in from the neighboring car and turns his boom box on full blast.
“Party!” yells the tipsy redhead sitting across from them, and Stiles rolls his eyes and watches his signal-less phone as the clock slides depressingly closer to midnight.
~*~
By 11:24pm, though, Stiles has shed the jacket from his three-piece suit and is dancing wildly in the middle of the car, singing along with Lady Gaga. Allison is gyrating sexily with a pretty blond girl while holding her heels in one hand, and Scott is shirtless and using the handrail as a stripper pole.
“Let’s have some fun, this beat is sick,” Stiles croons, twirling around and swiveling his hips. “I wanna take a ride on your—Derek!”
Derek Hale is Stiles’ insanely hot and vaguely terrifying neighbor, who’s apparently been trapped on this train with them this whole time. Stiles stumbles back a few steps, barely managing to catch himself on an overhead bar before he falls on his ass. Derek snorts, and then reaches up and straightens the 2013 glasses on Stiles’ face. “Careful,” he says, and Stiles kind of wants to lick his tense little frown.
“Where have you been? I didn’t notice you. And I always notice you. You’re not very good at not being noticed. Your face is noticeable.”
“You’re kind of drunk, aren’t you,” Derek says, smiling a little bit now. It’s nice. Derek should really smile more. Stiles is used to Derek just frowning and stalking away, whenever they cross paths in the hallway or the gym or at the mailboxes. “How did you even get drunk?”
“Benny had three bottles of vodka. Hey, Benny!”
“I’m cutting you off,” Benny yells from the corner of the car. He’s a weedy kid in a rainbow beanie, who suddenly became everyone’s favorite person when he started doling out shots about forty minutes ago.
“I was in the next car,” Derek explains. “We had champagne.”
“Ooh, classy, let’s go there!” Stiles crows, grabbing Derek by the sleeve and trying to drag him. (They don’t move an inch, because Derek doesn’t want to be dragged and Derek is a brick house.)
“There’s a group of girls in there,” Derek says, clearly uncomfortable. “They’re… pushy.”
“Oh,” Stiles says, grinning hugely. “Oh my god. You came in here to escape.”
“Shut up,” Derek scowls. “They were touching my chest.”
“Can you blame them?” Stiles waves his hand up and down Derek’s body. “Your chest is like a miracle. I’m almost drunk enough to touch it myself. You’d kill me but it’d be worth it.”
“What.” Derek tilts his head and narrows his eyes, and Stiles swallows around the dry-throated terror of having made a huge mistake. “What did you… what?”
“Nope,” Stiles says. He hates getting drunk in public; he definitely shouldn’t have had that fifth swallow of vodka. “Nothing. Go away. Happy New Year.”
“There’s nowhere else for me to go,” Derek points out, blinking his stupid big beautiful eyes at Stiles.
“I hate New Year’s Eve,” Stiles says dramatically. “Lydia is above-ground somewhere in a cocktail dress and I’m wasted and third-wheeling it on a broken train.”
Scott and Allison are dancing together, now, although it looks a lot closer to vertical sex than dancing; he’s got his mouth against her neck, and she’s rubbing her hands all over his bare stomach. Stiles sighs wistfully.
“Your… girlfriend?” Derek asks him, and Stiles squints, confused. “Lydia,” he clarifies, not quite meeting Stiles’ eyes. “Is she your girlfriend?”
“No, just one of the painfully beautiful people in my life whom I desperately want to bone even though they can’t stand me,” Stiles says. The conga line that’s circulating around the train knocks into him from behind, and he pitches forward, right into Derek’s miraculous chest. “Hey,” he says inanely as Derek’s hands close over his arms. Derek smells wonderful, like sandalwood and cloves and sex, and Stiles closes his eyes and breathes in deep.
“Who are the other ones?” Derek is asking. Someone throws a handful of glittery confetti that hits Stiles full in the face, and Derek brushes a bit of it off of his wrinkled-up nose. “The other beautiful people who hate you, I mean.”
“Nuh uh,” Stiles says, poking Derek’s chest with his finger. “You’ll never knoooooow who the other one is, because I’m totally never ever going to tell you that it’s you.”
“Fair enough,” Derek agrees, and his smile has gone so soft and warm that Stiles wonders momentarily if he’s a pod person. “Want to dance with me?”
“I’ll probably end up hitting you in the face,” Stiles says, “but okay.”
~*~
By 11:55, Stiles has sobered up enough to stop stepping all over Derek’s boots, but the train is still stopped and the party is still raging. Derek has his sleeves pushed up past his elbows, and he’s laughing as he twirls Stiles around to ‘Call Me Maybe.’ It’s fantastic, primarily because Derek has the best laugh ever, but also because being twirled turns out to be insanely fun.
“I wanna say you’re emasculating me,” Stiles says, giggling, “but this is way too awesome. I’m totally jealous of girls now. Spin me again!”
“You’re so demanding,” Derek says, but he whips Stiles around again. “I’ll have to tell my sister that those terrible ballroom dance classes she made me take for her wedding are finally paying off.” Then he actually picks Stiles up by his hips and twirls him in the air, and Stiles throws his head back and whoops.
Derek sets him back down on his feet just as Scott comes shimmying toward them to steal back his giant sunglasses. “Best New Year’s EVER,” he yells in Stiles’ ear.
“Fuck yeah!” Stiles agrees, and they high five before Scott disco-dances back to the other side of the train car.
“Even though Lydia’s not here?” Derek says, and Stiles scoffs.
“Lydia who?”
Derek hums, low and pleased, and pulls Stiles in close. “You can touch my chest whenever you want, you know.”
“Huh?” Stiles loops his arms around Derek’s neck, swallowing nervously. “But… you don’t even like me!”
Derek looks down to where their bodies are pressed against each other, and then back up to Stiles’ face. He raises his eyebrows pointedly.
“Okay, yes, obviously, when you put it like that,” Stiles says, feeling drunk all over again. “But, you run away whenever you see me in the laundry room!”
“I’m not good at… it’s just that you’re so…” Derek looks sideways and bites his lip.
“So what? Annoying? Overbearing? Terrible about separating my darks and whites? What?”
“So cute,” Derek says, like an accusation. Stiles squawks and pushes him up against a pole, kissing him forcefully just as the next song starts blasting from the boom box.
“Oh nooooo,” Stiles moans, once they’ve broken apart to breathe.
“What,” Derek sighs, sliding one hand into Stiles' hair and the other into his back pocket.
“Years from now, we’re going to have to tell our children that our song is ‘Gangnam Style,’” says Stiles sadly, and yeah, Derek has the best laugh ever. Especially when he’s laughing against Stiles’ mouth.
~*~
At 12:03am, the train starts moving again. Stiles doesn’t notice when they miss their stop.