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By some unknown grace, Stiles manages to get through most of class without making any more embarrassing noises or flailing movements. There is a close call when Derek - and Stiles is definitely kicking himself for not making the connection about his name and origins last night, but in his defense, the guy had never actually given his surname - bends over his desk to retrieve the stack of papers constituting the syllabus for the next two semesters, and Stiles gets a good look at what his charcoal grey slacks do to show off what he already knows is a glorious ass. The low-level arousal Stiles has been staving off since class started spikes, and as he swallows down a whimper, he sees Derek shooting a glance his way.
It is not, in fact, a smug glance, as though the guy had planned to get a rise out of Stiles. Instead, he looks incredulous and a bit like he is holding onto his cool, easy demeanor by the tiniest of threads. Stiles feels a sharp, ridiculous pang of guilt, as though Derek knows what he is thinking about. Then, Derek straightens and strides over to Lydia, who sits in the front row looking regal and more than a little bored, as though this is all far too mundane for the likes of her. It probably is. Lydia has probably already read all of the course material online and studied to the point that she could take the AP exam today. Stiles searches for the rush of admiration he normally feels when confronted with the amazing mind she so carefully conceals, but cannot find it. The realization leaves him feeling even more off-kilter than he already was, and when the syllabus comes into his lightly trembling hands, his fingers clench it like a lifeline.
Again, Derek looks his way, his eyebrows raised in concern. Stiles desperately wants to know how someone he has known for less than a day can read him so easily, when people he has known for years have no idea what to make of him or how to handle his many quirks. He almost feels more naked now than he did last night. At the very least, it seemed like Derek was every bit as consumed as Stiles was at the time. Then again, taking in the way the strong hands, which he remembers moving with such frantic purpose, grip his own copy of the syllabus, Stiles wonders if that might still be the case.
To his left, Isaac Lahey clears his throat, and Derek shakes his head as if to clear it, prompting Stiles to do the same. This really is not the time for them to get caught up in each other, tempting as the prospect may be. They both make a concerted effort to focus on AP US History for the rest of the period, in spite of how thrilling discussing the schedule and rules for the class definitely is not.
When class finally comes to an end, Stiles stays in his seat, letting everyone else file out before him and feeling grateful that his spot in the back gives him an adequate excuse. He does receive several curious glances, because his fellow juniors have known him for years now, and he can usually be counted on to flee at the first peels of the bell, but he simply smiles and shrugs, hoping he looks innocent enough to pass muster. Since no one comes right out and asks him what is going on, he decides to call it a successful effort.
Finally, Isaac and Derek are the only ones left, and his classmate says a polite, “Stiles,” as he nods his way in farewell, and then he exchanges a look with their teacher that Stiles cannot parse, at odds with the mild “Mr. Hale,” he offers before strolling out of the room.
Staring after him, Stiles bites his lip. Clearly, unlikely as it seems, he is not the only one who knows Derek outside of a classroom setting. Stiles wonders for about half a second if he has any reason to feel jealous, and then discards the notion. He remembers what he felt last night, as though he had finally come home after years spent adrift. That same emotion was reflected back to him in a pair of grey-green eyes, and things like that cannot be faked.
Whatever relationship lies between Derek and Isaac, it has no bearing on their own.
He feels Derek coming up to stand beside him long before his hand settles on his shoulder, but makes no attempt to signal his recognition beyond letting go of the tension he had not previously been aware of in the muscles of his neck and back. Though the world outside the classroom door resonates with the cacophony of students seeking out their next period class, the much smaller world inside, consisting of just the two of them, crackles with the weight of everything neither of them can quite bring themselves to say.
Stiles waits one minute, two, three, and then he sighs heavily, turning his head in order to look at Derek, who is already staring back at him. Licking his lips, Stiles darts a look out toward the hall before deciding that no one is paying the two of them any heed. This must be Derek’s planning period, otherwise Stiles would have had to depart long before now in deference to incoming students.
Screwing up his courage - or maybe just his stupidity; either way, people often consider the two concepts fairly synonymous - Stiles licks his lips a second time and mutters lamely, “I gotta go, ‘cause - fifth period,” before continuing, “But um, I’ll come by after school so we can talk.”
Before Derek can respond, Stiles leans in and places a kiss in the same place on his cheek as he did the night before, and then he rushes out the door, knowing Derek’s eyes are on him every step of the way.