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“The day I first met you, you told me you’d never fa- you’d never fa- you’d never fa-”
“Oh, son of a bitch.”
Stiles quickly moved the boombox from where it was raised above his head to the ground in front of him, Demi Levato crooning “Now he- pas- wi- rea- rest” brokenly. Stiles fumbled for the volume, accidentally twisting it louder instead of off. With a not-so-muffled curse, he hit stop, then popped the disk out.
It was dark, what with it being two in the morning, but he was able to see the delicate scratch spreading across the disk, right down the center.
“Dammit. This is why people have MP3 players, Dad,” he muttered. He rubbed the disk on his red hoodie, hoping to make it better, but when he checked the disk again, there were just more scratches than before.
He sighed, then tossed the CD back into the player.
At least Derek didn’t wake up, Stiles thought morosely, heading back to his Jeep.
He’d tossed the defunct player into his back seat and was about to get in and drive off with his shame, when Derek popped out on the porch of the renovated Hale House. He was wearing a white tank-top and basketball shorts, looking way too good for 2am.
“Stiles, what in the hell are you doing.”
Even though he knew Derek was there, Stiles still jumped. He guiltily shut the door to his Jeep, then stuck his hands in the pocket of his hoodie, rocking back and forward on his feet and aiming for nonchalance.
“Oh, nothing. Just thought I’d go for a drive, enjoy the night air. Check in on my favorite supernatural misfits. The usual.”
Judging by Derek’s eyebrows, Stiles’ act wasn’t working.
“And that required you to play terrible pop music, why?”
“Music to sooth the savage beast?” He said, cringing.
Derek frowned, then walked off the porch and towards Stiles.
“I don’t know why you’re lying to me,” Derek said, “and you smell nervous. Is everything alright?”
“Just don’t worry about it,” Stiles muttered. He opened the door to his Jeep and clambered in. “I’ll see you... whenever.” He said, starting the car and shifting into reverse.
Derek looked like he was going to say something, but nodded instead.
Stiles was pretty sure he was going to die of embarrassment as he drove away, Derek a black silhouette in his rearview mirror.
Goddamn John Cusack, he thought angrily. Eighties teen movies can suck it.
---
Derek sat down next to him with a loud huff, shoving slightly into Stiles’ side.
“I think I figured it out,” he said, tapping the table next to Stiles’ hand. Stiles looked up, confused.
“What are you talking about?”
“The music,” Derek said, “two weeks ago?”
Stiles groaned. If he didn’t think that Derek would take it in the entirely correct way, he’d start banging his head against the table.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said instead. “I have no recollection of that event ever happening and, if we’re friends at all, you will kindly forget it and never speak of it again.”
“It’s Erica, isn’t it?” Derek asked, ignoring Stiles’ generous offer of friendship.
Stiles laid his head down on the table and started softly banging it against the plastic top.
---
Derek, right there... Oh, god, don’t stop. Oh fuck, I’m going to-
“LOVE, I GET SO LOST SOMETIMES!”
Stiles jerked awake, sweating and way too aware of the dream he’d just woken up from. His boxers were tented, and Peter Gabriel was crooning from outside of his window.
“DAYS PASS AND THIS EMPTINESS FILLS MY HEART!”
Stumbling out of bed, Stiles rushed over to the window and flung it open. Derek was standing outside, an old-school boombox raised over his head.
“Derek, what the everloving fuck are you doing?”
“WHEN I WANT TO RUN AWAY,” Peter Gabriel answered, “I DRIVE OFF IN MY CAR!”
“Turn that down, Jesus!”
Derek frowned, then lowered the boombox, turning down the volume.
“Is this not what you were doing?” He asked, looking puzzled and frustrated.
“Just come up here, oh my god. My dad is home! You’re going to wake up the neighbors.”
“All my instincts, they return and the grand facade-”
“Turn that OFF,” Stiles whispered loudly. “Peter Gabriel is great and all, but NOT AT THREE IN THE MORNING.”
Derek ignored Stiles, turned the music down further, then lifted the boombox onto his shoulder. Stiles stepped back, making room for Derek as he squeezed in through the window, the boombox almost not making it.
“Seriously, what were you thinking?” Stiles asked, shutting the window behind him.
“It’s from Say Anything..., right?” Derek asked, setting the boombox down on the floor. “That’s what you were doing.”
“Oh my god, this is not happening.” Stiles ran a hand over his face, then wandered over to his bed, flopping face first into it. “I thought we were going to just forget about this, and I could take this quietly to my grave, but no, you have to be like a dog with a bone,” he chuckled, “and not let it go.”
“But I don’t want to forget about it.” Derek said, sitting down on the bed next to Stiles. Stiles turned his head to look at Derek, eyes wide with surprise.
“Wait, what?”
“I don’t want to forget about it. Just,” Derek sighed, “c’mere.” He grabbed Stiles’ arm and pulled him closer.
Stiles was still gaping, so Derek’s kiss landed off-center. It was not quite amazing but pretty damn close to perfect. Once his brain caught up with what was happening, Stiles shifted, tilted his head just a little to the right, and damn. It all fit together like two puzzle pieces, like Legos snapping in just right, like fingers intertwining to match perfectly.
He raised his hands and dug them into Derek’s hair. Derek groaned and pressed closer, and Stiles quickly lost any and all sense of time.
A while later, they broke apart, panting. Stiles’ boxers were tented again, but Derek seemed more intrigued than embarrassed.
“I don’t know what you were thinking,” Derek said, smiling against Stiles’ mouth. “That movie came out when I was one.”
Stiles frowned.
“Everyone knows that movie, dude. It’s a classic.”
Derek pressed another kiss to Stiles’ lips, grinning.
“Raised by wolves, remember?”
It startled a laugh out of Stiles, who pulled back, still disbelieving. He took a moment to breathe, then looked over at the boombox resting on the floor, Peter Gabriel still crooning about eyes and completion and instincts.
“Is that a tape deck?”