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Stiles has never been skinny. He was a chubby kid. He was a preteen who hadn't lost his baby fat. And, even when he shot up four inches in ninth grade, the pudge over his stomach stayed put.
He'd never thought much of it, though. It wasn't worth cutting back on curly fries or the snacks he wouldn't let his father within ten feet of. So he just bought pants with a relaxed fit and shirts loose enough to hide his little belly and that was that.
But Stiles, apparently, is also a stress eater. And, with a sophomore year filled with werewolves, a junior year where he was possessed by an evil fox spirit, and the summer before senior year with the kraken in the community swimming pool and Derek returning to Beacon Hills with a band of hunters on this tail?
By the beginning of his senior year, Stiles has only one pair of pants he can still button.
One morning, after things have finally been quiet for a few weeks, he finds himself lying on his back on the bed, struggling to get the ends of the waistband to meet.
When Stiles looks in the mirror, he realizes it must have been a while since he really thought about his appearance. He'd been vaguely aware, over the last year and a half, that his stomach pudge had gotten pudgier. But his reflection has apparently developed round cheeks and chunky thighs and a soft chest in addition to the pudgy swell of his belly. And his no-longer-loose shirt and size-or-two-too-small jeans aren't hiding any of that.
With curiosity, and a little dread, Stiles pulls their old scale out of the bathroom closet.
The thing is, it wouldn't be so bad except for Derek-freaking-Hale.
He'd always been hot. Stiles can admit that much, all right? But he'd been hot in a distant way. Like a movie star. Someone you know you'll never ever have a shot with, so any fantasies about him are entirely consequence-free.
But, since Derek came back this last time, they've been spending more time together. At first, it was just researching the hunters -- the ones that made the Calaveras look like fluffy bunnies -- and Stiles had thought it was just like the good old times.
But now the hunters have left town and Stiles's Batman DVD has taken up residence on top of Derek's TV. And the math homework he'd thought he'd lost? Turned up between Derek's couch cushions. Stiles's collection of supernatural references are now alphabetized on his bookshelf. And his favorite flavor of gatorade (red, of course) is always stocked in Derek's fridge.
And, somewhere along the line, Stiles falls. The problem this time is, he doesn't fall for the fantasy. He falls for the dorky guy who can debate Dr. Who with him. The man whose smiles are small and shy. The man who's kind and good even if he doesn't always let it on. The man who hides his age under the scruff of a beard and is usually a lot less okay than he pretends to be.
Seriously, how can he not fall for that guy? Stiles is only human, after all.
But he knows Derek's type: hot, female, badass and (all too often) psychotic. Stiles has his moments of questionable sanity (sometimes, but not always, attributable to supernatural possession). And, sure, he shines once in a while in the battle against the bad guys of Beacon Hills. But he isn't female. And he definitely isn't hot, especially not with all the extra weight he's carrying this year.
(38 more pounds, as the scale mockingly informed him.)
So, no matter how much time they spend together, no matter how fucking hard he falls, Stiles doesn't make a ten year plan for Derek. He's not going to dangle that in front of himself. Not when he knows nothing is ever going to happen.
It happens.
It's an otherwise normal afternoon at Derek's apartment. They spend the afternoon balancing chemistry equations (Stiles) and reading War and Peace in the original Russian (Derek, of course, because Stiles hasn't already fallen hard enough). Then Derek asks him if he wants to get some food and Stiles shrugs a yes. His father isn't going to be home until late anyways. So they watch a couple episodes of Green Arrow and eat Chinese takeout.
Stiles eats more than he should, which isn't unusual. Derek orders extra servings of orange chicken and egg rolls. And, while Stiles knows it's not doing his waistline any favors, he doesn't turn them down. He knows he's been getting a little chubbier this fall, but it's not like he has a line up of romantic partners trying to take his shirt off or anything.
When the second episode of Green Arrow finishes, he packs up his backpack. He starts to stand up from the couch, feeling heavy from all the food, but he finds a hand gripping his arm.
He turns around and asks, "Dude, what's going on?"
"Nothing," Derek says. He's looking at Stiles intently through blue-gray-green eyes. He looks worried, and it's starting to make Stiles worry. "I want to ask you something."
"Okay, then, ask away," Stiles offers, though he's still feeling disconcerted.
There's a long moment of just looking at each other in which Derek doesn't say anything. Stiles is about to ask him again what's wrong, but then Derek leans forward and--
Derek is kissing him.
Stiles rears back and slaps a hand over his own mouth. "What the hell, dude? Are you possessed? Did you mean to do that?"
"Of course I meant to." Derek frowns.
"What?"
Derek still has one hand on Stiles's arm. With the other, he reaches out to cup his cheek and says, softly, "I meant to. I mean to. Please just tell me you want this."
Stiles bites his lip. It feels like a prank, like the meanest prank ever, making him confess his long-suppressed desires like this.
But he knows Derek now. And he knows that the only thing less likely than him wanting to kiss Stiles is him being that kind of cruel.
So he nods.
"Yes?"
"Yes," Stiles says.
Stiles used to think that Derek didn't like to be touched. The only times he saw him touch anyone were during pack trainings or in the violence of a fight. He hadn't even been touchy-feely with Cora when she'd still been around.
And Stiles got that. With Derek's history, it made sense. So he suppressed the instinct to give him the same casual touches he gave his friends--a supportive arm around the shoulder, a hand on the arm, an occasional hug. If Derek didn't like being touched, Stiles was going to respect that.
But Stiles is wrong. So wrong.
Derek touches Stiles like he's starving for it.
They continue to spend afternoons in Derek's apartment. Stiles does his homework. Derek reads. It's the same as always, except they do it pressed close together, Derek squeezing his thigh or rubbing his back. And, when they sneak in some netflix later, Derek wraps his arms tight around him, lips pressed into the back of his neck, as they cuddle on the couch.
They hold hands when they go out. (Because Stiles is 18 and apparently living in a wonderful alternate universe where his father actually approves of them dating.) At pack meetings, Derek sits next to him on the couch and slings an arm around his shoulder, pulling him closer. If there isn't enough room, he tugs Stiles down into his lap as if Stiles is a lot lighter than he really is.
Derek kisses him hello, and goodbye, and just because he steps into the room. They kiss walking down the street. They kiss during pack meetings. (At least until the others start to object.)
They make out on Derek's couch for hours. Sometimes slow, lazy kisses. Sometimes kisses that turn heated and urgent and one or the other of them has to make them stop.
Because, also, they're taking things slow.
And Stiles is okay with that. He likes Derek. He's all about the kissing. And going slow is nice when he starts to worry about about how much less experienced he is than Derek. And when he's still a bit self-conscious about his weight.
That's the thing. Stiles's weight.
It never comes up.
Not that Stiles had expected Derek to tease him or complain about it. Again, Derek isn't cruel.
But he is really into working out. And, of course, it shows. In the breadth of his shoulders, the strength in his thighs. The size of his biceps, the solidity of his chest, the taper of his waist.
Stiles does not have this body type. He has the opposite of this body type. He knows that anyone who sees them together is thinking that Stiles is the last person to belong with someone who looks like Derek.
But Derek just holds him tighter, arm around his waist and hand over the roll of fat at his side like he doesn't even notice it's there.
Stiles still waits for Derek to start dropping hints. But Derek doesn't mention him getting more involved in the physical aspects of pack trainings. He doesn't suggest that Stiles reconsider skipping lacrosse season this year. Or ask if he's sure he wants that fourth brownie.
And, when they get takeout, he keeps ordering extras of Stiles's favorites. When they cook, he makes enough for Stiles to eat until he's full. He even still keeps his kitchen stocked with Stiles's favorite snacks.
Stiles would wonder if Derek's under some kind of spell or curse that makes him not realize his boyfriend is a little fat. Except that, though Derek may never say anything about it, he also doesn't ignore Stiles's softer parts.
He strokes his hands down Stiles's sides and doesn't falter at the roll pushing over his pants. Instead, he just gives it a squeeze before moving back up.
He massages Stiles's thick thighs. Kisses under his softening chin.
He cups the embarrassingly puffy flesh over his pecs, thumbing his nipples through his shirt.
He runs his hands over the pliable curves of Stiles's belly. He teases at the soft bottom part, where it pushes over his waistband and then gives the fattest part of his tummy a gentle squeeze. Sometimes, Derek leaves his hand on top of his belly while they make out. Like it's just a comfortable resting place.
And, lately, the attention that Derek gives his chubbier parts is getting more arousing then embarrassing. Enough that Derek has to kiss away his complaints about why the hell they decided to take this slow.
But then, between the SATs and the holidays and the colder weather, the new pants that Stiles had bought that fall start getting too tight to ignore.
One afternoon, Derek is toying with the waist of his jeans as they're kissing. But he suddenly pauses, glances down, and then back up at Stiles with raised eyebrows.
Stiles looks down, sucking in a little so he can see. And realizes he'd forgotten that he'd used a rubber band this morning to fasten his jeans. His shirt had been long enough to hide it and, even if it hadn't been, his belly folded enough over his waistband to cover it up. He'd been almost proud of the solution.
But now, with Derek noticing what he'd done, it's not exactly pride he's feeling anymore. Mortifying. Mortifying would be a good word for it.
"I couldn't really button them this morning," Stiles admits, feeling his cheeks flush as Derek examines the rubber band configuration.
"I can see that," Derek says. He strokes his finger over the underside of Stiles's belly where his shirt's ridden up. Stiles fights the urge to pull it back down.
This is the first time either of them has acknowledged Stiles's weight problem out loud.
"I'm going to cut back on the takeout and curly fries," Stiles says quickly. "And I was thinking about starting running again. I mean, I was thinking about it, anyways. And I should really stop buying ice cream because then I just have to eat it before my dad figures out it's there and goes for it himself."
Derek interrupts him with a soft kiss to his mouth. When he pulls back, Stiles stares.
"You could just get some bigger jeans," Derek suggests.
"Don't you care that I don't fit into these anymore?" he demands.
"Am I supposed to?" Derek asks. Stiles can feel his fingers trace over the stretch marks at his side.
"I don't know." Stiles runs a hand through his already messy hair. "Maybe. Probably."
"Well, I don't."
"Oh."
Derek leans in to kiss under his jaw.
As he tilts his head to allow him better access, Stiles tries again, "But if it did bother you--"
"I don't care, Stiles," Derek murmurs into his neck. The brush of his lips makes Stiles shiver.
"Okay," Stiles says. He tightens his grip on Derek's shoulders. "Noted."