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The heat from the sudden blaze is fading as they pull themselves up from the asphalt. Stiles gives Scott’s shoulders a gentle shake as he helps him to his feet.
“You okay, buddy?”
Scott replies with the tiniest nod, a barely visible tilt of his head. He’s blinking constantly, still dazed, and weaker than Stiles has ever seen. Meanwhile the girls stand to the side, Lydia staring with wide, trembling eyes at the puddle of gasoline like it might reignite any second and Allison staring at Scott like he’s about to slip under again. Scott slumps into Stiles’ grip and almost takes them both down once more.
“Woah – woah - can you move, Scott? We gotta get you cleaned up.”
When he doesn’t budge, Stiles slings an arm around Scott’s waist and hoists one of Scott’s around his neck. The smell of gasoline is pungent and stinging and everywhere, and Stiles finds he has to breathe through his mouth as he urges Scott’s limp body to finally move.
“There we go. Always a bit slow on the uptake, huh, Scotty?”
But no one cracks a smile, the joke falls flat, the words ring hollow as they leave Stiles’ mouth. For once, humor fails him.
Stiles glances over his shoulder at Lydia, who bites her lip, and Allison, who nods and says, “We’ll see you two tomorrow.”
Scott still hasn’t said anything, but at least he’s responding. It’s slow and careful going as Stiles navigates the way back to their room, but concentrating so hard keeps him from reliving what almost just happened. Luckily their room isn’t far, and Stiles pushes the unlocked door open with his free shoulder. He kicks off his own shoes, then helps Scott with his, leaving both pairs sitting outside the threshold so that maybe they’ll air out by morning. Then he steers Scott straight to the bathroom. Stiles hopes that a long, hot shower will clean the rest of this night’s mess.
It’s not weird when he pulls Scott’s ruined shirt up and over his head and drops it right into the trash can, or when he undoes Scott’s fly to slide the soaked and stained denim down his legs, because they’ve undressed in front of each other more than once before. And it’s not weird when Stiles joins Scott under the heated spray, because this isn’t their first shower together, either.
When Stiles decides to lather up one of the ratty motel-issue cloths with his body wash, though, and starts to scrub the leftover gasoline from Scott’s bare skin, that’s a bold and blatant first. Stiles has never tried that before, has never dared. But he’s not ready to let Scott out of his sight yet.
It’s just one more wrong thing in the exhaustive list of problems they’ve had since they reached the motel: Scott should be the one protecting and taking care of Stiles, not the other way around. But Stiles tries not to think about how much he enjoys the proximity, and the cleaning itself, and he wills himself to not get hard as he does it. It all seems to be working, however, because Scott is coming around, just as if he was waking from any given night’s sleep. He looks down at where Stiles is circling the washcloth around his chest.
“Do you want me to stop?” Stiles is uncomfortably aware of how loud his voice sounds over the shower as it echoes around the tile.
“No—” Scott speaks for the first time, through a slowly forming grin like a winter sunrise, “—keep going, Stiles.”
Stiles pauses anyway and drops the washcloth. Scott’s face briefly crinkles into confusion but Stiles stops him before he can protest, pouring all of his emotions about the last few hours into the surge of his hips and torso as he pushes Scott against the wall and kisses him on the mouth.
It’s their first kiss in a long time, not since a sleepover years ago when they decided to practice making out, and they were inexperienced and fumbling and didn’t really even try using tongue, but since then they’ve each had plenty of practice. None of those kisses have felt as good as this one does.
“Sorry,” Stiles pants when they part, drooping his head into the crook of Scott’s shoulder to avoid his eyes. He can feel that he’s half-hard against Scott’s thigh. “Dunno what that was – where that came from—”
“Stiles. It’s okay.” Scott gently pushes Stiles backwards until he lifts his head and can’t help but look directly at Scott. “I think we both needed that,” Scott adds, and he leans in for another kiss.
Stiles answers with an airy, needy moan he couldn’t control as Scott’s arms wrap around his back and pull him even closer. Now he’s the one who’s finding it impossible to speak.
Scott’s hard now too. It feels better than Stiles had ever imagined when he grinds his hips just so into Scott and their cocks brush against each other for the first time. He tries not to think about how any number of things could have gone wrong and prevented them from reaching this moment, and instead concentrates on tracing the lines and ridges of Scott’s cock when he reaches between them to take him in hand.
Scott arches off the wall and moves to kiss and nibble Stiles’ neck in response, sending a jolt of lightning down Stiles’ spine. Stiles pulls Scott’s right hand from where it’s been gripping his back and drops it onto his cock, and Scott immediately curls his fingers around him and starts stroking just like he’d do to himself. Stiles grunts a sound that can only mean ”finally.”
So Scott and Stiles fall into an easy kind of rhythm, replacing the horrors of earlier that evening with a much more satisfying memory. It comes as naturally as everything else they do together.
Stiles can’t get enough of Scott’s tongue in his mouth, or the flex and pull of Scott’s muscles against his chest and stomach, or the somehow familiar hardness of Scott’s cock in his left hand. He knows he won’t last long, couldn’t even if he tried, because it’s all too hot and good and right and with a spluttered, “Oh, fuck, Scotty,” he comes into Scott’s hand and across his abs. Scott suddenly finishes too, riding out his orgasm with his forehead pressing into Stiles somewhere above his pounding heart. The water, starting to run cold at this point, washes them fully clean.
“That was…” Stiles trails off as he reaches for the nozzle to cut the flow. There are somehow too many words and yet not enough.
“Yeah,” Scott beams. The sight of him standing in a pool of gasoline, light torch in hand, seconds from turning into a blazing inferno seems like ages ago. He’s back to normal, back to goofy, grinning Scott – he’s back to being Stiles’ Scott.
But just to make sure, Stiles asks if he’s feeling better.
“I think you know the answer to that,” comes the muffled response as Scott towels his hair dry.
Stiles doesn’t bother hiding his own giddy smile.
They each throw on a pair of boxers and a lightweight tee. Stiles ignores the nearby bed and crawls into the other one, and Scott slides in and wraps his arms around Stiles from behind. The effects of the spell or curse or whatever are definitely, finally gone, because Stiles can feel how Scott is all pure warmth and raw power once more. Scott smiles into the back of his neck, and Stiles knows everything really will be alright.
Stiles can feel something else, too, something new and humming in the air around them, and he laces his fingers with Scott’s and pulls him in tight.
They stay like that, awake and tangled together under thin sheets, until Allison calls and says she and Lydia can’t sleep in this spooky motel, after everything that’s happened, and that maybe it’d be safer on the bus. Scott and Stiles agree, and no one sees how their fingers are entwined as they leave the motel room to meet the girls.