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Stiles leans into Scott’s space, soaking in his warmth. As his eyelids lower, Scott wonders if he could count every single eyelash, if Stiles could hold still for that long. Stiles, with his long limbs and wandering mind, his dexterous fingers and sarcastic smile, would try to stay still for Scott simply because he’s Scott. He might ask a thousand questions, but he’d do it.
Scott lets the smoke slowly slip between his lips into Stiles’ mouth. He thinks that he’d like to be that smoke, swirling and sticking to Stiles’ tongue, teeth, threat. His eyes flicker open and find those jaded, whisky brown irises looking back at him, enraptured.
They both startle, like catching a deer in the headlights. Still as statues, they gaze at one another, a game of chicken they both know well. Stiles breaks first, licking his perfect pink lips before glancing down at Scott’s; his soft eyelashes fluttering as he notices Scott’s dilated pupils.
Scott breathes out a sigh as he catches Stiles’ lips with his own, soft and sure, excited and overwhelming. The taste of pot lingers around them, between them, on their lips, but all Scott can taste is the distinct, sweet scent of Stiles.
Stiles smells like the night right before dawn, like the first pumpkin pie of the season, like sweet and spicy and…home, he thinks.
He whimpers into Stiles’ mouth at the realization and fists his hand into his hair. The kiss turning desperate and vital in that moment, teeth and tongue instead of soft and sweet.
Somehow he finds himself in Stiles’ lap with lanky arms around his waist and a bulge at his ass. He breathes into the kiss, slowing them down, trying to catch his breath.
With a small, breathy giggle, Scott lays his head on Stiles’ shoulder, belatedly realizing that he’s still holding the pipe with his right hand. He smiles against Stiles as Stiles rubs his cheek on his head, subtly scent marking whether he realizes it or not.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Stiles admits and Scott knows that’s hard for him.
He leans back, looks into Stiles’ unsure eyes, and says, “I don’t either.”
Stiles smiles crookedly and Scott leans in for a peck on the lips. “That’s okay,” Scott says, pulling back to look Stiles straight on. He pulls the pipe up to his lips as Stiles lights it for him. He inhales deeply, holding the smoke in his lunch for a few seconds. As he releases his breath into Stiles waiting mouth, he thinks that they’ll figure it out on their time.
When he looks up to Stiles, he can tell that he thinks the same way.