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Isaac sleeps with his mouth open.
Scott knows this because when he sneaks into Isaac's room (the one that was an office before Isaac showed up on their doorstep soaked and alone), Isaac's lying in bed with the sheets twisted up around him, face mashed into a pillow and snoring softly.
(Scott smiles, and then promptly feels like he’s going to puke, and this has been happening a lot lately - smiling at Isaac and then getting a not-entirely-unpleasant twist to his stomach. He’s pretty sure werewolves don’t get the flu, but he also doesn’t have the time or energy right now to delve too deeply into what it all means, so.)
(Except he knows what it means, he does, but there’s this part of him that figures with the way things have been going this year, he’s bound to get a little mixed up and displaced with his emotions - and there’s another part, too, that’s like now’s not a good time, McCall which makes him think his brain thinks there will be a right time for it and it’s just. Really confusing all around.)
Isaac snuffles into his pillow, a slight wrinkle between his eyebrows as Scott crouches by the edge of his bed. Scott pokes his cheek, and the wrinkle gets deeper; he stifles a laugh and Isaac grumbles, “Nngh.”
"Hey. Sleepyhead." Another poke, and Isaac swats at his cheek. "C'mon, are you awake?”
"M'the least awake I've ever been, Scott," Isaac sighs, but he cracks open an eye. There’s dried spit in the corner of his mouth. "Time s'it?"
"Midnight. You're a teenager, aren't you supposed to have more stamina than this?"
Isaac opens his other eye at that and stares straight ahead, gaze locked somewhere around Scott’s shoulder. "Stamina," he repeats in a monotone, and then looks at Scott. "Stamina?"
"Noun," Scott whispers, "the ability to sustain prolonged physical or mental effort. Yesterday’s word of the day."
Isaac shoots Scott an unimpressed look - this perfect little narrowing of his eyes that sort of reminds Scott of how Isaac used to look at him before they became friends.
It’s much less effective now that Scott knows he drools in his sleep.
"Okay, Merriam-Webster. I know what stamina means."
Scott rocks back on his heels and grabs hold of the mattress to keep himself from tipping over. He grins. “Just checking.”
Isaac groans then and heaves himself up, rubs the sleep out of his eyes with a lazy fist. His hair's sticking up on one side and his chest has the imprints of the sheets that were bunched up under him - they disappear a moment later obviously, and It's. It's not a bad look at all, actually.
"You look nice," Scott says, and then pulls a face because okay, Scott. He’s not even wearing a shirt. Isaac's face twists up in confusion before he smiles - slow, careful.
(Happy? Which - oh. Kay.)
"Scott." Isaac says his name like he's trying not to laugh and Scott rolls his eyes.
"Segue!" he blurts out, studying a spot on the ceiling that bears absolutely no resemblance to Isaac or Isaac without a shirt on at all, and Isaac flops back down and chuckles into his pillow. "You know what'd also be nice? If my mom didn't die tonight."
Isaac's smile turns subdued, and he nods against his pillow. "Agreed."
"She fell asleep a half hour ago, I'm pretty sure she won't wake up if we sneak in now."
"Cool." Isaac sits up again, at the edge of the bed, yawns and swings his arms overhead until Scott can hear his bones crack; he makes a satisfied noise in the back of his throat and drops his arms. "Who gets first watch?"
"I just woke you up, dude," Scott points out, and Isaac rises with another quiet laugh and scratches idly at his stomach before he starts digging through the bag at the foot of the bed.
"Right.”
“What’re you doing?”
“Looking for a shirt,” Isaac says, head ducking down to peer into the bag. “I feel weird being in your mom’s room shirtless. I feel weird being around your mom shirtless.”
Scott’s still sitting back on his heels with his hands gripping the bed; he can see the ends of the fitted sheet on the opposite side slowly pulling in his direction and wonders how long he can hold on before it snaps off the mattress. “My mom’s seen you without a shirt on.”
“I was in the hospital, it doesn’t count.”
“Oh.” Scott shrugs. “I’ve seen you without a shirt on here.”
Isaac cants his head and his jaw sticks out a little, like he’s thinking. He says, with the air of someone choosing their words very carefully, “That’s different.”
The fitted sheet snaps off and Scott falls back on his ass.
“Ow.”
He gathers up the sheets with a flurry of gangly limbed movements and shoves them back onto the bed; when he looks up, Isaac’s standing over him with a long-sleeved pajama top on and a hand held out.
Scott grabs it and Isaac yanks him up onto his feet. “You’re making that bed later.”
“Yeah? Make me,” Scott says as he heads towards the door and then hisses, “Don’t raise an eyebrow at me, Lahey!”
Isaac laughs, hushed, and follows him out. “I wasn’t.”
“You were,” Scott counters. He’s sliding along the wall and taking elongated tip-toed slides across the hallway because he kind of feels like a secret agent. A werewolf secret agent. A teen werewolf secret agent. If he pretends it’s - well, all pretend, then he won’t have to think about the repercussions if his mom actually is a target. “I could feel it, dude. On my back. Your eyebrow raise, it’s distinctive.”
Isaac laughs but it’s muffled, sounds mostly like a burst of air out his nose. “Glad you have all my nuances down, McCall.”
Scott sniffs. “Yeah, well. Don’t underestimate me.”
They’re at the door to Scott’s mom’s room, and Isaac reaches out and tugs on the sleeve of Scott’s shirt. “Hey, aren’t you supposed to be going to your room? You get to sleep now.”
"But I can keep you company," Scott says over his shoulder, and Isaac hesitates and then nods.
"Yeah, okay," he's rubbing the nape of his neck and glancing away. "If you want."
"I want," Scott says, and Isaac does look at him at that, and bites down a grin.
Scott's stomach flips.
It's gonna be a long night.
*
Being a watchdog is really boring.
Which, granted, is what Scott and Isaac want - rather be bored out of their minds than have to protect Scott’s mom from an untimely and unexplainable murder. Scott’s in the chair and Isaac’s on the floor, and they’ve been messing around on their phones in dead silence for the past hour until Scott’s claws come out and he says, frustrated and with pointed canines, “Dude, Candy Crush can eat me.”
Isaac snorts loudly and they both glance up towards the bed; Scott’s mom doesn't rustle, and Isaac kneels and flops his torso over the arm of the chair. “What level are you on?”
“Level ‘this game is the worst, I don’t know why I let Stiles put it on my phone.’”
Isaac hides a laugh against Scott’s shoulder. “Where do you even find time to play Candy Crush.”
“Detention, mostly." Scott's teeth retract to human-size again. "But I haven’t been getting them as much now that, uh. You know. Harris has - perished.”
Isaac’s resting his chin on a crooked arm and he says, “Which day is that?”
“Last Monday’s. I couldn’t use it.” He laughs, and it comes out forced. “Too busy trying to off myself to think about vocabulary.”
Isaac butts him in the shoulder with his head and Scott sags into the seat, lets his head loll to the side so they knock together. Isaac peers up through his eyelashes, and Scott catches a scent of nervousness spike the air between them and then, quick as he sniffs it out, it’s gone.
Isaac clears his throat and pulls away. “Um. What’s today’s?”
“Today’s what?”
Isaac gathers up the throw blanket and bunches it on top of his knees; he rests his head on it like a pillow. “Word of the day.”
Scott has it on his computer, but there’s an app he’s downloaded on his phone, too, that texts him at midnight like an annoyingly persistent teacher. “Sanguine. Adjective. Cheerfully optimistic.”
“You,” Isaac offers, and Scott coughs out a laugh and stares at his hands in his lap.
“Nah, dude. Not me.”
“Maybe not cheerfully,” Isaac says. “Fine. But, like. You’re always trying to do the right thing, like if you try hard enough, everything will work out alright in the end.”
Scott doesn’t look up at that, but he mutters, “You know what sanguine can mean as a noun?”
“Blood-red.”
Scott nods. “And there’s - sanguinary. Do you know what that one means? Bloodthirsty.” Scott smiles grimly, and watches his mom’s chest rise and fall in rhythm. “Murderous.”
“Definitely not you,” Isaac tells him, and the beat of his heart remains free of the blips and skips of a lie.
Scott remembers when he tried to kill Stiles that first change, when he wanted to kill Stiles. When Allison had to lock him up in the same fucking freezer Isaac’s dad had locked him in, for an entirely different reason. “Once a month, maybe.”
He finally stares at Isaac again; Isaac’s not smiling, and he’s clutching the throw on his knees tightly. “No, never you.”
The pure honestly bleeding through his voice makes Scott squirm in his chair. “You have too much faith in me, dude.”
Isaac’s legs extend out in front of him on the hardwood and he asks, soft like he’s afraid of the answer, “Would you rather I didn’t?”
Scott scrubs a hand through his hair and lifts a shoulder. “No. I don’t know, Isaac. Maybe. It’s - I feel like everyone puts all their trust in me when I’m not doing anything right, when I -” His mom turns fitfully in her sleep. “When I can’t even keep the people around me from getting hurt.”
Isaac’s looking at her too, and he notes, “Well, she seems pretty unharmed to me." He reaches out, taps Scott's arm. "Go to sleep."
Scott curls up as much as he can on the seat, pillows his head on the arm even as he asks, "You sure?"
"Yeah, it's okay. Switch in an hour?" His eyes turn into crescent moons and Scott tamps down the urge to go to him. "We'll be here when you wake up."
Scott closes his eyes, hears Isaac mumble, "Goodnight," and he thinks if he wakes up with his mom alive and Isaac next to him then, yeah.
It will be.
*
Scott wakes up to the press of something absolutely freezing against the precious, bare skin of his neck; his body jerks, and he's halfway to a yelp when a hand claps over his mouth. He blinks the sleep away, sees Isaac peering down at him in the dark.
"I got snacks," he says, and Scott licks his palm.
Isaac gives a hushed laugh and pulls his hand away quick.
"You're gross. I'm being nice and you're gross."
“I could have ripped your throat out if I thought you were a druid intruder.” Scott squints. “Druitruder? That's not a word at all, but I'm making it one.”
“You’re sleep-deprived, I think,” Isaac says, and then backtracks and waves a Pepsi can around: “Or. You just woke up. I’m sleep-deprived, and can’t be held accountable for the ways I choose to wake you up.”
Scott growls - not an actual one, just a sort of puppyish sound in his throat, low and with a lip curl. Isaac hands him the can of soda and lifts the bowl he’s hugging to his chest. He says gleefully, “I made popcorn,” and, “stop growling at me, you sound like an angry Pomeranian.”
“Ow,” Scott holds a hand to his chest. “Bruised ego, c’mon, Isaac. I’d be a German Shepherd at least.”
Isaac mulls this over.
“Golden retriever,” he allows, and Scott stands, lets Isaac take his place in the chair. He’s dropped down to the floor and stolen the bowl of popcorn when Isaac speaks again:
“It feels like we’re having a sleepover.”
“I can paint your claws if you want,” Scott stuffs a handful of popcorn in his mouth. “My mom wears this really pretty midnight blue nail polish, it’d probably go good with your eyes. Or whatever. I don’t know,” he waves a hand, finishes weakly, “Colors and stuff.”
Isaac stretches over the arm of the chair to dig into the bowl of popcorn. He has a stupidly long torso. His hair also smells like Scott’s shampoo. Neither of these things seem very fair. He’s grinning, face right in front of Scott’s, laugh lines present and innumerable (and Scott gets this like, weirdly content vibe - that Isaac even has laugh lines to account for).
“Okay, but if you fall asleep, I’m sticking your hand in a bowl of water.” He’s whispering, and his breath smells like salted butter and high fructose corn syrup from the Pepsi with an underlying tang of mint - did he brush his teeth why did he brush his teeth.
“Did you brush your teeth?”
Isaac waits a beat, and then another, and then says, “Maybe.”
(The world is testing Scott McCall in the form of a flush creeping up Isaac’s neck.)
“Why?” Scott covers his mouth. “Should I? Dude, is my breath rank? Are you like, trying to tell me without saying that I have halitosis?”
Isaac cracks a smile. “No, God, I -” he pushes off Scott’s shoulder and flops back into the armchair; his feet dangle over the sofa and graze the floor, an inch away from Scott’s thigh. “Nevermind, Scott.”
Scott sets the popcorn bowl down. “Nevermind what?”
“I’m going to take a nap.” Isaac rests against the back cushion, arms crossed and held tight to his chest like he’s cuddling himself. Scott resolutely refuses to find it adorable. “Wake me up when you wanna switch.” He makes an irritated huff and rolls his neck in an effort to get more comfortable.
“I’m too tall for this. Can’t wait to get back to an actual bed.”
Something hits Scott then, and he sits up and says, “Hey.”
Isaac’s eyes are closed. “Mm?”
“An actual bed.”
“What about it?”
Scott shuffles forward, palms Isaac’s knees as he slopes over Isaac’s legs. “It’s just. Earlier. You told me I was making ‘that bed.’ Not your bed. And you still haven’t - you’ve been here for weeks, and you still won’t put your clothes in that dresser I brought up from the basement.”
Isaac keeps his eyes closed, but his body goes very, very still and he says mildly, “I don’t want to get used to this.”
“Get used to what Isaac, having people who want you around?” He frowns and aims a gentle thump to Isaac’s shin. “Don’t be a jerk, dude.”
“What,” it comes out half a laugh, and Isaac opens his eyes. “How am I being a jerk?”
“Okay, you’re not,” Scott says. “But, I mean - my mom likes you. She likes having someone else in this house who isn’t Stiles, not that she doesn’t love Stiles, no matter how much she pretends that he annoys her.”
Scott gives his mom a glance over his shoulder. “Except, Stiles does kind of annoy her sometimes. But it’s okay, because he’s my best friend and she gets that. And, y’know.”
Isaac’s breathing in as evenly as he can, arms still folded across his chest, but Scott can track the way the vein in his neck throbs wildly out of tune. “What?”
“You’re - you’re kind one of my best friends too, Isaac. Not,” he looks down. “Not like Stiles - no one is - but. You are one of them. Just. So you know. In case you didn’t.”
The rise and fall of Isaac’s chest picks up and he whispers, “I didn’t.”
“Okay, well, uh.” Scott trips over his thoughts, and pushes off Isaac’s knees to sit back down on the floor. “Now you know. So can you please unpack your damn bag.”
“I’ll do it tomorrow,” Isaac promises, voice still gentle, and Scott can’t - he can’t look at him, so he stuffs another handful of popcorn in his mouth.
When Scott finally does chance a peek, minutes later, Isaac’s sleeping, body sagging into the armchair, and Scott gets up as quietly as possible, sneaks to the bathroom, and brushes his teeth.
He’s obviously lost it.
*
Scott rises just as bits of morning light start to brighten up the room; Isaac's still dead asleep in the chair, snoring softly. Scott doesn't want to wake him up just yet so he just. Well, he watches. Isaac's always got this wrinkle in his forehead when he sleeps, like he can't even relax when he's dreaming, and Scott crawls towards him to inspect it. Isaac mumbles something incoherent, and Scott reaches out, smooths the wrinkle with a finger drawn light down the middle of his brows, down the slope of his nose.
Of course Isaac wakes up at that, with a twitch and a start, and wide eyes that soften the moment he realizes where he is. Isaac gives him a sleepy smile, eyes still hooded. His hair's rumpled and soft and he doesn't have that consternation between his brows anymore, that little wrinkle of worry.
"My turn already?" His voice is raspy, scratchy, and Scott glances down at his mouth, feels hot and prickly.
"Yep," he tells Isaac, and Isaac's still looking at him, and Scott kind of - he kind of wants to -
He can't remember the last time he's seen someone's crusty-eyed, stale-breath-having wake up face and thought, yeah, that's awesome, I like it, kinda wanna kiss it, maybe, not since -
And. Oh.
Scott backs away, plops down onto the floor with a dull thud. Isaac yawns then, stretches across the length of the armchair - arms and legs flopping over the sides like the possible half-giant he is - and his pajama top rides up and it’s too quick for Scott to hide, the jolt of arousal that courses through him, and at first he thinks it’ll be okay, maybe it didn’t even give off that much a scent -
But then Isaac picks his head up sharp from where it’s hanging down from the end of the armchair, and his expression is equal parts surprised and bemused and - and Scott’s not imaging this: there’s a muted anticipation, too, a thrum of excitement underneath it all.
He murmurs, “Scott...?” and Scott shakes his head, grabs his phone and says, “Thirsty, need more soda. Sustenance. I’ll be - right. I’ll be back.”
“Scott,” he reaches out as Scott passes, takes hold of Scott’s wrist briefly before letting it slide away. Scott turns on heel, hand scrabbling for the door handle.
“I’ll be right back,” he says. “I swear.”
*
Scott heads straight to the kitchen at chugs a can of Pepsi like it’s a fifth of Jack. He thumps on his chest and lifts himself up onto the counter takes a breath and thinks okay.
So.
Maybe he’s attracted to Isaac.
It’s not a bad thing, really. Of course it’s not. But it’s also not a thing Scott’s ever given much thought - boys, or Isaac, or people whose names don’t rhyme with Schmallison. So he does the only think he can think to do currently, and pulls his phone out to send a frantic text to Danny because Danny will be able to give him a decent answer.
ARE YOU AWAKE I’M SORRY I KNOW YOU ALMOST DIED TODAY BUT HOW DO YOU KNOW IF YOU LIKE A DUDE.
Blessedly, it only takes Scott chugging another can of Pepsi for him to get a response.
Uh... Danny’s sleeping but I... can help?
Scott frowns, and hikes himself back up onto the counter. Ethan?
No, Santa Claus
Ugh leave me alone I’m not talking to u about this forget it
I’m kidding... do you really need to talk?
Not to someone whose alpha wants me n everyone I love dead and can use this against me.
Fair enough. Scott clutches the can in his free hand. Another texts comes in a second later:
How about a kid who's really thankful your mom saved his boyfriend’s life?
Scott sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose and his ringer goes off in the next moment; Scott fumbles for it, answers before it can go over for more than half a ring, and when he answers with a harsh, “Hello?” he’s met with a laugh.
“Why are you having an existential crisis at five fifteen in the morning?”
“I really, really don’t wanna talk to you about this, dude.”
“Look, I gave you the intel about Derek, right? I told you we’d gone after Lydia and Danny to get to you. Scott,” Ethan lets out a gust of breath, and the sound of him adjusting in the unforgiving hospital chair comes through the lines. “We’re not friends. I’m not about to pretend we are. We aren’t even allies. But I can appreciate when something is done for me - Danny would have died tonight.”
Scott picks at a loose thread in his joggers.
“I won’t tell my pack.”
“Because I trust your word,” Scott scoffs, and he can almost hear the way Ethan shrugs.
“Believe me or not, I don’t really care. But I’m not waking Danny up just so you can ask him what it means when you get butterflies in your tummy, oh no,” he says the last part in a feeble imitation of a ten-year-old on a playground. “So? Do you wanna talk or not?”
Scott counts to ten in his head, and then begrudgingly asks, “How do you know if you like a dude?"
"Same way you know if you like a girl, I’m assuming."
“If you’re gonna tease me about it -”
“Sorry, sorry,” Ethan says. “Really, what is it?”
"It’s just - what if you've never - what if it's for the first time? Like, how do you know if it's real or just. Teenage hormone stuff. Or like. Emotional upheavals."
“Did you watch a lot of talk shows over the summer,” Ethan asks, amused, and then: “Uh... okay, well have you ever felt like this with another guy?"
"No, and I’m around guys a lot. A lot. Also sometimes I’m around them naked, because high school gym class showers. It might just be this,” Scott gnaws on a thumbnail. “I think it’s just this one guy in particular."
"Okay," Ethan says slowly. “And how does he makes you feel?”
“I - weird. Good weird. I dunno, dude, like my heart’s gonna come out of my butt, a little.”
An amused sound gets caught in Ethan’s throat. "That's good weird?"
"My stomach gets all," Scott waves a hand. "Flippy. Nervous."
“Sounds like you like him to me.”
“Okay.” Scott switches to the nail on his pointer finger and attacks it with even more fervor. “So - what does that make me?”
“Whatever you wanna be, no one can decide for you.” Ethan pauses. “Does this guy like you back?”
“I. Um.” Scott fights the smile that tries to sneak up on him, and then decides fuck it and lets it bloom. “I’m not sure. I think - maybe. It could be like, a thing. For him, too.”
“Alright.” Ethan actually sounds like he’s smiling a little when he says, “That’s pretty cool then, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, but what do I do now?”
"Just be straightforward."
Scott stops chewing on his nails and drops his hand. "That's - but what if he doesn't like me?"
"Then he doesn't," Ethan answers, "and you find a way to get over it.”
There’s a rustling noise.
“Hey, I have to go, Danny’s making a face like he’s in pain, so I’m gonna call the nurse to check on him.”
“How is he?”
“Okay,” Ethan says, quiet. “Alive.”
A silence falls between them; Scott’s sliding off the counter and tossing the empty soda cans away as Ethan tells him again, “I won’t tell my pack, alright? And I won’t let them use this to hurt you.”
Scott starts the trek back upstairs. “Thanks.”
“Thank you. Thank your mom, really.”
“I will.”
His feet hit the landing, and he hears Ethan say curiously, “It’s not Lahey, is it?”
“Oh, no, I'm going through a tunnel," Scott says, and hangs up.
*
Isaac’s staring at him when he gets back to his mom's room, eyes round like a deer caught in headlights. He’s sitting on the floor again, against the vanity, legs pulled up to his chest and hands clasped together in his lap.
“You,” he speaks a pitch too high, clears his throat and tries again: “You were gone awhile.”
Scott jerks a thumb behind him. “I was cleaning up the kitchen.”
“Right,” he watches Scott sag into the armchair. “Um, so I was thinking.”
Scott rolls his head along the back of the chair. “Yeah?”
"You're a healer, aren’t you?" Isaac says, and unfolds his legs, picks up on his knees and scoots forwards. He curls long fingers over the side of the chair and Scott shifts, tucks his forearms into the space between Isaac’s hands.
"No I'm not."
Isaac’s eyes are still so wide; Scott can’t look away. Doesn’t want to. "You've healed animals at the clinic. You helped."
"So have you."
There's a moue to Isaac's mouth. "Yeah, but you've helped people."
"Hardly."
There's a weighted pause, a moment where Scott holds his breath and the pads of Isaac fingers slide along Scott's wrist, a barely there brush of skin on skin that makes Scott's pulse stutterstart in a way that Isaac has to notice.
"You have," Isaac murmurs, and neither of them are smiling, but it doesn’t seem like a bad thing. His grip tightens, and his thumb presses flat along the edge of Scott's wrist. "Your heart's beating really hard."
He's staring up at Scott with his mouth dropped open and Scott says, "Yeah."
"I," Isaac's teeth tug on his bottom lip. "Why?"
And Scott - Scott laughs - this faltering, weak thing, and his chest hitches.
"It has a scent, doesn't it?"
Isaac's mouth picks up at the ends. "Yeah, but."
He stops, and Scott sways into him. "But you wanna hear me say it."
“I already did,” Isaac reminds him, and his eyes flick to the door. “You weren’t even trying to whisper.”
“Super secret additional werewolf senses,” Scott nods along, feels frozen and dumb but thrilled, too. “Like that kid in The Sixth Sense.”
Isaac’s eyes get impossibly wider and he stage-whispers I see dead people and Scott says,
“I think I might like you.”
Isaac drops the act, and his mouth flickers into a smile. “Yeah?”
The word is nearly inaudible, gets stuck in Isaac’s throat halfway out of his mouth, and Scott nods.
“Yeah. And I don’t, I don’t know what to do about it because we’re,” he focuses on the place where Isaac’s hand is still resting on his arm. “We’re getting shit thrown at us from every direction now, and everything’s so off and I still -”
He hesitates, this time, and Isaac finishes the thought: “You still love Allison.”
“That won't change,” Scott tells him. “But I - I know I - I know I spent this whole summer feeling like nothing would be okay, with her or with - with me but you -”
He bumps his nose against Isaac’s temple. “You just, like. Snuck up on me or something, dude. Slid into place and I didn’t even notice it until after.”
The hand Isaac doesn’t have hold of lands heavy on Isaac’s jaw, and Scott shakes his head. “And I promise we'll have a more detailed conversation about all of this when we're not actively and consistently trying to avoid getting killed by several different groups of people at once, but right now I just really really want to kiss you.”
He shifts, enough to look at Isaac, and there’s a lull where neither of them says or does anything, and then Isaac surges up with eyes shut tight and nails digging into Scott’s forearm, and he kisses Scott like it’s the only thing left to do.
(And - maybe it is.)
Scott lifts up onto his knees on the cushion of the chair and his palms span across the length of Isaac’s neck, tilt his head the way Scott likes it; Isaac fists the cloth of his joggers, slides his other hand to the back of Scott’s thigh, just under the curve of his ass. For once, Scott’s the one with the height advantage, and he uses it: ducks to Isaac’s neck, smiles against his Adam’s apple when Isaac tips his head back and makes the best fucking sound - a whine of more, maybe, and
Scott’s mom says, “What are you doing?”
They still, immediately, and it’s comical almost - Isaac has a hand snuck into the back of Scott’s joggers now, and Scott has a hand in Isaac's hair, holding his head back with teeth bared against the skin of Isaac’s throat, ready to mark.
“Scott,” she sounds annoyed. “Scott, I don’t care how safe Stiles says they are, you are not going to set off bottle rockets in the backyard.”
“Oh my God, she’s dreaming,” Scott says to Isaac's neck, and Isaac whispers hoarsely, “Your mom is the heaviest sleeper in the world.”
It’s done enough though, to break the spell; Scott drops his hands and Isaac reluctantly takes his back and they smile sheepishly as they return to their original positions - Isaac on the floor, Scott in the armchair. They catch each other’s eye and choke back quiet laughs and shit this is going to end up being so distracting, isn’t it? Isaac lives here. Isaac showers here. Like - he showers naked.
“Whatever you’re thinking,” Isaac starts, obviously pleased, “stop. Because we can’t exactly go to your room right now.”
“Probably a good thing,” Scott looks down at him and smiles. “We can build up to it. Because I’ve never, like. Um.”
Isaac rolls an unopened Pepsi can between his palms. “What?”
“Done - whatever. I don’t know, I’ve, like I’ve never even blown a guy,” he says, stumbling and embarrassed. “What if I suck?”
Isaac gives this question a thoughtful sort of frown. “Well.”
Scott snorts. "Cute, Isaac."
"I try."
He closes his eyes and smiles. “Wake me up at seven.”
“Okay - Scott?”
"Hm?"
"I like you, too."
(It's hushed, said on a grin, like Isaac's just so damn delighted to admit it.
And maybe Isaac figured it out way before he did - but Scott figures none of that matters anyway, so long as they got here, eventually.)
*
He's nearly drifting off to dreamland when there’s a movement next to him, and Isaac’s mouth is by his ear.
“Just so you know - we’re definitely taking full advantage of your mom’s next night shift.”
Scott, eyes still shut, tugs him in by the nape of his neck. It’s a kiss that’s mostly a smile, and Isaac aims another to the corner of his mouth before he finally pulls away.
“Goodnight,” Scott says, and Isaac squeezes his hand.
“Great night,” he corrects. And then, breezily: “Pretty decent morning, too, actually.”
Scott laughs sleepily, and the newly-risen sun streams in soft through the open window.
All he feels is warmth.