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Stiles keeps Jackson’s secret. He keeps it, holds it so tightly in his clasped hands that it threatens to slip free from between his fingers whenever he finds himself alone with Jackson, his lips twisted and his stare hard and his everything so, so beautiful Stiles loses air. It’s always there in the back of his mind, behind his eyelids, the main reason he lies awake nights, twitching and squirming, until all he can do is jack himself fucking raw. He keeps Jackson’s secret, yes, and develops a few of his own in the process.
That’s why while everyone exchanges gifts on Christmas night, Stiles waits until now, hours to the New Year, to give this one in particular.
Jackson’s driveway is oddly empty when Stiles pulls in. Empty save for the Porsche, that is. He—He kind of has this picture in his head of how things could go, just a quick and messy pencil work his mind sketched alone in his room with only lotion, tissues, and his right hand as inspiration. Just the thought of it is what has Stiles stumbling out of his Jeep and bouncing on his toes on Jackson’s welcome mat.
And, it takes a moment, but he works up the nerve to hit the doorbell. He hears it chime inside over the pound of his heartbeat in his ears, quickly followed by the clack of heels and the scrape of a lock unlocking and—oh.
Oh.
Perfect.
The door swings open and Stiles pitches back when Jackson sways forward, drunk off his pretty little ass and face flushed dark. But, that last bit probably has more to do with the rouge applied to his cheekbones than anything else; Stiles doubts a real blush could bleed through the foundation the smoothes away Jackson’s freckles, leaving his face pristine and blemish-free. Jackson’s dangling earrings clink and Stiles sucks in a breath.
Speaking of pictures, Jackson makes a pretty one. No, the prettiest one. The prettiest fucking picture ever painted by any artist ever, alive or dead.
Stiles might be a little bit in love. Just a little bit.
“Stilinskiii,” Jackson drawls, drawing back to lean against the doorway, hand on a jutting hip. He’s squeezed into these gorgeous, gorgeous shimmery, high-waisted gold shorts that don’t even reach mid-thigh and a cropped, off-the-shoulder white sweater. He staggers slightly and his strappy black heels clack on the wood floor again. “Get your ass in here, you fucking spaz,” he continues to slur, grabbing Stiles’ shoulder. “I’ve been waiting forever.”
Stiles laughs and lets himself be dragged into the living room. It’s funny, because he might be a wolf now, a real werewolf, but Jackson doesn’t seem to have the crazy metabolism the others do. He can still drink himself into a stupor, though it takes a bit longer. It’s something that makes him different yet still the same, and Stiles is so fucking head over heels for him, it’s crazy.
Jackson abandons him when they reach the couch and he drops down on it gracelessly, crosses his legs. He pats the seat beside him. “What took you so fucking long?” he demands as Stiles plops down. “You said you’d be here hours ago.”
“Try ten minutes ago, princess. Besides, I was busy wrapping your present.” Jackson scrunches his nose at the small, beribboned box placed in his lap. “I don’t know if people usually give gifts on New Year’s, but, um, yeah?”
Jackson continues to stare, confused, before his face eases into a smile. Blue eyes meet Stiles’, mascaraed eyelashes flutter, and it takes Stiles everything he has not to hyperventilate. “What—”
“Open it,” Stiles encourages with a nudge.
Jackson grins in the way only booze lets him, then undoes blue ribbon with a tug and tears silver wrapping paper with gold, lacquered nails.
Stiles shifts anxiously before he can uncover it. “It’s nothing big,” he says in a rush, leg bouncing. “I just—I just thought—” He reels back into silence when the tissue paper parts and Jackson makes a small noise in his throat.
“Oh,” he sighs softly as he plucks one of the lipsticks and turns it over in his fingers. It’s a soft, rose color that took Stiles hours of pacing through Sephora to decide on. That, three other colors, and a clear lip gloss. “Stilinski—”
“I wasn’t sure what color you would like, so, yeah, I chose like a bunch. I mean, you could use them for different outfits, I guess. And, I—” Stiles licks his lips, his eyes flickering from Jackson’s eyes to his lips, his hand, and back again. “I figured since this—this is still a big secret of yours and stuff, that no one would get you something like—”
“Put it on me.”
Stiles blinks, squeaks, “What?”
And, Jackson rolls his eyes, pushes up against Stiles’ chest. He taps at his collarbone. “I said, put it on me. I want to see how it looks,” he says hotly, all sex and sweet things and fingers down Stiles’ side. He purses his pink, lush lips a breath away from Stiles’ own.
Fuck. That picture he pieced together in his head? This is it.
“I—Um.” Stiles laughs nervously, smile crooked. “I don’t have what you’d call a steady hand or whatever and—But, no, yeah, okay.” He fishes blindly into the box still on Jackson’s lap and draws away with a petal pink one, pale and soft. “Will this one do?”
Jackson bats his eyelashes and nods.
Stiles uncaps the tube, twists the color up. “Okay. Okay, I’m gonna—okay.” He clears his throat and starts painting his lip in slow, careful strokes, his eyes hard and focused on the task at hand. Predictably, his hand twitches and—“Shit!”—the lipstick veers off-course for a split moment. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry! Let me . . .” Stiles brushes the excess from the curve of his lip with his thumb.
Then, he wipes, and wipes, and strokes, and strokes, and— Their noses bump and they pause with a flutter of uneasy laughter.
“How do I look?” Jackson asks.
And, without hesitation, Stiles answers, “Gorgeous. You’re absolutely gorgeous.”
The smile that spreads Jackson’s lips is grateful, genuine and Stiles can’t help but return it.
“I think,” Jackson whispers, leaning close as though sharing a secret, “this is about when you kiss me.” His breath is warm with booze and his nicely trimmed brows quirk. “Come on, Stilinski. Make me feel like the only girl in the world.”
That startles a laugh out of Stiles who runs his hands up Jackson’s back, clutches at the fuzzy sweater he wears. Jackson shifts onto his lap with a careless chuckle and wraps his arms around his neck, knocks their foreheads together. Leave it to Jackson to wear sloppy drunk so prettily and so perfectly.
“Alright,” Stiles says, taking a quick taste of Jackson’s lips, chemical and waxy and both nothing and everything he’s ever wanted. “I think I can do that.”