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Stiles doesn’t have a crush on Derek. Well, duh, of course he doesn’t.
When Scott asked Stiles about what he called a ‘man crush’, he just laughed it away.
“Are you frickin’ insane, mate? I’ve been in love with Lydia since third grade. And I don’t even like boys.”
“No sourwolves changing your mind, then?”
“Not in the slightest,” Stiles assures Scott. As if he needed to assure Scott anyway.
Stiles is not really interested in guys. He just happens to find them very different from girls in an interesting way: they’re tall, muscular and they’ve got many cool things that girls don’t have. Of course, he’s very fond of Lydia and her petite figure, but guys… well, they’re big and generally they make Stiles feel very small, which is kind of nice, somehow.
Derek is also very big. Big as in tall and well built and older than Stiles, who doesn’t want to know how big is Derek. Come on, of course he doesn’t! Stiles just happens to like Derek’s abs and mouth and shoulders and— he actually likes everything about Derek, OK? But this doesn’t mean anything. Of course.
So, when Derek pushes Stiles against a wall because he really fucked up this time (“I mean, Stiles, seriously? A restraining order?”) he doesn’t have to think about dead raccoons or sad babies or whatever keeps him from smelling Derek’s scent and taking it into his lungs. Of course he doesn’t.
Derek goes away somewhere with his big car and Stiles finds himself chasing him by running in a very unmanly fashion, because of course he’s not that fond of Derek.
He breathes heavily and Derek stops. Thank God.
“What’s wrong, Stiles?”
“Oh, nothing. I just wanted to tell you that I’m very sorry.”
Derek raises an eyebrow. “Fine. I should really get going then—”
“No, please,” Stiles exhales, “Stay some more.” Derek gets down his car and slams the door shut.
“What do you want, Stiles?” He gets closer and closer and Stiles doesn’t want to put his head in Derek’s chest or touch his hair or trace the line of his nose.
“N-nothing in p-particular.”
“Take your time. I’m not running anywhere. Well, I will run a lot, but you can find me anyway.”
“WHAT?”
“Stiles,” Derek breathes in his ear. “I know about your… well… oh, fuck, I’m not good with words. Listen, I know about you. And me. About me. I wanted to tell you that it’s the same. For me. Whatever.”
Stiles is not sure he’s understood – he hopes Derek doesn’t really mean what he thinks – and he laughs frantically. Of course Derek doesn’t like him back. Of course.
“Yeah, apparently Scott knows better. Scott. What am I doing with my life?”