Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Stiles isn’t entirely sure how he ended up here.

No, that’s not exactly true. He ended up here because all of his friends are fucking useless, and he’s the only one who ever seems to get anything done. What he’s not sure about is how he let it get this far. He should know better, right? He’s been in this frat for going on four years now, and he’s seen their stupidity firsthand. He could write a fucking essay about the Stupidity of Delta Sigma Phi.

He’d have to write a chapter about himself, though, because here he is. February 13th. The day before his fraternity is supposed to go around campus handing out flower grams. The flower grams that people ordered three weeks ago. And he’s only now picking up their bulk order of roses.

The mountain of order slips are stashed in his backpack, haphazard and wrinkled, along with an ungodly amount of ribbon and more energy drinks than should be consumed by one man. He needs the help, though, because thanks to Jackson Whittemore, Douchebag Extraordinaire, guess who has to spend his entire night assembling the flower grams? Stiles. The one who organized everything else. The one who begged Jackson to take over after the orders were filled out because Stiles is being asphyxiated by due dates and just does not have the time.

Sure, his friends were happy to grumble with him about how Jackson isn’t good for anything but lacrosse, or how he’s a total fuck-up when it comes to actual work and organization, or how he’s probably going to end up getting stabbed to death in a bar fight one day. Even Danny, Jackson’s best friend, had frowned in barely contained disdain. But where are they now? Not fucking here, that’s where. Danny has classes all day, Boyd and Erica are stuck volunteering at the blood drive, Lydia has her internship, Malia is god knows where, Ethan and Aiden are home for the weekend, and Jackson is dicking around somewhere with some girl who isn’t Lydia, just to make Lydia jealous. Joke’s on him: Lydia doesn’t give a shit anymore.

Stiles hikes his backpack further up his shoulders with a sigh. If there’s one silver lining in this hellish gray cloud he calls life, it’s that he already knows this florist pretty well. Technically, Triskele Greenhouses is owned by Talia Hale, but it’s usually her brother Peter or her children that man the front desk. While Stiles would never, ever go as far as to say he likes the Hales, he’s learned how to navigate their creepy staring and open contempt. He can deal with cynicism and bitterness, because that’s where he lives.

Still, he hesitates for just another second. Another eternal second where he can feel stress lapping at his veins and cresting in his chest and he wants to be anywhere but here, fuck. The grimy glass door feels so impregnable, it might as well be a brick wall.

He inhales deeply through his nose and squares his shoulders. Stiles is a 4.0 student. He’s made the dean’s list every semester since he started college, and he survived the initiation into Delta Sigma Phi with nothing more than a scar on his palm and a legendary story. He’s written twelve-page papers in two hours, he’s spent three days straight hopped up on adrenaline and Red Bull so he could study for finals, and last December he managed to wrangle an awesome Christmas party in the frathouse in less than an hour (the epic photo evidence is still circulating the internet).

He can make fucking flower grams. He’s just got to keep his eye on the ball.

He doesn’t open the door so much as barrel through, riding the wave of his stubborn adrenaline, determined not to get distracted. He has a mission, and he’s not going to even think about anything else until it’s completed; he won’t rest until every goddamn slip is tied to a rose and handed off to whatever schmuck is meant to receive it. He is in the fucking zone.

“Hi! Welcome to Triskele Greenhouses. I’ll be with you in just a minute.” The words drift around a corner, coming from a back room behind the front counter.

Stiles stops short. The voice is unfamiliar, and that alone is enough to throw a wrench in his well-oiled plan. He doesn’t like unfamiliar. He likes things to stay the same, because they operate much smoother that way. Where the hell is Derek? Cora? Fuck, he’ll even take Peter.

He looks around, huffing with annoyance. Luckily, there’s only one other person in the store. She can’t be older than nine, her sandy hair braided into two pigtails, her hands clutching the straps of a disconcertingly neon backpack as she stands on tiptoes to peer over the counter. Her eyes are wide and blinking; she looks nervous. Maybe it’s best that some new guy is here instead of one of the Hales. None of them are known for their gentleness or talent with children. Doesn’t mean Stiles wants to deal with the new guy, though. He’ll probably have to go through the whole authorization thing again, prove to this dumbass that he’s allowed to pick up orders for Delta Sigma Phi, whereas any of the Hales would just know--

He jerks to attention when the sound of footsteps reaches his ears. He’s so focused on taking in the new guy, cataloguing his features and trying to determine how much of an idiot he is, that when Derek strolls around the corner, it throws him for a loop.

“Derek?” he blurts. “I thought I heard--”

That is when the new guy shows up, stepping out from behind Derek’s massive frame. He barely spares Stiles a glance, too focused on the flower arrangement held carefully in his hands to do more than walk carefully in the little girl’s direction.

Stiles, on the other hand, can’t stop staring.

He does this sometimes. Most days, Stiles couldn’t give an ounce of a fuck about most of the human race. It isn’t a lack of empathy, and he doesn’t wish them harm or anything. It’s more of a convenience thing. He finds it horribly inefficient to waste time and energy thinking about people he doesn’t know or care about, or that don’t care about him. Once in awhile, though, when the planets have aligned and the moon is full and a bicentennial comet is passing over the earth, he sees someone he likes.

Likes may be too soft of a word. It needs more edge. Obsession is a bit strong. Infatuation implies more romanticism than is usually present.

Fascination. That’s more accurate.

It happened with Lydia. When Stiles met her in grade school, he found her Oscar-worthy performance as an idiot to be as compelling as anything he’d ever seen. The idea that she had learned so early on how to best take advantage of her looks --and the way they made people underestimate her-- immediately shot her to the top of his genius list. And when she’d finally had enough of hiding and openly kicked ass in all her AP classes? Breathtaking. He likes to think he’s matured since his time as her pathetic little lapdog, and god knows she's come to respect him way more than she did back then, but their friendship is something he will always be grateful for.

It happened with Malia, too. Stiles had never met someone so wild. Not in the teenage sense, not in the way that parties and alcohol and joints are wild, but in the real sense of the word. The way of whip-sharp wind and dried leaves on the forest floor, bare feet and skin smeared with dirt. He likes to think a little bit of that freedom has rubbed off on him. He likes to think he’s helped her stand straight in a world that usually confuses her. It’s symbiotic.

And there have been others, here and there. Some lasted, like Lydia and Malia, while others lost their shine and faded away after a couple of months. Some of them even ended up as brief relationships. Stiles doesn’t really do crushes, though, even if he sometimes thought he did. It turns out, he does fascinations. He sees someone compelling, someone with intricate parts he wants to examine under a microscope, and he doesn’t let go until they lose their appeal or until they’re a fixture in his life.

And this boy? This boy is just begging to be dissected.

He’s dressed like a walking advertisement for Warped Tour, dark jeans and red checkered plaid complete with dirty sneakers. His dark hair is curly and messy, but in the tangled and frizzy way of someone who actually, literally rolled out of bed like that. His eyes have the bleary, bruised look of a chronic insomniac, and he has a split lip. All the trappings of an angry, pot-smoking, too-pop-punk asshole who thinks fighting is a great way to show his manliness and insists that his parents just don’t understand.

But he's obviously not like that, because his smile. God, his grin is so wide and his eyes so bright, it’s like sunshine is literally shooting out of his ass. It gives him a totally different vibe than Stiles would ever have expected. Like, he’s not an insomniac because he’s up writing bad slam poetry or riffing on a guitar he can’t play. He’s up because he’s partying with his hoards of friends, or he’s busy knitting sweaters for the homeless, or baking cookies for underprivileged children, or some other altruistic shit that people don’t usually make time for. It makes sense that he’d be good with kids. Watching him speak with the little girl, coming around to the front of the counter so he can kneel in front of her and help her carefully zip the flowers into her backpack, making sure not to crush the petals--

“Stiles.”

He almost knocks over a vase trying to whirl around. He completely forgot about Derek and the roses waiting for him in the back room. The other man looks completely unimpressed, brow furrowed and arms crossed as he waits for a response.

Stiles opens his mouth to do just that when the new voice fills the air, and he pauses.

“These are white hyacinth flowers,” the new guy explains. “You give them to someone when you think they’re lovely, or when you’re praying for them.” He sounds so genuine, not even close to the condescending tone of voice people always use around children. It’s endearing, frankly, to hear anyone talk to a little girl like she’s an equal, let alone someone who looks like he spends his free time getting in fistfights. And he knows exactly what white hyacinth flowers are supposed to represent? How delightfully dorky--

“Stiles,” Derek snaps, and Stiles has to turn around again. He didn’t even realize he had craned his neck towards the new guy.

“I’m here for the roses. Delta Sigma Phi. The frat. It’s a fraternity. You knew that.” Stiles snaps his mouth shut, wincing when he pinches his tongue between his teeth.

Derek purses his lips and fiddles with the computer sitting in front of him. A couple of clicks later, he nods his head. “Sure. Wait here.” He turns around and slips back into the back room again, leaving Stiles free to drag his gaze back to the other side of the room.

The little girl is crying. If Stiles had been the one talking to her, he probably would have started panicking, stumbling away from the conversation as gracelessly as possible. But the new guy is handling it like a pro, despite looking like he’s staring down the barrel of a gun. He has a hand settled on the girl’s shoulder, and his head is craned towards her as he mumbles in her direction. Stiles only catches a few words here and there --something about a grandmother in the hospital-- and there’s a voice in the back of Stiles’ head that’s telling him to back up and give them privacy. It sounds a lot like his dad.

Not that he ever actually listens to his dad.

“Here,” Derek snaps, and Stiles startles again. Derek is holding two large bouquets filled to bursting with red roses, the arrangements wrapped in thick plastic.

“Thanks,” Stiles mumbles, reaching out to take them, but Derek pulls them back at the last second.

“You know red roses are cliched, right?” he asks, arching an eyebrow.

“Cliched or not, we made money,” Stiles fires back, snatching the roses from Derek’s grip. Normally, he would take this opportunity to stalk outside without so much as a backwards glance. Dramatic and badass, just the way he likes it. This time, he can’t help but lean over the counter for one last, extremely vital question: “Who’s the new hire?”

Derek frowns. “Why?” Something must occur to him, then, because his eyes widen and his frown deepens into an outright scowl. “No, Stiles. You are not coming in here and making my life a living hell just because you see a shiny new toy to play with. Not again.”

Stiles scrunches up his face in confusion. “Are you talking about Cora? We’re still friends, dude, how the hell has that ruined your life?”

“It wasn’t the break-up, you idiot. Because of you, she got it in her head to go back to South America for six months to find herself. I was short-staffed for weeks before Scott--”

“Aha!” Stiles points the roses at Derek’s face. “So his name is Scott.”

Derek just slaps the roses away, using way more force than Stiles’ thinks is necessary, considering Derek is a florist and all. “You’re a fucking curse, Stilinski, and I will not have you chase away--”

“I didn’t chase her away, I just suggested she do what she thinks is best for her--”

“Your exact words were ‘Maybe you should go back to South America for a few months.’ That’s hardly a vague--”

“Um, Derek?”

Stiles and Derek both snap their mouths shut. The new guy --Scott-- has come up behind Stiles and is now standing there awkwardly, fiddling with his keys. He’s looking at Derek, but his eyes keep darting over to Stiles. “I’m going on my lunch now, is that okay?”

“Yeah, that’s fine,” Derek says, his tone much lighter than it had been when directed at Stiles. He's practically smiling. Since when does Derek Hale, Prince of the Underworld, smile at people? “Be back in half an hour.”

Scott gives him a little salute. “Yes, sir.” He makes to leave, half turning towards the front door, but his eyes flick to Stiles. He stops mid-step. “Um, hi. Are you a friend of Derek’s?”

Stiles’ class-clown instincts take over, and he smirks. “Yes, Derek and I are the best of pals. Have been ever since we were wee lads rolling around, building sandcastles, and sharing baths.” He reaches over the counter to clap his fist against Derek’s shoulder, the plastic wrapping on the bouquet rustling against Derek’s ear. Derek slaps it away again.

“We met four years ago, Stiles. And I’m older than you. I would have been in elementary school by the time you were shitting yourself in the sandbox.”

Scott, who had been smiling politely, raises an eyebrow in Stiles’ direction. Stiles shoots him a commiserating look. “It’s so hard to get him to open up. He’d rather deny our relationship than admit when it needs work--”

“Just take your roses and get out.” Derek snatches up a couple of loose receipts and stalks away, slamming the door to the back room behind him.

“Come on, Robin. Batman needs his space,” Scott says, nodding to the front door. “I’ll walk you out.” His face is split in a wide grin, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and Stiles finds he can’t look away.

Then his mind catches up with the conversation. “Excuse me?” he asks, affronted. “Why does he get to be the Batman of this relationship? I’d make a much better rich guy. Derek would probably just buy himself more v-necks. Or maybe sleep on top of the money like a dragon.”

Scott laughs. Turns out it's just as bright as his smile, and Stiles never wants it to stop.

Chapter Text

“Who is this guy again?”

Scott continues rifling through his closet, intent on finding the perfect outfit. “His name is Stiles.”

Allison hums noncommittally. “And he’s in Delta Sigma Phi? And he invited you to a party?”

“Yeah, so?” Scott grabs at a hanger too fast, and the shirt slides off and onto the floor. He picks it up, hopeful, but it’s the shirt he wore a week ago when he first met Stiles. He can’t show up in it now; he’ll look like one of those slobs who wears the same thing every day and never washes it. “Fuck,” he murmurs, putting the shirt back on the hanger and resuming his search. “Do I not own any decent clothes?”

“You know that frat has a reputation, right?”

Scott ignores her. “Since when do I have so many henleys?” he mutters absently.

“They sleep around a lot.”

“I’m serious. There’s, like, twenty henleys in here. I need help.”

“Wear the green one,” Allison says, pointing at it. “It looks good with your skin tone. And it’ll probably look good on this Stiles guy’s dirty floor. It’ll go great with his dirty laundry and empty condom wrappers.”

Scott pulls the shirt off its hanger and holds it up to his chest. “Are you sure? It’s not too army surplus?”

“It’s green, not camo. Are you even listening to me?” she huffs. She’s sprawled on her stomach on top of his bedspread, legs in the air and chin cupped in her hand, looking for all the world like a pouting toddler. She sounds like it, too.

Sighing, Scott throws the shirt on the bed next to her and strips off the one he’s wearing. “Yes, Allison, I’m listening. I just don’t care. He can do whatever he wants in his free time.”

“You mean whoever.”

“And since when do you care about other people’s sex lives? Last time I checked, you were all about choice and autonomy and not slut-shaming and…” He’s halfway through putting his shirt on when it occurs to him. “Wait a second,” he says, sticking his arm haphazardly through its sleeve. “Is this about Jackson?”

Allison rolls her eyes, but she won’t meet Scott’s gaze. “No. Why would it be about Jackass?”

“Because he’s in the same frat. And because he….” Lead you on for weeks even though he was just using you to make his ex jealous. He probably shouldn’t say it. That drama dominated the last half of their sophomore year. Allison doesn’t need it spelled out. “....is a royal douchebag,” he finishes lamely. It’s a bit of an understatement. There’s a reason Scott punched him out a little over a week ago. That fight gave him a split lip that probably freaked Stiles out, but it was worth it.

“Are you suggesting that I would hold one person’s actions against their entire group?” she demands, narrowing her eyes.

Scott shrugs helplessly. “Not on purpose?”

For a moment, Allison glares at him, clenching and unclenching her fists, and he readies himself for an argument. It never comes, though; she just sighs and buries her face in his comforter, and all he can do is blink in surprise.

She mumbles something, but the words are suffocated in his comforter. “What?” he prompts.

She picks up her head. “I said, ‘I may not be as over it as I thought,’” she repeats. “It happened months ago. Why am I still so bitter?”

Scott perches next to her and starts playing with her hair. “Maybe you just haven’t had any closure. I mean, you haven’t even seen his face since he sent you that text.”

“What are you suggesting?” She rests her head against his thigh.

The words come out before the idea is even fully formed. “Come with me.”

Her head snaps up, expression wary. “To the party? Why?”

“You’re over him, right? It’s just the insult you’re not over?”

Allison nods carefully.

“Prove it,” he challenges. “Prove that you don’t give a shit by going to his party and not even looking at him.”

“How is that going to fix anything?” she asks, incredulous. “He probably won’t even notice me.”

He shrugs. “Maybe it’s not him you’re trying to prove yourself to.” When she just stares at him blankly, he rolls his eyes. “Yourself, dummy. You’re proving it to yourself.”

She takes a moment to think about it, brow raised in thought, her fingers picking at a tear in his blanket. Then she slaps his knee and jumps up onto her feet. “Alright, let’s do it.”

Scott smiles. Allison never was one to half-ass something once she decided to do it. “That’s my girl,” he coos.

Gathering her keys and phone, Allison starts pulling on her boots. “We’re gonna have to stop by my place first. If I’m gonna do this, I want to look my best. Like, I fully expect there to be heart attacks as soon as I walk through the door.”

Scott grabs his own keys and phone, stuffing them in his pockets. As he’s pulling on his sneakers, his eyes fall on the bottom drawer of his dresser. It mostly holds socks and underwear, and the occasional toy, but more importantly, it holds his emergency stash of condoms. Allison may be biased, but she’s also not the only one who’s heard rumors about Delta Sigma Phi. Is Stiles expecting something? Is this even a date at all? Or is Stiles just playing the odds, inviting anyone he comes across and hoping he can hook someone? He invited Scott over the phone, and he sounded genuine, but that could mean nothing. If Stiles makes the move, what will Scott do?

“Scott?” Allison asks. When he glances over at her, she’s standing with one hand on his doorknob, her face crumpled in concern. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, injecting his voice with as much cheer as he can. It may or may not work, but Allison doesn’t call him out on it. “I’m just trying to decide if I want to bring extra boxers. You know, just in case this pair gets ruined,” he says casually.

Allison wrinkles her nose. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

Scott just brushes past her, humming innocently. “I guess I can always improvise. They probably have tissues there, right?”

“Animal,” Allison mutters.

Scott’s laughter feels warm in his chest.

⚫ ⚫ ⚫ ⚫ ⚫ ⚫ ⚫

The party is well underway by the time they show up. Scott has seen the Delta Sigma Phi house before, but only from the outside, and only in the stark light of day. At night, the edges are softer, bleeding into the dark night sky. It’s lit by the harsh glow of streetlamps and the Christmas lights lining the windows. Dozens of people are milling around on the lawn, some already sloshed out of their minds, and there’s already a thin layer of trash littering the street. Scott feels bad for whichever Delta has to clean up in the morning. He wonders if it’ll be Stiles.

He starts up the porch steps, but Allison stops him with one hand on his shoulder. “You’ll be careful, right?” she asks, jaw clenched.

Scott blinks, then tries to laugh it off. “Yes, Mom, I’ll wrap it before I tap it.”

She doesn’t even roll her eyes. “I mean it, Scott. You can do whatever you want, but I want you to make sure it won’t hurt you in the long run.”

He frowns. “What do you mean?”

“I know you, Scott,” she says, not breaking his gaze. “You’re not built for hook-ups. If that’s all this Stiles guy wants, just make sure you’re okay with that.”

Scott shuffles his weight nervously. As much as he’d like her to be wrong, he knows she probably isn’t. Historically, casual hook-ups haven’t worked out for him. He always wants to hang out more, to get to know them, to date, and it always ends awkwardly. They’ll text him for a while, but they’ll beg off any plans to go out, and Scott is left stumbling in their wake until he finally takes the hint.

He only met Stiles a week ago. Since then, they’ve kept up a steady stream of texts, just enough to keep Scott interested, but that doesn’t guarantee they’re on the same page. He’s seized with the same doubt he felt back in his apartment. What does Stiles want out of him? What does he want out of Stiles?

“I’ll be careful,” he says, mostly so Allison will stop looking at him like he’s already had his heart broken. His own caution is heavy enough; he doesn’t need the added weight of hers.

“Then let’s go,” she says, nodding definitively, and Scott turns around to continue up the porch steps.

From outside, the noise is muffled and vague, but as soon as they step inside, it’s like standing inside a speaker. Allison nudges Scott’s arm, her lips moving, but Scott can’t make out a word she’s saying. After a few seconds of complicated charades, Scott waves her off, giving her one last thumbs up. She disappears, no doubt to find herself a date for the night, and Scott is left alone.

He doesn’t mind. Allison came here to have some fun and reassert herself in the dating scene, and she’s not going to do that with Scott glued to her arm all night. The only problem is that Scott is now standing awkwardly by himself in a dark, crowded room, and he has no idea what to do with himself. Should he talk to someone? Get himself a drink? Find Stiles?

That last one is more nerve-wracking than Scott thought it would be. Maybe it’s the loud music, or the dim lights, or the couple making out rather vehemently in the corner, or the group of girls sitting in a circle taking shots, but Scott is suddenly and painfully aware of how social and outgoing Stiles must be. How could he not be, living in a frat house and throwing parties like this? Scott holds his own, but he can’t keep up with this. For God’s sake, Stiles did most of the talking when they first met, and that was five minutes of casual conversation.

It’s only when someone brushes past him that Scott realizes he’s still standing in the doorway. Too nervous to make his own decisions, Scott follows the newcomers down a thin hallway, eyes darting around nervously, only half of him hoping he’ll run into Stiles. The newcomers lead him into the kitchen, which is already a landfill of crushed beer cans and empty plastic cups. There’s no sign of anyone Scott knows, and it’s still too loud to really introduce himself to anybody, so he just shoulders his way up to the island and pours himself a drink. He’s not sure what it is, but he doesn’t bother mixing it with anything, and it goes down like spiced lava.

Before he can pour himself a refill, a hand clamps down on his shoulder. A violent churning starts in Scott’s stomach at the same time a grin cracks open on his face, but when he turns around, it’s not Stiles that greets him.

“Oh,” he mumbles, his smile fading, the word getting lost in the thumping bass of the music.

“Hey,” Theo shouts, his voice only barely audible. His smile is relaxed and bright, but to Scott it looks like a snarl. “How’s it going?”

Scott steps back so Theo’s hand slips off his shoulder. “Fine. How are you?” He doesn’t really care, but he’s always been too polite for his own good. The face of the matter is, his drama with Theo was messy, painful, and demoralizing, and Theo deserves none of Scott's polite manners. That shit dominated the entire first half of sophomore year. Come to think of it, he and Allison didn’t have a great sophomore year.

“Good, good. I’m great,” Theo says. His grin slips, and his eyes soften, and just like that, he’s the Theo from a year ago. The Theo Scott thought he could count on. The one who can charm anyone into anything. “Hey, man, I’m sorry for the way things went down between us. A lot of shit happened that I really regret, and I never got to make things right.” He gestures vaguely over his shoulder with the red cup in his hands. “Can we go somewhere quiet and talk about it?”

Even a year later, even after all of the stress and humiliation, part of Scott still wants to say yes. It’s only fair he hears what Theo has to say, right? Maybe he really does want to make amends. He opens his mouth to agree.

“Theo!” a voice booms. Scott looks over to see Stiles standing next to them. While his tone is friendly, the look on his face is anything but, and the hand he’s using to grip Theo’s shoulder is white-knuckled.

Theo’s smirk returns full-force, his eyes hardening. “Oh, hey, Stiles. Fancy seeing you here.”

“Yeah, how weird you’d see me at my own party, right? Now get out.”

Scott’s jaw falls open at the abrupt change in tone. He expects Theo to argue or try to weasel his way into staying, but he just holds up his hands in surrender. He starts backing away, as untroubled as ever, disappearing into the crowd without even a glance in Scott’s direction.

He shouldn’t feel disappointed. Disappointment would imply he ever expected anything in the first place, and he knows better than that.

“Scott!” Stiles says, his voice easily carrying over the noise. His expression is worlds away from the one he aimed at Theo; his eyes are lit up, his mouth parted in a gigantic smile, his arms thrown up in excitement. It’s so engaging, and welcoming, and expressive, and alive, and it makes something in Scott’s gut start buzzing.

“Hey,” he says lamely, his own grin creeping up the sides of his mouth.

“Your cup is empty!” Stiles point out. Without another word, he grabs Scott’s wrist and tugs him out of the kitchen and down a long hallway, expertly shouldering his way through the crowd. His hand is warm and big and it looks like he’s leading Scott to a bedroom and the buzzing is now a thousand times stronger than it was five seconds ago and--

“Sorry for the mess,” Stiles says, kicking his backpack out of the way as soon as they walk through what is indeed a bedroom door. Scott looks around curiously. The room really is a mess, but it’s an interesting mess. Every surface is littered with papers and notebooks, and one wall is dedicated to a bookshelf bursting with hardbacks. Posters cover most of the other walls, advertising bands and movies Scott hasn’t heard of, and there’s a chess board sitting on the only uncluttered piece of furniture in the room, a tiny table shoved in the corner. The pieces are scattered haphazardly on top. They look like they’re made of glass.

Stiles snatches the empty cup out of Scott’s hand, and Scott raises an eyebrow. “You realize we were just in the kitchen, right? Where all the booze is?”

Stiles just starts rifling through one of his dresser drawers. “That shit is for the masses. I love cheap booze as much as the next debt-ridden college kid, but sometimes you need a taste of something other than paint thinner, you know what I mean?” He turns around, an amber bottle held triumphantly in his hand. “Hence, my secret stash,” he says proudly.

Scott doesn’t recognize the brand name. “You know I probably won’t be able to taste the difference, right?”

“Sure you will,” Stiles insists, breaking the seal and twisting off the cap. “Everyone knows expensive shit tastes better.” He pours a generous helping into both of their cups and hands one over. “So what was all that about?”

Scott sniffs at his drink, eyes watering slightly at the harsh smell. “What was what about?”

“Back there. With Theo. You looked nauseous just standing next to him.”

Oh. Right. Funny how two minutes with Stiles made him forget about a semester’s worth of pain being thrown back in his face. “Nothing, just….he was a dick to me last year. Told me we were exclusive, cheated on me, then tried to convince me we had an open thing the whole time and I was just being clingy. So back there, he said he wanted to apologize, but….”

Stiles snorts. “Yeah, that sounds about right.” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Scott. You don’t deserve that shit. No one does. He’s a sickness.”

Scott shrugs. For whatever reason, things don’t seem quite as bleak as they did when Theo walked up to him. “It’s in the past. What about you? I thought I was about to become an accessory to murder.”

Stiles stares down at his drink, jaw clenching. “He got my friend Malia super drunk at a party last year and tried to get her into bed. When I found them, she was practically unconscious. We think he might have drugged her, but we can’t prove anything, especially since I chased him out before anything actually happened.”

Now Scott really does feel nauseous. Did this happen while he and Theo were dating? God, how could he ever get mixed up with someone like that? How terrible does his taste in men have to be? “Is Malia okay?”

To his surprise, Stiles breaks out in a big grin. “Yeah, she’s fine. The next day she tracked him down and clocked him right in the eye. Told him she’d rip it out if she ever heard about him trying that kind of thing again, with anyone.”

Scott’s brow goes up. “Would she do it?”

“It’s hard to tell with her.”

Scott grins back and holds up his cup. “To Theo getting his eyes ripped out, then.”

“And to capturing it on video, hopefully,” Stiles adds, holding up his own. “Hear, hear.”

They both down their drinks in one go. The whiskey warms his insides as it slides down his throat, but Scott barely notices because he’s already feeling warm all over. It’s too early to tell, but Stiles hating Theo? That feels like a positive sign.

“Well?” Stiles gestures at Scott’s empty cup. “What do you think?”

The whiskey really does taste better than anything out in the kitchen. “Not a fan. Got any Fireball?”

Stiles’ eyes widen. He slaps the cup out of Scott’s hand, outraged, making Scott bark out a surprised laugh. “And to think I wasted a brand new bottle on you.”

“Sorry I wasn’t worth it,” Scott snickers.

“No, you’re definitely worth it.” It seems to slip out on accident, if Stiles’ nervous blinking is anything to go by, but it still freezes Scott in place. His senses all turn up to eleven, and he’s suddenly over-aware of the bed sitting five feet away, of how good Stiles looks in his baseball tee, of how his eyes match the bottle in his hand--

“Want to go dance?” Stiles blurts. It’s only then that Scott realizes he’s been staring at him like some kind of maniac.

He’s mostly relieved, but there’s a tiny part of him that can’t help but feel disappointed. Still, it’s probably for the best.

“Sure.” Stiles grins again, and it feels like another shot of whiskey in Scott’s veins.

The bedroom door bursts open, and a girl stumbles in, her blonde hair tumbling around her face in a ratty curtain. “Stiles!” she cries, hoarse and way too loud. She launches herself at him, throwing her arms around his chest, her empty cup tumbling out of her hand. “Stiles, what are you doing here?”

“This is my bedroom?” Stiles says, his voice lifting at the end like a question. He shoots a harried look at Scott. “Erica, where’s Boyd? Who are you here with?”

Scott’s eyes widen. Erica? Erica Reyes? The quiet girl from his stats class? Apparently parties bring out the wild side in everybody.

“Boyd went home for the weekend,” Erica slurs. “So I’m sailin’ solo. You’d be s’prised how freeing it is to not have a wingman.” She somehow manages to trip while standing still, and Stiles has to grab her under her arms to keep her upright.

“Yeah, it frees you up to get fucking smashed,” Stiles mutters. He glances at Scott, his lips pursed. “Do you mind if I go find someone to take her home? She shouldn’t be here like this, especially by herself.”

“Call Isaac!” Erica says, fumbling in her pocket. She pulls out a cell that has clearly seen better days, the edges scuffed and the screen cracked. Based on her fragile balance, Scott can imagine how it got that way. Stiles grabs it from her and thumbs it open.

“Need any help?” Scott asks.

“No, I’ve got it. Danny is the designated party dad tonight, so he can keep an eye on her until Isaac gets here. He’ll take good care of her. Just stay here!” He jabs a finger in Scott’s direction and raises his brow in warning. “I’m not done with you.”

Scott blushes. “I’ll be here.”

With one last heart-stopping grin, Stiles starts heaving Erica out into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind him. It leaves Scott stuck in that weird place where he can snoop around in someone’s room, but doesn’t know if he should. He and Stiles can’t possibly be that close, can they?

He’ll just stick to what’s already visible. Nothing wrong with that, right?

The books are split between sci-fi, fantasy, and true crime. Based on what little Scott understands of the scattered papers, Stiles is in more than one criminal justice class, and at least one psychology class. They could be gen eds, or they could be possible majors. Does Stiles want to be a lawyer? A social worker? A counselor?

The answer comes in the shape of a picture, crinkled and preserved in a wooden frame. It’s a toddler dressed in a police costume, his little Nerf gun held tightly in both hands. The badge pinned to his shirt is too large and just a little too real. Next to him, hands bound in shiny handcuffs, is a man with an actual Sheriff’s uniform and an exasperated look on his face. The way the man is looking at tiny Stiles, it can’t be anyone other than his father.

Scott smiles to himself. Stiles wants to be a cop. Just like his dad.

There’s only two other pictures in the entire room. One is of Stiles and his dad at what looks like Stiles’ high school graduation. Stiles has his arm around the man’s neck, two fingers sticking up behind the man’s head, a dopey grin on his face. The man looks significantly older than in the first picture, but he’s wearing the same fond, indulgent expression.

In the last picture, Stiles is probably seven or eight. He’s sitting in a canvas chair in front of a campfire, a s’mores grasped in his hand and smeared all over his rosy cheeks. Next to him, sitting in her own canvas chair, is a woman with the same eyes and smile as Stiles, her face covered in chocolate and marshmallow. His mother.

Scott can read between the lines. He has hundreds of pictures of him and his mom, right up through two weeks ago when he visited her for her birthday. The last picture he has of him and his dad is from his sixth birthday party. If the most recent picture of his mother Stiles has if from a camping trip over ten years ago, and she wasn’t at his high school graduation, there’s probably a reason. Frowning, Scott puts the picture frame back where he found it on the cluttered desk.

The door bursts open a second time. Scott spins around, feeling guilty, but it isn’t Stiles. Unbelievably, it’s Jackson. His hands are all over some girl Scott doesn’t recognize, his lips practically suction-cupped to hers. The noises coming out of them are extremely uncomfortable, and Scott has to resist the urge to voice his disgust.

“Are you sure Stiles would be okay with you doing that in here?” he asks instead.

The girl shrieks in surprise, burying her face in Jackson’s shirt in embarrassment. Jackson just glares at him, his eyes hazy with alcohol. “McCall? What the fuck are you doing here? Get out.”

It’s probably just his imagination, but Scott would swear his lip is throbbing where Jackson split it, even though the cut has long since healed. Looking at him now, with his grimy hands all over some poor, unsuspecting girl, Scott feels his anger bubble up all over again. “This isn’t your room, Jackson.”

“Yeah, and this isn’t your house.” Jackson is livid by now, his hands white-knuckling the thin material of the girl’s shirt. “So I’ll say it again, in case you didn’t hear it: get. Out.”

Jaw clenched, Scott makes his way towards the door. As he brushes past them, the girl swivels her head to stare at him with wide eyes. “You deserve better,” he tells her. Her furrowed brow is the last thing he sees before he shuts the door behind himself. He can only hope she listens to him and escapes before she gets caught in Jackson’s crossfire.

Outside of the bedroom, the party is still going strong, the music once again strong enough to rattle Scott’s bones. He shoves his way down the crowded hall, eyes peeled for pale skin and a baseball tee. Stiles would probably want to know that Jackson is trying to seal the deal in Stiles’ bedroom, right?

It’s the shirt he spots first. Stiles is standing in the kitchen, his back to Scott, and Scott has to take a second to appreciate how the fabric hangs on Stiles’ shoulders and arms, clinging in all the right places. But his leering is interrupted by a pair of arms wrapping around Stiles’ neck, one hand grasping at the back of his head. Scott freezes in place, stumbling when someone bumps into his shoulder, but his eyes don’t move from the scene in front of him. His stomach is already dropping before they even turn around. When they do, swiveling so he can only see their profiles, disappointment cuts through him like glass.

Stiles and the mystery girl are kissing.

He turns away immediately, all of his hope and excitement hissing out of him. What else did he expect, though? This is their first date, if it can even be called that. It’s not like Scott has any hold on Stiles. He has every right to kiss whoever he wants.

These are all excellent arguments, and Scott has enough common sense to realize that Stiles hasn’t really done anything wrong. For all he knows, Stiles just invited him over as a friend, and Scot has been on the wrong page of the wrong story this whole time.

He knows all this. He knows it.

That doesn’t make it any less bitter going down. The thing is, he really likes this guy. He’s funny, he’s outgoing, and he’s charismatic. And hot. Scott really thought it might go somewhere after all. Apparently, though, Stiles had different, more casual expectations. That’s perfectly fine, but Scott isn’t wired that way. Allison was right. He’s always been a monogamous, all-in kind of guy, and after Theo and Allison’s thing with Jackson, he doesn’t want to try something with someone who isn’t.

Maybe caution is the best approach after all.

He pulls out his phone and taps it open. Im gonna go, he types. Need me to stay?

Allison replies almost instantaneously. No. Need me to come with?

Scott is tempted to say yes. He and Allison have been friends since high school; she is well-versed in how to cheer him up when he’s feeling shitty. But she must be having a good time, or else she’d be leaving already. She needs this night to bounce back. He doesn’t want to take that from her. No, im good.

What happened?

Nothing. It just didn’t pan out.

Youre not overthinking things, are you?

When do i ever

I’ll write you a list sometime. Let me know if you need me to come over

Scott smiles despite himself. Will do 

He glances up into the kitchen, and his grin slips. Stiles and the girl are gone.

Without a second thought, Scott pushes himself through the crowd until he’s through the front door. Then he just walks, step by step by step until he’s following their lead and going exactly where he wants to be.

Gone.

Chapter Text

“Remind me again why I’m here?” Lydia asks, wrinkling her nose as she stares up at the Triskele Greenhouse sign. “You know I’m allergic to pollen, right?”

Stiles stares up at the sign, too, his hands twisting together nervously. “You’re here for moral support,” he responds. “If this goes south, I’m going to need you to step in and rescue me.”

Lydia scoffs; Stiles can practically hear her rolling her eyes. In her defense, he’s being overly dramatic about this whole thing. Then again, she’s known him for years. She should be used to his theatrics by now.

“If I don’t make it out of this, tell my dad I love him. Also, make sure he keeps his cholesterol down. And don’t let Jackson have my PlayStation. And--”

“Just go,” Lydia interrupts, scowling at him as she pulls out her phone. Her scowl only deepens when she sees the blank lock screen, not a notification in sight.

Stiles raises an eyebrow at her reaction. “Who exactly are you expecting a call from? Is this about that girl you met at the party--”

“Oh my god ,” Lydia bursts out, whirling on him and pushing him towards the door. “Either get in there in the next five seconds or I’m leaving you here without a ride home.” She stuffs her cell back in her purse with a huff. “I hope this guy is worth the headache you’re giving me.”

Heart leaping into his throat, Stiles turns back to the storefront. That’s exactly the problem, isn’t it? Scott is totally worth it. Stiles is sure of it. Or at least, as sure of it as he can be after knowing him for about two weeks. Because even now, after fourteen days of cyberstalking/reconnaissance, Stiles is still fascinated. Actually, it’s more than that, now. He’s moved solidly into full-on crush territory, a terrifying land of butterflies in his stomach and goofy smiles he can’t control and all that other bullshit he thought he’d outgrown.

But how else was he going to react? Scott is friendly and cheerful and funny and posts pictures of him and his mom online and works as a vet’s assistant when he’s home for breaks and is on the e-board of, like, a thousand clubs, the members of which had nothing but good things to say about Scott, and since when is kindness something Stiles is attracted to? Fuck.

And as if having the crush wasn’t enough, Stiles had to go and fuck it up somehow. Well, maybe. Probably? All he knows for sure is that one minute, Scott was in his bedroom looking great and smiling bright, and the next, he was gone. Granted, Stiles left first, but that was to make sure Erica was okay, the dumbass. Scott said he didn’t mind. And granted, he had to go do some other host-type stuff, like unlocking the bathroom door after some drunk idiot got himself stuck inside, and bringing someone outside so didn’t pee in the kitchen sink, and a ton of other nonsense. Did Scott get tired of waiting? Is he mad? Is that why he hasn’t responded as often or as quickly to Stiles texts over the past week? It hasn’t been complete radio silence, but there’s definitely been some static.

Which brings him to right here, right now, standing in front of the Hales’ shop, ready to possibly humiliate himself on the off chance Scott will still talk to him. Because Stiles is, and always has been, a sucker .

“I don’t know if I can--” he starts, but he’s cut off by a pair of hands planting themselves on his back and shoving him face-first into the glass door. The impact makes a horrific banging noise. Through the glass, Stiles sees a tall, dark-haired girl spin around from where she had been leaning on the counter, her mouth falling open in shock.

“Go,” Lydia snaps, and Stiles hurries to comply.

When he steps into the shop, the girl is still staring at him, so he gives her the friendliest, least uncomfortable smile he can manage. A cursory glance reveals no Scott, so he focuses on the girl. She looks familiar, but he can’t place her face. She’s probably just someone he’s seen around campus. He doesn’t bother pretending he knows her. “Hi. Do you know if Scott is working right now?”

She looks him up and down warily, her lips pursed. “Who’s asking?”

Stiles blinks. “Uh, Stiles?”

Her expression darkens, nose wrinkled in disgust like he’s something she found in the tread of her shoe. It’s been a long time since he was on the receiving end of one of those looks. He didn’t miss it. He should probably be offended.

“Oh. You’re Stiles.”

Yeah, he should definitely be offended. “It’s my name, not a terminal disease. Ease up. Do we know each other?”

The girl snorts. “No, and if I have anything to say about it, we never--” The door opens behind Stiles’ back, the edge digging in between his shoulder blades, and the girl goes silent. Her eyes widen.

Stiles steps forward to get out of the way, brow furrowing. When he turns around, Lydia is standing in the open doorway. Her expression matches that of the mean girl. They’re staring at each other. It’s getting very weird.

Just as he’s about to break the silence, Lydia erupts. “Why didn’t you call me?” she asks the girl point blank, looking more hurt than she has since her last stint with Jackson.

Stiles’ eyebrows go up. “ This is the girl you met at the party? The one you won’t stop checking your phone to see if she--”

“Shut up, Stiles!” Lydia hits him on the arm.

“Wait, you’re friends with this guy?”

Stiles’ frown returns. “Yeah, she is. Is that a problem?”

“Yeah, you--”

“Allison, these are the only hyacinths we had,” a new voice chimes in. Stiles’ heart drops down into his shoes. “Are you sure you--” Scott cuts off as soon as he walks out from the back room. His eye catches on Stiles, and he nearly drops the vase of flowers he’s carrying. “Stiles?” he shouts, clearly caught off guard.

Lydia frowns. “ This is Scott?”

Scott glances at her, and his eyes go impossibly wider. “Lydia?”

“You know him?" Stiles whispers to her, nonplussed. Scott and Lydia? Lydia and Allison? Allison and Scott? Things are spinning out of control faster than he can keep up with. “How?”

“He’s the guy that sucker-punched Jackson in the face a couple weeks ago.”

Stiles looks over at Scott, mouth falling open. Come to think of it, Scott had a split lip when they first met a couple weeks ago. Around the same time, Jackson came home fuming, a bruise blooming on his cheek. Apparently, they were related incidents. “Seriously? Right in the face?”

Allison whirls on Scott. “You did what ?”

Scott backs up a step, holding the flowers up like a shield. “What? You know about it.”

“No, I didn’t. You said you ran into a door.”

Stiles is still caught up on the image of sweet, smiley Scott cold-cocking Jackson right in one of his stupid cheekbones. He can’t help but feel impressed. And jealous. “Why’d you do it?”

Scott shoots him a desperate look, and Stiles realizes, too late, that he just asked the one question Scott probably didn’t want to be asked. He glances at Allison, adjusting his grip on the vase. “Um, he was….he was trash-talking someone I know, and...I got sick of it.”

“Who?” Stiles blurts before he can stop himself, wincing when Scott glares at him.

Then it clicks, his brain working faster than he realizes. Vague memories pop up one after the other: a pale, dark-haired girl in Jackson’s car, obscured by the tinted windows; muffled conversations heard from behind his bedroom door; the time his phone buzzed on the coffee table and Stiles leaned over to see a bunch of texts from someone named--

“Allison?” he asks. “You’re that Allison?” The one Jackson used to make Lydia jealous last year, back when that kind of shit actually worked on her? The one he no doubt left in his rearview mirror once Lydia got back together with him for the umpteenth time?

Lydia must come to the same realization. Her face goes pale, making her painted lips look even darker than normal.

This is wild. What are the odds?

“Is that why you haven’t called? I mean, I thought we really hit it off….” Lydia purses her lips and looks down at her heels. With a start, Stiles realizes the look on her face is vulnerability . It throws him for a loop. What the hell happened between these two?

Allison softens, all of her sharp, defensive edges going hazy. “Maybe we should, uh, talk in private.” She briefly narrows her eyes at Stiles before glancing at Scott. “Are you good if I step out for a bit?

Scott is still holding the vase for some reason, his eyes peeking out from behind the petals. “Um, yeah. I’m good.” He darts a look at Stiles.

It’s terrifying how quickly they’re left alone. It feels like the girls are gone in a blink, te door clanging shut behind them, their muffled voices fading as they walk down the street and out of sight. Just like that, in a few moments of noise, Stiles goes from being the secondary character in their story back to the protagonist of his own. Or, knowing himself, the antagonist.

He squints at Scott and says the first thing that comes to mind. “You can probably put those down now.” Then he winces; he always turns into an asshole when he’s nervous.

Scott shrugs, his cheeks darkening in a blush as he carefully sets the vase on the counter. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but the words never come. Instead, he just looks down at his hands, where one finger is picking vigorously at a hangnail.

Before the silence can truly settle in, Stiles asks the first question that pops into his head. “Did you really punch Jackson in the face?”

Scott looks up at him, startled. “Oh. Uh, yeah. A couple weeks ago. I was in the rec center and I overheard him talking shit about Allison to one of his buddies, and I just….” He clears his throat and squares his shoulders, his hands disentangling so he can cross his arms. “Is that a problem?”

Stiles grins. “Not at all, dude. I’ve been wanting to do that for years.” Not to mention the fact that Scott sticking up for his friends is just one more among a myriad of reasons Stiles is so dumb over him. Also, men of action are A plus.

“Do you need something?” Scott asks, interrupting Stiles’ whirling thoughts.

Stiles deflates. Scott looks so awkward and uncomfortable, like he wants to be anywhere but here, and that hurts . Clearly, his hunch was right, and something went horribly wrong at that party. The question is, can he salvage it?

“I was actually wondering if you wanted to go out sometime,” he admits, hopeful despite himself. “Like, there’s this one movie coming out next weekend that I’ve been dying to--”

“I don’t think so,” Scott cuts him off, quiet and sheepish.

Stiles huffs out a breath, the sadness and embarrassment like fire at the back of his throat. “Oh. Um. Okay.”

Scott shrugs and looks away, reaching down to fiddle with the hyacinths. For a moment, he doesn’t speak, and the only sound in the shop is the distant rumble of cars whizzing past on the street, and the hum of the refrigerators. Stiles is waiting for more, hoping beyond hope that there’s a catch, but when Scott glances at him once again, it’s only to ask, “Is there anything else?”

It’s not the first time Stiles has been dismissed, and nowhere near the harshest, but it still hurts. He’s never been good at taking criticism or rejection. Usually he just storms out, slamming as many doors as possible, or worse, lashing out. Many a bridge has been burned by his acid tongue and complete lack of tact. It’s a real problem, actually.

But he doesn’t have it in him right now. Yelling at Scott would feel like kicking a puppy. Stiles may have his faults, but he’s not a complete monster .

No. Maybe he can try something new here. He’s been described as impulsive and rash by every teacher he’s ever had. Time to earn that label by using something he usually avoids: the truth. He takes a deep breath.

“Scott, I really like you. I’m interested in you. But more than that, I respect you. You know, as a person.” The words feel foreign on his tongue (being genuine isn’t his forte) but he tries to inject it with as much emotion as he can. He thinks it might be working. “So if you don’t want to go out with me, I won’t fight you on it. But….” This next part is the hardest. Stiles resists the urge to look at his hands or the ceiling. He makes sure to maintain eye contact. “Can I ask why?”

Scott stares at him, mouth screwed to the side in thought.

Stiles shifts his weight from one foot to the other. Fuck, he hates awkward silences. “You don’t have to--”

“Was that party a date?” Scott interrupts.

Stiles opens his mouth, then slams it shut. Was it? Sort of. He was hosting it, so he couldn’t really devote all his attention to Scott, but…. “I wanted it to be.”

This clearly isn’t the right answer. Scott deflates, shoulder slumping as his hands fall limply at his sides. “See, that’s the problem. We don’t really have the same definition of a date.

Shit. Stiles really is bad at dating. “I know it was loud and there were a lot of drunk people and at one point there was a small grease fire, but--”

“I’m talking about the girl, Stiles.”

Girl? Stiles flips through his memories of that night. Some of them are blurry and indistinct, colored by the shots he continued taking once Scott disappeared, but a few faces stand out. Erica, drunk and sloppy without Boyd the Babysitter. Lydia, who ignored him so she could go back to dancing with some mystery girl (not such a mystery anymore). Malia, who was wasted enough that she thought kissing Stiles to make some girl notice her was a good, normal idea--

Oh. Scott must have seen them, and he must have thought--

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” Scott shrugs. “You can do what you want, but I don’t really want to get involved with someone who doesn’t--”

“She’s just a friend, though,” Stiles protests.

“Stiles, I’m not that stupid.”

“No, I’m serious. You can ask her. It was my friend Malia, the one I told you about. She gets these dumb ideas in her head, especially when she’s drunk, and she thought laying one on me would get this girl she likes to notice her.”

Scott furrows his brow. “Are you serious? That seems….”

“Dumb as hell? Malia isn’t exactly known for her interpersonal skills.” He pauses contemplatively. “In her defense, it worked. I think they’re going out tonight.” He remembers the texts Malia sent him, excitedly telling him about her upcoming date. “I can prove it.”

Scott still looks skeptical, so Stiles pulls out his phone and taps in his passcode. He flips it around to face Scott. “Here are the texts from her proving it.”

He watches Scott’s expression carefully, mapping it out as it shifts from doubt to confusion to understanding. Their faces are really close together. Scott’s jaw is sort of uneven. His eyes are super brown.

And they’re staring at him. Expectantly. Shit, he must have said something when Stiles wasn’t paying attention. “Sorry, what?”

“I said, ‘Does she do that kind of thing often?’”

Stiles shoves the phone back in his pocket and takes a step back. He shrugs. “Malia is an acquired taste. Like coffee. Or anal.”

Scott’s eyes widen, horrified, but Stiles is pleased to hear an undignified snort escape him, poorly disguised as a cough. So he does think Stiles is funny. “What?” he asks innocently. “You don’t like coffee?”

Scott just raises an eyebrow at him. The small smile curving his lips fades almost immediately, though, replaced by something pained and humiliated. “So you two aren’t dating?”

Stiles shakes his head. “Not at all. Full disclosure, we dated for about a year in high school, but that relationship has long since disappeared.

“So, uh...sorry, I guess?”

Stiles just shrugs again and smiles, too busy getting reacquainted with his resurrected hope to bother being upset. “Nah, don’t worry about it.”

“No, really. I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions like that.”

“Seriously, it’s fine--”

“I mean, jeez, how dumb do I have to be to create that big of a misunderstanding--”

“Honestly, it was an easy mistake to make--”

“And to think I spent all week being so fucking maudlin about it--”

“Alright!” Stiles shouts, slamming his hands down on the counter. Scott jumps, startled. “I agree. You made a huge mistake. Horrible, really. Apocalyptic. One that almost cost you all of this .” He gestures grandly at his own body. “Wars have raged over this. Men have died. And you almost missed out.”

Scott tries to look unimpressed, but his condescension is marred by the grin starting to curve his lips.

“However!” Stiles exclaims, pointing at him dramatically. “I’m willing to give you a do-over. The only conditions are as follows: you admit you’re indebted to me forever; you pay for all our dates as well as my college tuition; and I can wear your shirts whenever I want. Oh, and you’re not allowed to complain about my addiction to energy drinks, even though it is frighteningly unhealthy.”

Scott strokes his chin thoughtfully. “Counteroffer: none of that happens, and I buy you ice cream instead.”

Stiles squints at him. “Three scoops.”

“Two.”

“Four.”

“One.”

“Fine, three.”

They both break out in matching smiles, and Stiles is left a little breathless. It’s hard to believe that two minutes ago Stiles was at his lowest, ready to run away with his tail tucked between his legs. Now, he’s practically giddy. Triumphant. He feels like he could do anything. Including kicking Malia’s ass, since her complete lack of boundaries is what got him in this mess in the first place.

But not now. Not with Scott McCall smiling at him like that, with his dimples and his sunshine eyes and that floral snapback that should look dumb as hell but instead looks fucking awesome . This is one of those moments , Stiles realizes. The moments that mean more and more as time goes on, because they marked the beginning of something. And who the hell knows where that something will go? It doesn’t really matter. They have a foundation, and now they can build and build like a skyscraper, constructing whatever it is they want to construct. And sure, their foundation was unnecessarily complicated and straight out of a Hallmark movie no one wants to watch, but it doesn’t matter because it’s theirs and now the possibilities are endless.

Stiles hasn’t been this excited by a relationship since Malia. Maybe it’s the overwhelming scent of flowers making his head spin, or the emotional whiplash he just went through, or the fact that he hasn’t really liked anyone in years and he forgot how heady it is, but Stiles feels like nothing could bring him down right now. Not Jackson, not his idiot frat, not the ten-page paper he hasn’t started, not even--

“Fuck. Please tell me you guys aren’t a thing, now.”

Not even Derek Hale.

Without a second thought, Stiles leans across the counter and snatches Scott’s hat, slapping it on his own head. He turns around and faces Derek, who is standing at the front door with keys in hand and a look of utter disgust on his face. “Yes, it’s true!” he proclaims, clutching at his chest and contorting his face into one of over-the-top angst. “Scott has stolen my heart. But please, Derek, don’t cry.” He takes a few steps forward until he’s right in front of Derek, one hand reaching out to grab his shoulder. “Yes, this is the end of us and our whirlwind affair, but I will never forget what we had. Just promise me one thing.” He reaches up and strokes Derek’s bearded cheek with the back of his hand, ignoring the glare burning a hole in his head. “Just promise me you’ll think of me when you jerk it.”

He gets a fist in the gut for his trouble. It hurts like hell; he thinks he hears a rib crack.

Scott’s laugh is totally worth it.

Chapter Text

He’s thought about this a lot . Ever since he was a kid, he enjoyed daydreaming about how it would feel, how it would look and sound, how it would drown him in a happiness he could only ever imagine until the day it finally happened. He pictured firework eyes and burning hands and a heart beating way too fast. He felt the words, small and simple, slipping off his tongue, and he heard them bouncing back in a different voice, a voice he wouldn’t mind hearing for the rest of his life. He spent hours lying in the grass with his head in the clouds, imagining what it would feel like to fall in love, and to have that love returned. Little ten-year-old Scott looked at his parents and their fractured marriage, and he couldn’t wait to do it better. He would be luckier than his mom was; he would find the right person. And once he did, it would be so easy to say those three little words.

He should have known it wouldn’t work out like that.

“I don’t understand why you’re playing mind games with him,” Allison says, her incredulous gaze trailing Scott as he frets around the shop.

“It’s not a mind game,” he protests, examining a bunch of red roses they recently put on display. It would be a coy reference to when they first met, right? When Stiles was picking up the roses for his frat’s fundraiser? No, that won’t work. Stiles will associate them with the fundraiser and customers and money. He wants this to be about love, not capitalism.

“Instead of just telling him you love him like a normal person, you’re giving him a flower, and he’s just supposed to figure out the meaning on his own,” Allison says. “That’s the definition of a mind game.”

“It’s not about him figuring it out,” Scott argues. Acacia blossoms, maybe? No, wait, that’s all about concealed love. This is supposed to be about admitting to love. Well, admitting it to himself. Baby steps.

“So you’re trying to say ‘I love you,’ but in such a way that only you know you’re saying it?” Allison asks, clearly unimpressed.

“Chicken,” Lydia pipes up, leaning against the counter and idly flipping through her textbook.

Scott just glares at them both. At first, he was delighted to hear that Allison and Lydia worked out their drama, because they’re good for each other and Allison is clearly happier for it. But they’re together all the time , so now he’s hanging out with two judgmental women instead of just one. He’s a romantic at heart, but a man can only take so much abuse. “You know, the store has a strict no-loitering policy.”

Allison immediately straightens up and starts fiddling with the vase of tulips sitting on a display case next to her. “We’re browsing,” she says with fake innocence.

“Oooh, those ones are pretty,” Lydia adds flatly, not even looking up from the page in front of her.

“Maybe you can help me. I’m looking for a flower that says, ‘I love you but I’m too chickenshit to admit it?” Allison asks, smiling sweetly.

“I’m not chickenshit!” Scott tries his best to believe his own words, but it’s an uphill battle. No matter what angle he tilts this at, the picture remains the same; he’s afraid. Scott McCall, dopey romantic, watcher of Hallmark and Lifetime, owner of more ridiculous romance novels than should be legal, is afraid of saying, “I love you.”

It’s not that he doubts the feelings themselves. It’s been months since they started dating, and he’s never been one to waste time getting invested. He and Stiles fit together like they were made to, like they’ve known each other their whole lives and just didn’t know it. Even their fights, which are small and rare as it is, never feel high-stakes. It’s like when Scott fights with his mom; he knows he can always go back to her, that no argument in the world could make her stop caring about him, or could make him stop loving her. It’s the same with Stiles.

He knows it like he knows the sound of his mom’s voice, or the smell of his childhood home, or the language of flowers: he loves Stiles.

It’s just the verbalization part he’s struggling with. In all those years of daydreaming, he never once predicted the hesitance, the anxiety, the way his nerves are stretched taut enough to snap. What if he’s too soon? What if Stiles doesn’t love him back? What if he says so, point blank, or worse, what if he says it back without meaning it, just to spare Scott’s feelings? What if the first time Scott hears those words directed back at him is fake and awkward?

Fuck. Why couldn’t he have done this in high school? At least then, if the whole thing tanked, he’d have an excuse. High school loves rarely last.

Daffodils, maybe? He strokes one of the petals contemplatively. They’re simple, innocent, everyone recognizes them. Perfect.

Shit. No. That’s unrequited love. The opposite of what he’s going for, here.

He moves on to the next display.

“Only you would use flowers to tell someone you love them,” Lydia mutters, shaking her head in exasperation.

Scott frowns at the jonquil in front of him ( desire for returned affection ; feels a little desperate). “What are you talking about? It’s an extremely common gesture. That’s why I work here. That’s why florists even exist in the first place.”

“No, people buy flowers because it’s tradition. It’s what’s expected of them. You’re the only one trying to use them like a secret language. People usually buy what’s prettiest and move on.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Scott asks. “Beauty is one thing, but when that beauty is assigned meaning, it becomes so much more than aesthetic appeal. Human languages can be so lacking , so we use nature to fill in the gaps we couldn’t even pretend to fill by ourselves--”

“Nerd,” Allison and Lydia intone at the same time.

Scott spins around to glare at them again, and his eye catches on the bouquet sitting on a display behind Allison’s elbow. He gasps; they’re perfect.

He tears across the shop, leaping over the counter and nearly barreling into Lydia. He nudges Allison out of the way, ignoring her complaints, and grabs the tallest, strongest flower from the bunch.

A moss rose. A confession of love .

He runs back to the counter and grabs his keys.

“Wait, you’re going now ?” Allison asks, startled. “What about the shop?”

“Derek’s asleep in the back office,” he says, snatching a tall, thin vase and filling it with water at the back sink. The rose fits perfectly inside. “Go wake him up.”

“No. What? Why?” Allison whines. Even Lydia looks alarmed, her eyes finally tearing away from her book so she can stare at Scott in protest.

Now who’s chickenshit? Scott smirks. He grabs his phone and heads for the door. “Sorry. I have to keep this momentum going. This is a romance in the making!”

His smirk doesn’t last long, though. As strongly as he feels, and as vibrant as the rose petals are, and as much as these past few months have parted clouds in a sky he hadn’t even realized was overcast, the doubt just won’t go away. He wasn’t lying; he needs to do this now, or he’ll lose his nerve.

Yeah, ten-year-old Scott didn’t prepare him for this.

⚫ ⚫ ⚫ ⚫ ⚫ ⚫ ⚫

The house is quiet when Scott lets himself in, and he’s never been more thankful. Stiles’ frat brothers are a lot of fun, and most of them are pretty nice, but they’re still a frat. The first time he came to the house to pick Stiles up for a date, he was dragged inside and given a thirty minute “shovel talk” by a guy dressed in khakis, a sweater vest, and a fake mustache (turns out it was Ethan). The first time he slept over, he and Stiles woke up to find dozens of condoms spread out on top of the comforter like confetti, and when they left the bedroom, they were greeted by a standing ovation. Long story short, they make every situation infinitely more uncomfortable. If they were all here and saw him, flower in hand, they’d be merciless, and he’d definitely lose his courage. So when the only one he sees is Danny, sitting in his bedroom with headphones on, he thanks his lucky stars.

He pauses outside of Stiles’ door and takes a deep breath. The rose is still alive in its vase. The outside of the bedroom door is decorated with posters and novelty signs, including the Star Wars one Scott gave him to make up for the fact that it took him over twenty years to see it. When he pulls out his phone, Stiles’ last text, sent fifteen minutes ago, is the first thing he sees. Yes, come over. I was about to text you anyway. This project is making me its bitch and i need someone here to remind me theres still good in the world. I feel the void closing in.

He can do this. Despite his trembling hands and sweaty palms and that roaring sound in his ears, he can do this.

He opens the door a crack and sticks his head inside. “Stiles? I--”

“Scott!” Stiles appears out of nowhere and grabs him by the front of the shirt, pulling him further into the room. After unceremoniously shoving him onto the bed, Stiles backs up and stands in the open space in the middle of the room, a stack of index cards clutched in his hands. He takes a deep breath, glances down at the top card, and looks Scott straight in the eye. “Millions of people die every day.”

Scott’s eyebrows shoot up into his hairline.

“Their hearts stop. Their brains sputter out. Their muscles atrophy. Everything inside them just….stops. The world is--”

“I have a question,” Scott interrupts, raising his hand in the air.

Stiles frowns, flapping the index cards in irritation. “What?”

“What is this?”

He throws his hands in the air like it should be obvious. “My American lit project. It’s a thirty minute presentation.”

Scott smiles, affection rushing through him like wave. “Oh, right. How could I have missed that?”

Rolling his eyes, Stiles squares his shoulders and opens his mouth to continue. He snaps it shut, his eyes catching on Scott’s hands. “What’s that?”

Surprised, Scott glances down. Unbelievably, he forgot about the flower in his lap, about his mission, about the anxiety trying to eat its way through his brain. Funny how that always happens around Stiles. “Oh. It’s a flower. A moss rose.” He holds it out, a tentative smile on his face. “It’s for you. I was just thinking...I just wanted to remind you how much you mean to me. How happy you make me.”

Stiles blinks at him, mouth falling open. It may just be the lighting, but Scott swears he sees a blush rising on his cheeks. To be fair, they haven’t really gotten into the heavy feelings-talks, and Stiles isn’t really built for those anyway. For a second, the room is covered in thick silence as Scott waits for his boyfriend’s reaction.

Stiles grabs the vase and stashes it on his desk amid his haphazard piles of homework. Then he occupies himself with his index cards, shuffling them over and over even though he’s clearly not seeing a word. “Scott, I’m well aware you’re an irredeemable nerd, but I’m trying to tell you about Ernest Hemingway, here. Please hold all questions and comments until the end.”

Scott’s smile fades. “Of course. How rude of me,” he says. He tries to sound wry. He’s not sure if he pulls it off. Stiles quirks his lips before blowing out a breath, launching back into his wildly off-topic speech (it takes him eight minutes and thirty seconds to even say Ernest Hemingway’s name).

Scott can’t make himself listen, though. He’s too distracted by the thoughts whirling in his head. This is what he was afraid of, isn’t it? Stiles reacting poorly? And if this is how he reacts to an “I love you” he’s not even consciously aware of, how would he react to the real thing?

He thought he’d feel hurt. Snubbed. Maybe even angry. But looking at Stiles, with his stress-hair and his fidgeting fingers and his concert t-shirt that’s actually Scott’s, he doesn’t feel any of that. How could he? His feelings aren’t contingent on Stiles’. He loves every part of him, up to and including the emotionally constipated ones.

He can’t help but be a little disappointed, though.

He doesn’t stick around long; Stiles has an eight o’clock lecture tomorrow morning, and Scott has an early shift. Stiles has long since returned to normal, smiling his impish smile and running his fingers idly through Scott’s hair until it’s a giant mess.

Scott has leveled out by now, too. The happy song that plays in his chest every time he’s around his boyfriend hasn’t dimmed in any way, in spite of the hiccup in his plan. It’s just waiting. For the crescendo, for the climax, for the moment when the cymbals crash and the notes hit their peak. And Scott is fine with waiting.

“See you tomorrow night?” Stiles asks, fiddling with the hem of Scott’s shirt. They’re standing by his closed bedroom door, doing that disgusting thing where they take twenty minutes just to say goodbye.

Scott beams. “Can’t wait.”

“I’ve been looking forward to this movie for months ,” Stiles adds, his voice a warning. “So do not be late. You’re my sun and my stars but if you’re not out the door at 6:30 sharp when I pull up, I will leave without you.”

The words are sarcastic and mocking, but Scott has learned to read between Stiles’ lines. He won’t meet Scott’s eye, and his face goes just a little bit red in the hollows of his cheeks; he means his words more than he’d like to admit (the sun and the stars part; he has no problem admitting he’d leave Scott behind just to go see a movie). It’s clear Stiles isn’t really there yet; he hasn’t reached that place where he can comfortably talk about Them and Feelings. It’s fine, though. Who is Scott to judge? He said “I love you” with a flower.

Instead of dignifying his threats with a response, Scott just pulls Stiles into a kiss. This many months into their relationship, it should be old hat. The way Stiles spreads his hands on the small of Scott’s back, the way the back of his neck heats up under Scott’s fingers, the way they have to break apart because they’re both grinning too wide. All of it. It should be perfunctory, like washing your hair or turning off the lights when you leave a room. And it certainly is familiar . It’s just the best kind of familiar, like a song he knows the words to but that still gives him a rush.

And when Scott finally leaves, turning to shut the door behind him, he catches a glimpse of Stiles grabbing the flower and holding it to his nose, a soft smile on his face.

Yeah. He doesn’t mind waiting.

Chapter Text

He has never thought about this. Not in any depth, at least. He wrinkled his nose and covered his eyes when his parents kissed. He snickered and made mean comments about the public proposals he saw. He rolled his eyes at all the fanfare that took place on Valentine’s Day. He thought it was dumb .

It’s not that he’s never cared about someone, or that he looks down on people who do. It’s just that none of his own relationships have ever progressed that far. For him, it’s always about being captivated by someone, studying them until he can see every piece laid out like a broken puzzle. Sometime he gets bored, sometimes he ends up not liking the picture those pieces form, and sometimes it just morphs into a different creature altogether. He spent most of his childhood thinking he was in love with Lydia, but they hadn’t even gotten to the dating part when he realized they worked better as friends. With Malia, life was day-to-day, with no concern for the future whatsoever, until one day they realized their romance had run its course. The transition was quick and drama-free. And who knows? Maybe it was so easy because they had never messed with Those Words. The Big Three. The ones no one will ever shut up about.

So Stiles is still miles away from even considering if that’s where he and Scott are headed. Scott is kind and fun and deceptively smart and he’s such a dark horse, dishing out as much shit as Stiles does but with a starlight smile on his face. And he’s so happy they met, so happy Scott can stand to be around his bitter, petty ass, but he just...hasn’t thought about it.

That is, until Scott decided to be a complete asshole .

Stiles has been staring at his laptop screen for almost twenty minutes, his heart pounding painfully in his chest. There’s a loud rushing in his head, and it’s drowning out all coherent thought. He’s basically on standby; his body is keeping him upright until his brain can come back online.

Scott gave him a moss rose. Scott is an absolute dork when it comes to flowers. He would know the rose’s traditional meaning, and he wouldn’t ignore it. It’s no accident. It’s deliberate, because Scott is nothing if not deliberate.

And the moss rose symbolizes confessions of love.

Scott decided to tell Stiles that he loves him with a fucking flower . And then he didn’t explain himself.

Stiles can’t decide how he feels. It’s incredibly thoughtful, and achingly sweet, and Scott doesn’t say anything he doesn’t mean, so it’s also frighteningly real .

But Stiles wasn’t ready for this. Stiles requires extensive mental and emotional preparation for things like this, and he prefers to be in control of things when the stakes are so high. Scott has caught him unawares, and his mind is having a hard time catching up. Should he say it back? Does he mean it? Would it change anything?

This isn’t his forte. He’s completely out of his comfort zone. The hamster wheel in his head is working overtime; he can practically smell the smoke coming out of his ears.

As always, his body starts moving of its own accord while he’s distracted. One second, he’s looking at a web page about the moss rose, and the next, he’s clicking through some of the photos saved on his hard drive. There are a lot of pictures from parties, concerts, and study sessions; basically any time a bunch of their friends got together for longer than an hour. Scott is in most of them, planting a kiss on Stiles’ cheek, sticking bunny ears up behind Erica’s head, throwing his arm around Isaac’s neck. The non-group pictures are mostly Scott, too: the two of them lying in bed, cheeks squished together for a selfie; Scott in the shop, a flower Stiles can’t remember the name of tucked behind his ear; Scott and the Sheriff, caught in a twin moment of exasperation after Stiles said something dumb; the two of them on Allison’s couch, Stiles’ legs laid over Scott’s lap.

It’s this last one that gets his attention. The look on his own face is one he’s never seen before. He’s always been harsh and sharp-edged, but here his eyes are soft, his lips curved in the happiest grin he’s ever seen. He looks like one of those saps he always made fun of. And he’s looking at Scott, leaning in like he’s the only thing worth paying attention to.

Stiles taps on the edge of his laptop absently, his thoughts finally starting to click in his head. He has a question he wants answered: does he love Scott back? His major is built around a career that’s all about answering questions. So shouldn’t he go about this same way he’d go about solving a case?

There’s certainly evidence. These pictures are proof that Scott has carved out his own place in Stiles’ life, fitting in seamlessly with his friends and family. They also show that Stiles is head over heels, to the point where it shows on his face like a giant, neon sign.

There’s also the fact that his heart hasn’t stopped pounding, and he’s not sure he wants it to. Or the fact that Stiles can’t remember what it was like to not have someone who makes his heart pound like this.

Based on all that, it seems sort of obvious: yeah. He loves Scott.

And who is he to argue with the evidence?

Once he makes his decision, he finds it unbearable to stand still. He should tell Scott, right? While his adrenaline is pumping? What if he loses this momentum overnight and chickens out? He has to do it now . He has to do it right .

And what better way to show his love than to speak to Scott in the language he knows best?

He looks at the clock. 3:48.

Fuck it . He scrambles out of bed and grabs his Delta Sigma Phi sweatshirt and shoving it over his head. Scott won’t mind .

⚫ ⚫ ⚫ ⚫ ⚫ ⚫ ⚫

Scott minds.

It’s not really his fault, though. Things don’t exactly go the way Stiles expected them to.

His first stop is the flower shop, where a murderous Derek is waiting for him. It was a miracle Derek even answered his phone in the first place, considering it’s almost four in the morning and he never wanted Stiles to have his number in the first place (he still hasn’t really forgiven Cora for that one). But he did answer, and once he did, it was just a matter of appealing to Derek’s romantic side. It felt crazy, since Derek is man-shaped bundle of irritation and cynicism, but Stiles knows how to read people. Derek is the only one of the Hale children who stuck with the shop, even though he had other prospects. And you don’t devote your life to sharing one of nature’s best beauties without having a soft side. Stiles just has to lay it on thick; he’ll say this can’t wait (possibly true) and it needs to be a flower (probably not true) and Scott deserves only the best (definitely true), and Derek is putty. Angry putty, but still.

Once he’s out of the shop, ambrosia flower resting in a vase that matches the one Scott gave him, he drives straight to Scott’s apartment. There, he’s faced with his next obstacle: getting inside.

The obvious answer --hitting the buzzer next to Scott’s name-- doesn’t work. Scott, bless his pure and simple heart, is the deepest sleeper Stiles has ever met. The soft ringing of his buzzer is way too quiet to wake him up from behind his closed bedroom door. So Stiles does the next best thing: he breaks in.

Scott lives on the second floor, but his window is on the front of the building, right next to the big stone awning that hangs over the front step. The awning has two huge columns supporting it; perfect for climbing. Using upper body strength he never really had in high school, and is obnoxiously proud of now, he shimmies up the column until he can reach the lip of the awning and pull himself up. There’s dirt embedded in his palm and he nearly drop the vase ten feet onto the sidewalk, but he makes it up, and all he has to do is open the window Scott never locks and crawl inside.

Where he promptly knocks over a desk lamp. It crashes into Scott’s desk chair, clattering against the plastic armrests before thumping onto the carpet. Stiles is left frozen in place, mouth hanging open in shock.

Lights. Maybe he should turn some on before he breaks something else.

He edges toward the wall where the switches are, shuffling his feet so he doesn’t trip. Right as he’s reaching for the panel, arm stretched out, the bedroom door right next to it swings open, and everything dissolves into a blur of chaos.

Stiles flicks the hall light on just in time to see a baseball bat raised up above his head, ready to cave his face in, and he screams. Instinct takes over, and he throws his fist out, hitting what feels like a ribcage. He stumbles back, clutching the vase like a shield.

Scott immediately groans and doubles over, the bat hanging limply from one hand as he clutches his torso.

“Oh, shit!” Stiles runs forward and puts a hand on Scott’s shoulder. “Shit, shit, shit. I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

Scott looks at him like he’s insane. The effect is somewhat ruined by the glazed look in his eyes. “You punched me.”

“You were gonna hit me with a bat!” Stiles points out, his voice rising a few octaves. “Where’d you even get a bat? Do you even play baseball?”

“I thought you were a predator!”

“Why?”

“Because it’s after four in the morning and I live in a college town and you broke in through my window!” Scott shouts. Still holding his sides, he collapses onto his couch and tips his head back, all the fight draining out of him in one breath. “What are you doing here, Stiles?”

“Uh.” It all seems kind of dumb now. Not the plan itself, but the fact that he felt the need to do it in the middle of the night.

Whatever. Go big or go home. He thrusts the vase into Scott’s hand. “Here.”

Scott blinks down at it. “An ambrosia flower?”

Of course he recognizes it on the spot. Fuckin’ nerd. “Yeah.”

“At four in the morning?”

“Yeah.”

“How’d you even get it?”

“Derek.”

Scott’s eyebrows go up. “He got up in the middle of the night to give you a flower for no reason?”

Not for no reason. “Derek’s a softie. You just have to know how to work him.”

Scott thinks about it for a second, then shrugs. “So why did you feel the need to give me a flower right now ?”

And there it is. The question Stiles is itching to answer just as much as he’s hoping to avoid it. What if he’s wrong, and Scott didn’t mean anything by the rose? What if he’s overthinking everything? What if he says it, and two weeks from now finds out he didn’t really mean it? What if he hurts Scott? What if Scott hurts him ? What if--

Fuck. He needs to stop.

“Well,” he starts, cherry-picking his words. “I really appreciated the rose you gave me, and I wanted to return the favor. It was very, uh...meaningful. To me. Very meaningful. It meant a lot. Lots of meaning.” He kind of derailed there at the end, but based on Scott’s wide eyes and increasingly red face, he got the point across.

“Wait, you knew? How?”

“I didn’t know at the time. I looked it up later.”

“Why?” Scott is really starting to panic, now. His fingers are tapping frantically along the edges of the vase.

Stiles raises an eyebrow at him, playing it cool despite his own anxiety. “Are you serious? You know I have a serious Google addiction. I once sent you a seven-part text about the history of the pug. You show up and give me a weird-looking rose for no apparent reason? Of course I’m gonna look it up.”

Scott ducks his head. “I didn’t think you’d….” He trails off. Stiles watches as his brow furrows, one hand coming up to gently stroke one of the ambrosia’s petals. He looks back up at Stiles, a question in his eyes.

“Yeah.” Stiles stuffs his hands in the pocket on the front of his sweatshirt. “Before you ask, yes, I did my research. According to some people, the ambrosia flower represents--”

“Love returned,” Scott finishes softly.

Clearing his throat, Stiles perches next to Scott on the couch, his fingers twisting together nervously. “Yes. However, by definition, love returned has to come as a response to the first, primary love. So I have to ask, did you mean it when you gave me the--”

The rest of his words are muffled in a thick head of sleep-mussed hair as Scott pulls him into a hug, tucking his head into Stiles’ neck. The pounding is back in Stiles’ chest, heavy and persistent and threatening to split him open. Scott is still warm with sleep, and he smells like laundry detergent and mint. His arms are tight and comforting around Stiles’ waist.

He says something, but he’s too quiet, and the words are lost against the crook of Stiles’ neck.

“What?” Stiles grins at him. He can feel the vase digging into his stomach from where it sits between them, but he never wants to move.

Scott picks his head up a little. “I love you,” he repeats, his breath warm against Stiles’ skin.

Stiles’ arms tighten around Scott’s shoulders. “I love you, too.” It’s out before Stiles can even think about it, and it feels true. True and exciting. A boyfriend is one thing, but a boyfriend he loves ? Who loves him back ? Nice.

“Sorry I didn’t just say it earlier,” Scott murmurs, pulling away. He keeps a point of contact, though, his fingers tracing patterns on the back of Stiles’ hand.

Stiles shrugs. “You did. You just said it in your own way. You know, like a nerd.”

Scott scoffs. “I’m not the one who broke into someone’s apartment in the middle of the night just to say something that could’ve waited three hours.”

“What can I say? I was never very good at delayed gratification.”

When Scott kisses him, Stiles half expects it to feel different. After all, saying “I love you” is a big step, isn’t it? Things might change because of it. That’s the whole point.

But Scott’s jaw is still uneven beneath his fingertips. He still tastes like those Altoid mints he sucks on incessantly. He still smiles just a bit too wide, cutting the short the actual kissing just so they can grin at each other like idiots.

So maybe he had this all wrong. Maybe this isn’t a transition. Maybe he’s loved Scott for a while, and is only now catching up to speed. Gravity existed way before Newton’s time; people were just too dumb to see it.

No, Stiles never really thought about love . He didn’t research it, he didn’t prepare for it, he didn’t even try to control its existence.

Turns out, he didn’t really need to.