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When Stiles first meets Derek he has no idea who he is, to be fair he grew up in a lacrosse obsessed town, baseball wasn’t a big deal and when he moved to NYC for school, his classes and work took up his time, he didn’t have time to learn about baseball and the city’s super rookies.
They bump into each other, literally, outside of Starbucks, Stiles’ mocha latte with extra foam is the casualty of this encounter and if he lets out a pathetic whimper as the cup hits the floor…well he’s a senior at Columbia with finals before the winter break he’s allowed to whimper when his life source is taken from him.
“I have never seen so much misery on someone’s face over coffee.”
The tone is amused and Stiles hasn’t gotten a lot of sleep in the last few weeks so he’s already on edge as is and he’s more than ready to chew the coffee killer a new one, but then he looks up and forgets…well everything. The man is hot, center of the sun, hot. Like burning.
“Umm…”
The man smiles and it’s blinding, the smile is perfect and adorable as the bunny teeth the guy is sporting peek out.
“You okay?” he asks at Stiles’ staring.
“You killed my coffee,” Stiles says snapping out of his daze. “That’s like a capital offense.”
He raises an eyebrow, the corners of his lips curving upward. “Under who’s law?”
Stiles point at himself. “Mine and every college student out there trying to survive on maybe three hours of sleep a day, I need coffee to live.”
His eyes -which seriously what color are they, hazel, blue, green, a combination of all of them?- crinkle at the end as he grins. “That’s serious, should I call a lawyer?”
“I would if I were you,” Stiles grins as he realizes they’re flirting.
“Hmm, that could take time. How about I offer reparations? Buy you another cup?”
Stiles stalls for a moment. “Acceptable if you understand your crime.”
“Oh I do,” he answers opening the door of the coffee shop holding it for Stiles to walk through.
“I’m Stiles by the way.”
He looks at him for a moment, searching, for what, Stiles isn’t sure. “I’m Derek.”
……
He doesn’t find out who Derek is until the second time they see each other, after their coffees, another latte for Stiles, plain black coffee for Derek, numbers are exchanged.
Stiles is in the middle of a study break when he calls Derek the way he has for the last four days, that call turns into dinner and that dinner turns into a photo op when some photographers spot them.
They run, Derek is signaling the waiter and the he’s up from the table, his hand reaching out for Stiles, pulling him up too and they just run, into the street where it’s raining and down the block.
They keep going until they’ve lost the photographers and are at Stiles’ shitty studio apartment.
They are huffing and puffing, Derek grinning a bit manically while Stiles stares at him.
“Um, what?” Stiles questions dumbly, because serious, what?
“I’ll explain,” Derek answers still smiling.
Stiles nods. “I’d appreciate that.”
Derek takes a step towards him and then another and another, Stiles is now pressed against his apartment door a soaking wet Derek pressed against him. “After though,” Derek mutters and all Stiles can do is make a noise as Derek kisses him breathless.
…..
He finds some things out somewhere between the their second and third round, Derek is from California too, he comes from a big family, he likes cheese omelets for breakfast and he’s a pitcher for the New York Yankees. He also feels amazing when he’s inside Stiles.
Stiles misses his classes the next day for a couple of reasons, there are photographers outside his apartment building, Derek not only likes cheese omelets, he can make them, and he gives Stiles head like being on his knees for a broke college student is what he was born to do.
…..
Everything inside him tells him that this is a mistake, Derek is a ball player, Stiles doesn’t even follow the sport. Derek makes six figures a year, most likely seven, Stiles doesn’t ask, Stiles barely makes minimum wage. Derek is a distraction the double major in criminology and psychology doesn’t need and Stiles isn’t a leggy blonde, which is what Derek should have on his arm as a professional athlete. He tells Derek this one night breathless after being fucked into the mattress. Derek rolls his eyes at him like what he’s said if the dumbest thing he’s ever heard.
Stiles' heart trips all over its self when Derek kisses him quiet, there a chance he’s fallen in love.
….
They continue like this, everyday Stiles wonders what Derek, beautiful perfect male specimen, adored and lusted at by millions of women could possible want with him, a skinny spaz who goes off on weird tangents when stressed.
Derek just gives him a fond look, pressing a kiss at the corner of his mouth, his hand cupping the back of Stiles’ neck giving it a reassuring squeeze every time Stiles thinks this. Stiles has stopped wondering how Derek always knows when he’s questioning their relationship.
….
He doesn’t actually call it a relationship, tries not to call it that even in his mind, Derek throws the word and the word boyfriend around as easily as breathing. It makes Stiles stop breathing every time he does.
….
It’s spring, graduation is looming and so is opening day at Yankee Stadium, Stiles isn’t sure which scares him more.
….
Opening day, Stiles realizes as he sits in a seat specially reserved, surrounded by other baseball ‘wives’ is fucking terrifying. Because this is their public announcement, the last couple of months the press has gotten glimpses of him and Derek, speculations about their relationship circling but never answered.
Him being where he is, sitting where he is, is a statement.
“Excuse me,” a pretty woman in a designer dress that is really out of place for a baseball game says to him, her eyes are calculating as she takes in his ratty running shoes, his jeans, t-shirt and jean jacket. “Which one is yours?”
The question is catty, and as Stiles looks behind her, he notices that more than one person is waiting for his answer, he sees out of the corner of his eye a man with a recorder.
He is unsure for a moment, but then he remembers Derek, in his bed, the early morning light hitting his back, all strong and sleek underneath Stiles’ fingers. He remembers the night before, Derek’s whispers of love in his ear as he pushed steadily into Stiles body, his sigh of relief after Stiles said he loved him too. He remembers the bright smile Derek gave him in the morning before asking him to come to his first game.
Looking at the field he’s not surprised to find Derek looking over at him, he stopped being surprised at Derek always knowing when he needs him a while back.
Looking back at the woman he smiles as he answers. “Number twenty-three, he’s mine.”