Archive of Our Own

The trail beside Stiles’ house was once the pride of his living community, but was now nothing more than a few miles of cracked pavement outlined with bunches of southern sandburs. Ants scurried within the wedges of concrete, carrying with them the fruits of their labor as they surpassed gumweeds and yarrows. The only sound audible to Stiles as he ran was the bounce of his zipper against his chest and the scrape of his tennis shoes against the ground. That is, if he disregarded the incessant panting of the boy beside him, heaving in and out and grunting with the effort of jogging. Scott, never known for his ability to run long distances, was already stuttering behind Stiles about a third of the way through the trails.

“Breathe evenly,” Stiles said, shortly after slapping the back of Scott’s head and indicating wildly to his own chest, breathing leveled and barely audible. Today marked the last Sunday morning that the two of them would spend together for the foreseeable future. Stiles, always the skittish and most-affected member of his friend group, was naturally the first to decide that he couldn’t bear to live within the limits of Beacon Hills any longer. Hell, he couldn’t even imagine himself living within California at all. Scott, for what it was worth, was his brother, now and forever, but that alone was not enough to coax Stiles out of his head about the last few months they’d endured together. 

Before Scott was bit, the two of them led a somewhat normal, conventional life together. They’d gone from making their respective wrestling action figures brawl to shooting one another with NERF bullets until one of the two got mad enough to charge the other or simply storm off – usually Scott. When they’d reached middle school, they began to sit on the swings at the park instead of sliding down the slide together, and from there had slowly separated themselves from their youths entirely as they got more involved with sports and girls. Scott was the first to show interest, leaning over to cup his hand over his mouth and whisper into Stiles’ ear in seventh grade about a blonde girl that neither of them had spoken to before. Shortly after that, Lydia moved into the town and Stiles had kept his eyes trained on her since while Scott hopped from girl to girl and shoved Stiles whenever he teased him about it.

Scrawny and with insatiable appetites, the boys went into their freshman year of high-school frequenting the diner nearby campus, where they could order enough fries to give themselves matching, equally  painful salt sores. It was only then that Stiles seemed to become fully aware of his appearance, and what he lacked in comparison to Scott, who was always slightly beefier. 

It was then that they decided that they’d run together a few times a week before holing up in Stiles’ garage to mess with his father’s – now abandoned – workout equipment. While Stiles laid flat on his back and groaned with every sit-up, Scott muttered encouraging words while holding his feet still. When Scott began to lift more and more while Stiles “spotted” him, Stiles stood awkwardly quiet until he’d finished his reps before celebrating for him. Where Stiles could run himself into the ground, Scott could lift two of him in a bench press. Of course, that’d been proven one night when, after arguing extensively, Stiles plopped down on top of Scott’s back and crossed his legs while Scott did his best to maintain decent pushup form. After that, Stiles received intense bouts of pleasure mocking Scott’s odd, hunched over jogging form, if only because he couldn’t mock anything else.

As they ran on, Scott’s dog tags twisting until they were clanging together against his back with every step, he gazed over at Stiles, eyes fixed forward and fists balled up, with what could only be described as a last-ditch effort to memorize every part of him. 

“Stiles, I can’t,” he gritted out, slowing to a walk and then stopping altogether, leaning over to put his hands on his knees. 

Stiles, slightly farther ahead, stopped and put his hands above his head before retreating over to Scott. When he’d gotten close enough, he dropped his arms and checked his watch, pausing the ongoing timer and licking his lips. “Don’t pussy out on me now, man. This is your last chance to show me up.”

The reminder of his best friend’s imminent departure didn’t go over well with Scott and, instead of spitting back a retort, he dropped down to the pavement, his legs bent out in front of him. Stiles, always empathetic, groaned and sat down next to him, nudging him in the process. 

“You don’t have to act like this, you know. It’s not like I’m gone forever.”

“I’m not acting like anything,” Scott replied, trying and failing to catch his breath, “I’m just tired and I don’t want to spend the remainder of my time with you throwing up a lung.” He paused for a moment before continuing. “I don’t resent you for the choice that you made and I will always stand by you, but you can’t expect me to not be at least a little sad that you’re moving three-thousand miles away from me.” 

Stiles nodded and ran a stuttering hand through his hair, “I don’t expect you to fully understand it, dude. You have responsibilities here and a certain will about you that I don’t. You’re my brother and always will be, regardless of where we are on the map. Me being in Maine doesn’t mean that you’re losing me. There’s a part of me in you just like there is a part of me in every other member of our friend group.”

“They’re not you and neither am I,” Scott whispered, leaning over to rest his head on Stiles’ shoulder, “Look, I promise I’ll shut my mouth and stop complaining if you just agree to get off this trail early and come back to mine for a little before we meet up with everyone else.” 

Shrugging Scott off of his shoulder, Stiles hopped to his feet and held out a hand, “Sure, it’s not like I wanted to finish running it anyway.” Lacing his fingers with Scott’s, he yanked him up and then turned slightly to fully end the workout he’d been tracking on his watch. 

Together, the two of them stalked back towards Stiles’ house, chatting idly about the boarding school that Stiles had gotten accepted into. Though he was not the most terrific of students, it was not particularly difficult for Stiles to have manicured a somewhat impressive transcript of his freshman and sophomore years of high school. Heading into his junior year, Stiles had put a lot of thought into what it was that he wanted to pursue and had applied to a school that would aid in boosting him in the right direction and into ideal programs once he graduated. 

Criminology, above all, was what interested Stiles, and he could not imagine going into higher education for any other reason. School, as it was, was not uninteresting, per se, but it did not stimulate Stiles in the same way that it had when he’d been in gifted programs as a young boy. As a result, his grades dwindled and shot up in random intervals, depending on whether or not he was capable of forcing himself to complete the assignments handed out. This grew especially difficult when he was tugged into playing into Scott’s werewolf responsibilities, as he was increasingly truant from school and prone to storming out of class whenever he was called upon by a member of his friend group. Still, he found himself captivated by the motives of criminals and the psychological drive found in said criminals to commit such heinous crimes.

So, after deciding that he was leaving the state – and perhaps even the country – for his junior year of high school, Stiles limited the scope of his search to law-focused boarding schools, and was lucky enough to get into one of the top programs in the country. He credited a lot of that success to the essay that he’d written based on a prompt that he’d twisted to apply to his own childhood, referring specifically to how it was growing up with a father in law enforcement and what that’d meant for his routine. 

Scott, already enrolled at Beacon Hills High School for his junior year, listened as Stiles fretted about who he might end up with as a roommate and about the professors he’d done extensive research on since getting accepted. In what could only be spoken with the utmost respect for California public high schools, the opportunities that Stiles had far outweighed those that Scott had. While Scott had resigned to signing up for AP U.S History and Aquatic Sciences, the courses that Stiles described were hardly able to be summed up using acronyms. Scott would go back to playing lacrosse with his hair pulled back and Stiles would sit in lectures discussing things Scott couldn’t fathom ever understanding. 

When Stiles had approached his best friend about leaving Beacon Hills, he’d done so on a night in late April, while they were tucked into bed beside one another, back to back. Looking over his shoulder, Stiles had whispered for Scott with a cracking voice and then had laid it all out in front of him, only fully turning to face him once he’d finished. Stiles wasn’t a crier, but he still seemed to be willing his tears away as he’d waited for a response. Scott had responded in the best way that he knew how, promising Stiles that he’d support him no matter what and promising to take care of his dad for him while he was gone. 

That night had ended in a shaky hug and a pinky-promise that Stiles would be there when they broke the news to Melissa. Now, as they stalked up the stairs to Stiles’ house to grab some water before driving over to Scott’s, Scott reached out between them and took the other boy’s pinky in his, squeezing slightly before stepping forward and opening the door. 

Once inside, Stiles scurried up the stairs to change into a pair of swim shorts while Scott, who’d been clever enough to run in a pair in the first place, moved about the kitchen, grabbing water bottles from the fridge and granola bars from the pantry, shoving them all into a backpack he’d found in the closet. Bright blue and stitched with Stiles’ given name, he suspected that it had to date back to his early childhood. 

When Stiles emerged at the top of the staircase, pocketing his cellphone into his shorts, Scott beamed up at him, lifting up the backpack mockingly. “Good choice.”

“Clearly it worked on you, since you seemed drawn to me the second you saw me walking around with it on my back,” Stiles snorted, referring to the first time they’d met all those years ago, shy and with cheeks rosy enough to match their knees. 

Wrapping around the entrance to the kitchen, Stiles grabbed the backpack, inspected its contents, and then shoved it back into Scott’s chest, a small ummph coming from the other boy. He looked back, eyebrows drawn together. “Should we go get food or make it here?”

“I wouldn’t want you putting that apron of yours on, so let’s drop by the diner near Lydia’s and then pick her up from there. We’ll just skip my place,” Scott responded, reaching over to ruffle Stiles’ hair. 

“I know you love that apron,” Stiles cooed, batting away his friend’s hand and turning pointedly to look in the direction where his apron, adorned with a print reading The Grillfather, hung from a command strip.  

Scott pulled the backpack onto his back, his white shirt squeezing him uncomfortably, a size too small and a few years too old. Back in middle school, he’d wanted nothing more than to go to Stanford, and consequently, he now owned more Stanford University shirts than he’d ever need. The stark green tree outlined by the blinding red “S” sat pretty on his right pec, printed over a pocket. Stiles used to say that he was the tree and Scott was the letter, but after Scott had given up on getting into a private university with an acceptance rate of less than four percent, he’d hastily stopped mentioning the school altogether. 

Besides, Scott’s grades were never stellar to begin with, not when compared to Stiles’ (no matter how erratic his were). Still, he knew well enough that he was a smart kid, as capable as any when it came to handling adverse situations. Regardless, he’d grown envious of Stiles throughout middle school, and that envy had come to a head in eighth grade. Stiles could get into any school he wanted, be friends with anybody he pleased, and win over any individual he set his sights on, but he still chose Scott above anyone else. That knowledge began to weigh heavily on thirteen-year-old Scott’s conscience, and he pushed him away in an effort to get him to connect with more like-minded people. It wasn’t until Stiles had made a show of climbing up and into his window at an ungodly hour to slap Scott silly that it clicked in his brain that abandoning his closest confidante was not an option. In whatever way applicable, the two of them were kindred spirits - soulmates even. 

Now, it almost seemed as if Stiles was abandoning him, no matter how selfish and greedy that sounded. “Can I have that apron? I mean– when you shut your dorm room door in my face, am I allowed to come back here and take whatever’s left?”  

Stiles, sensing a shift in the energy of the conversation, turned around to face Scott, the palms of his hands and the curve of his back braced against the counter. “You cannot take anything essential to the survival of my father, but yes, you can take my apron and my collectibles. You can even take my DVD collection, if you’re that desperate. I’m sure there’s still Dorito dust on a few of the older ones.” 

With that, Stiles approached Scott shyly, bracing slightly as he leaned into the younger boy’s personal space, snaking his arms around his middle and letting his chin slide against his shoulder until it rested on his shoulder blade. Having always been slightly taller, Stiles knew better than to let his friend do anything other than give in to his touch in response and wring his arms around his neck, chuckling softly. 

“I want Nanny Mcphee , then.”

The checkbook, unfortunately entirely doused in syrup, sat on Scott’s plate, sad and soggy. Stiles could only stare apologetically at the waiter as he slipped out of the door and into the passenger’s seat of his vehicle, tossing the keys over to Scott. In an effort to maintain his energy levels, he’d (illegally) refilled his cup to the brim with black coffee and had wedged packets of sugar between his teeth on the way out. 

Once the keys were in the ignition and the air conditioning had spluttered to complete performance, Scott buckled his seatbelt and reached behind Stiles’ left shoulder, planting a hand down on the seat and leaning over so that he could reverse out of the parking lot. From where his head bent, eyes focused on the cars bracketing him, he could see Stiles in his peripheral vision, gazing over at him and breathing slowly, in and out and in again. He sat still, observed the line of Scott’s jaw and the crease between his eyebrows. Then, when Scott straightened, he watched as the wheel spun in his grip and his right hand moved to grip the shift stick, pressing into its side and tugging it back to put it in drive. Stiles’ coffee now sat in its cup holder, the packets of sugar tossed haphazardly on its lid. 

Toying with the silver band on the middle finger of his left hand, Stiles eased back into his seat and licked his lips, carefully lapping up any remaining crumbs from them. From here, they’d drive a few blocks down to Lydia’s. They’d have company for the remainder of the day, right up until Lydia hoisted herself into the backseat of Allison’s truck and left them to cruise quietly back to Scott’s for the night. Though it was rare that the two of them spent time apart during the summer anyhow, the knowledge that the Stiles-shaped dent in his bed would soon ease back into a flat, untouched surface made the younger of the two boys all the more clingy. Stiles had long ago dropped any commitments he’d made in Beacon Hills, and was thus always available. Scott, on the other hand, had to sit in Deaton’s office for upwards of an hour until he was granted permission to take a few weeks off to help Stiles drive up and settle into his new life in Maine. 

Stiles waited until his friend had maneuvered out of the parking lot before he spoke. “Thank you for paying, Scott. You know we could’ve split the tab.”

“Enough with the altruism, please. We’ve been friends for a decade,” Scott mumbled, veering slightly to the left and hugging the curb. “I work, you don’t. You’re leaving, I’m not.”

“I’m not leaving so much as going on a vacation,” Stiles offered, looking over at Scott with raised eyebrows, fingers itching up the center console, closer to the white-knuckled grip the other boy had on the shift gear.

Scott side-eyed him, “Yeah, you’re going on an extended vacation to room with another guy who could statistically be my doppelganger and replace me entirely. Or, let’s indulge a little, he could be my doppelganger, except even more good-looking, and by winter break you could wind up going ‘You know, actually? I hate this Scott fella! I prefer this better-looking lad here in Middle-of-Nowhere, Maine!’”

At that, Stiles bit out a laugh, eyebrows crinkling in equal parts confusion and hysteria. “How do you know my roommate is going to be male? And even so, I’m not your friend solely because you woke up one day late last year a couple inches taller and with a singular chest hair. I promise, you could’ve been the most foul-looking individual I’d ever seen and I still would’ve made the choice to be your friend!”

“So, what you’re saying is you noticed that I’m now proudly 5’9” and have a lion’s mane under my shirt,” Scott returned, chuckling now. His hand loosened its grip on the shift and his elbow eased back onto the center compartment.

“I said none of that, only that you’ve grown up a little. Besides, you’re getting distracted. I spent the last half of our trek back to the house–” Stiles paused, pointed an accusing finger at Scott, “which you asked for, mulling over the likelihood that my bunkmate will be a pretentious snob who immediately writes me off as poor scum when he sees the clothes I wear.”

Scott tilted his neck to the left and then to the right, eyes leveled on the road. “What’s wrong with your clothes?”

“Scott.”

With a small jerk of his elbow, Scott reached over, past Stiles’ waiting hand, and grasped his kneecap, fingers digging into the bone. There, he let it sit, with his left hand still trained on the wheel. “I’m sure your roommate will be great, Stiles, just don’t let him get in the way of us.” His gaze traveled from the road to Stiles for a split second, willing his eyes to portray the sincerity he felt.

Stiles let his eyes shift from the other boy’s, down to where his palm spread across the expanse of his pointy, bare knee. Heat from Scott was engulfed by the skin of Stiles’ leg, and soon he felt goosebumps prick up his shin at the sudden, unexpected shift in temperature on his thigh. It wasn’t the first time that Scott had intentionally touched him there, but the context of this gesture stilled Stiles for a moment, and he had to adjust in his seat ever-so-slightly before talking. “He’d have to pry you from my cold, dead hands.”

After that, their conversation dwindled, and was replaced with whatever midwestern emo song that Scott had plucked from his playlist. In plugging his phone into the aux, he removed his hand from Stiles’ knee to toy with the cable. It wasn’t until the second verse started that Scott stopped messing with the volume, and his hand, veins overlapping with shifting tendons, found its place right back on Stiles’ thigh. 

When the pair pulled into the driveway of Lydia’s home and spotted her sitting on the stained wood of her patio with her hair pulled back in a heap behind her head, Scott’s hand eased from where his thumb had been rubbing small circles into the skin of Stiles’ lower inner thigh, fingers tickling slightly as they slipped away. 

Stiles swallowed down at his lap, knowing better than anyone else that he had no right to feel entitled to Scott’s touch at all. He angled his body all the way to the right, his knees now directed towards the passenger door, away from a distracted Scott, who was waving at Lydia impatiently. 

Before long, Lydia had her tote bag in the trunk and, sitting directly behind Scott, was smoothing down her white summer dress, which covered the dark purple two-piece bathing suit that she rambled on about meticulously picking out. 

They’d agreed to meet Isaac, Allison, and Derek, the remaining members of their decided-upon party, at the lake itself. Though not the most private of places, Stiles had made a reservation for a spot at the North Temescal picnic area, where they could nudge their toes into the sand or splash their way into Lake Temescal’s depths. Stiles, celebrating his birthday in April, had begged his father to take him and Scott to the lake for a day of fishing and swimming on his twelfth birthday. Subsequently, when Scott’s twelfth birthday rolled around in September, Melissa dragged them back for an evening spent eating and splashing autumn-chilled water at one another. Stiles figured the nostalgia would serve them well. Derek would travel in his own vehicle, while Isaac and Allison, growing increasingly closer, followed his lead together.

While Lydia and Scott bickered over stopping at a rest-stop so that Lydia could run inside and get herself a bagel (as they’d rudely forgone ordering her a to-go box from their syrupy menu), Stiles sat rigidly in his seat and took sip after sip of his coffee, sugar packets lying ripped open on his shorts. Scott shot him a few questioning glances, but seemed to write off his shifting moods as nothing more than sadness about his imminent departure. 

Stiles wasn’t naive to the fact that he especially valued his alone-time with Scott; he reveled in it. Scott was more expressive, more touchy, and more emotive when it was just the two of them, hidden away from the rest of the world. When their mutual friends were around, Scott remained himself, but muted the qualities that Stiles adored the most in him. That in and of itself was enough to make him crave getting Scott alone, but, as he’d grown older, he’d also grown privy to the fact that the feelings he harnessed for Scott were not explicitly platonic. They were not obscene, by any means, nor were they unfounded by any stretch of the imagination. Spending so much time together had made the two of them blend into one another, growing and changing but only as much as the other did in turn. Stiles knows the intricate, intimate details of Scott and his life. He’s smelled Scott’s morning breath, held him when he cried over his father, and hastily stamped themed band aids onto his cuts and scrapes dozens and dozens of times. He’s seen Scott soft, sat idly on the lid of the toilet seat while he showered, and loved him in his realest, rawest form. None of this swayed Stiles from his undying loyalty and love for his friend. 

Whenever Scott would come to him, rapping on the screen of his bedroom window, Stiles would push the screen out and away from the glass and settle back down onto his bed, making room for Scott and his rambling messiness. He wouldn’t seethe with jealousy when he’d read intimate, sometimes argumentative texts between his best friend and the girls he fancied. He wouldn’t lose his grasp on reality when Scott would tip-tap on his cellphone and present Stiles with any number of half-naked or entirely nude photos, beckoning for him to pick the one he thought looked best. He would answer Scott honestly, give him the best advice he was capable of sputtering out, and bid him goodnight. Once he was gone, Stiles would shove his hand under his pillow and flip the lid of his cigarette box open, fishing a lighter out of his pocket to light it. He’d lean out of the window and stare at the tree that Scott climbed, and he’d yearn. 

Their friendship came before any other relationship in Stiles’ life, including the romantic relationship he envisioned one day nursing with Scott. Every choice made, any plan acted upon, and any word uttered was done so in Scott’s best interest, especially after he was bitten and defending him became a priority. 

In the first few weeks following Scott’s descent into lycanthropy, it was Stiles that watched over him carefully, trying and failing and trying again to help Scott in learning to control himself. He stood, bristled with fear at the amber gleam of his friend’s eyes and the calculated curve of his claws, as Scott willed himself to calm down. He laid, trapped between the floor and Scott’s body, coaxing him off of him in an effort to keep from being mauled (more than once). Stiles prided himself on his continued presence in the werewolf’s life, and was sure that the distance would not change the important role he played in it. In a way, he felt he’d earned his keep, and deserved to be the only person important to Scott outside of his immediate family. That selfish, sinister feeling, however, was buried deep inside of him, packed down alongside those lingering dreams that had him waking up with the front of his boxers tight and damp. 

Clawing his way out of his thoughts, Stiles sheepishly held out the remainder of his lukewarm coffee to Scott, who eyed him appreciatively before taking a hand off the wheel to down the remainder of the caffeine. When the cup was tossed back into the plastic bag Lydia had carried out of the café containing her lox bagel and all was said and done, Stiles shifted until his left leg was against the center console and didn’t miss the way that Scott’s eyes tracked it. Before anything more could happen, Lydia leaned forward until her head was leaning over the center console to ask Stiles about his interest in Dartmouth. 

Arriving at the lake had emotions swirling through Scott, ranging from elated nostalgia to stark, debilitating grief. As the group eased their way through the admissions checkpoint and curled around a sharp curve in the road, Scott’s eyes repeatedly left the road to gaze appreciatively at the passing trees, a haze of forest green and cerulean blue intermixed with a touch of ivory. Music played quietly from the speakers of Stiles’ jeep and the wind whipped through the outgrown crew cut that Stiles had let lengthen throughout the duration of the summer. A citrusy, slightly bitter scent circulated through their open windows, emitted from the black walnut trees that dotted the forest. Stiles briefly mentioned smelling firewood close by, but Scott couldn’t quite pick it out, despite his heightened senses. 

When they finally pulled into the lot they’d reserved after much trial and error (and a heated argument about Scott’s inability to parallel park), the trio burst out of the car in a flurry of excitement, gathered their things from the trunk, and tossed them haphazardly on the wooden picnic table positioned near a withering, drooping tree. As Lydia slid out of her flip flops and the boys skipped around one-legged to tug their tied shoes off, a car pulled into the lot behind Roscoe and, based on the dark gleam of the exterior, enclosed a brooding werewolf.  Pushing the door open, Derek stretched to his full height, pocketing his keys in the front of his dark jeans. He leaned against the side of the hood and fixed his eyes on the winding dirt road, which was soon being packed further into the earth by a truck far too big for such a small girl. 

Soon, the group of six circled the picnic table, some standing, some slumped on the bench. They talked earnestly and positioned the snacks Allison had brought across the wooden surface. Scott remained attached at Stiles’ hip, despite the fact that Stiles was far more involved in the conversation than he was. 

Derek offered to start up the charcoal grill and stalked off towards the site shop to get his hands on a small tank of gasoline. Staring off after him and then whipping around, Lydia clapped her hands together and moved to light a fire in the pleasant hearth, which had a stack of split wood piled beside it. The four remaining members of the group stared at one another, and then hastily removed the remainder of their clothes and moved to wade into the water, giggling.

As Stiles’ tugged down the zipper of his jacket, he stole a glance at Scott, who’d already stripped off his shirt and was digging the soles of his feet into the damp sand. From here, he could make out the light strip of hair that ran down his spine toward his hips. His back, far more toned than it had ever been when the two of them sat around shirtless playing video games and eating Swedish Fish, flexed slightly as he walked. His hair, tousled and flopping over his forehead, blew towards the left in the wind.

Scott’s eyes jumped over to him, and then back to the water. He flinched when his feet brushed the sudsy water and eased up to his ankles. Slowly, he stepped further into the lake, and Stiles hurried after him, squirmed through the discomfort of the cold to reach him. 

As Stiles skipped up beside him, careful not to splash any water at a very tense-looking Scott, he let a crooked grin spread across his face. Scott smiled back, and then his eyes left Stiles’. From where they stood, letting their legs adjust to the water and clutching their crossed arms to their chests, they could see Allison and Isaac dunking their heads beneath the lake water, re-emerging with simultaneous gasps and rubbing the water out of their eyes. Isaac was laughing, his hair pushed back, as Allison squeezed lake water from the ends of her hair. 

Scott watched with a twitch of his jaw as the two of them shoved at one another, the smile on Allison’s face unlike any he’d ever seen her show him. Stiles was able to infer what had distracted Scott, what had caused his face to tighten. With an annoyed huff, Stiles stepped forward and away from the younger boy, squatting until his shoulders were submerged in water and pushing off his feet to swim deeper into the water. When he glanced back from a distance, it didn’t seem like Scott had moved an inch, much less noticed the presence missing from his side.

Lydia, who’d finally slipped her sundress off and was awkwardly avoiding the seaweed littering the sandy beach, seemed to notice the separation between Scott and Stiles, and raised her eyebrows until they arched above her sunglasses. Tiptoeing into the water, she made an effort at conversation.. sort of. With an easy shove of her left hand, Scott tripped over himself and landed less-than-gracefully in the water, arms unwinding at the last second in an effort to catch himself. 

Allison gaped before bursting into a fit of giggles, and Isaac glanced between her and Lydia, dumbfounded. Stiles made no effort to acknowledge the girls or Scott, and instead made his way toward Isaac, who still looked minorly confused. In the time it took Stiles to position himself beside him, Scott had managed not only to burst out of the water, but to shake the water wildly from his hair and whip around to face Lydia. In a tangle of limbs and flashes of strawberry blonde hair, the two began to fight in what could only be described as the gentlest of brawls, Lydia easily untangling herself from him and leaping away, laughing noisily. 

She paddled her away over to Allison and, with a light bulb seemingly switching on in her brain, exclaimed, “We should play chicken!” When the others were quick to agree, Allison nodding vigorously and Isaac shrugging, Scott joined them, the water lapping up to lick at his torso. Stiles smiled when Lydia glanced at him, and then looked towards Scott. 

It was unlike Stiles to be so quiet, and it only took Scott the briefest of moments to piece together that he’d done something to annoy the other boy. What it was that he had done, however, wasn’t something he was able to put his finger on. Instead, he waded over to Stiles and, holding out his hand, asked, “Do you want to pair up with me?”

When Stiles nodded stiffly in agreement and then cracked a smile, Scott knew he’d managed to avert any potential conflict with his best friend. Chuckling, Scott flipped around and eased into a squat, letting his arms swing back. “On three, then. Don’t jump on my head, please.”

They counted together, and then Scott was underwater, waiting for the weight of Stiles to make itself known on his shoulders. He let the air out of his lungs and clenched his eyes shut as bubbles formed around his head. It was then that he felt Stiles’ legs inch over his shoulder, one and then the other. Stiles was far from heavy, but he was decently sized, all long limbs and lean muscles; he had a swimmer’s build. In an instant, there were thighs bracketing his neck, two hands fisting into the hair on his head. His hands wrapped around Stiles’ knees, and he used the strength in his lower body to hoist the two of them back up into the air. 

Once out of the water, Stiles wobbled a bit, gripping tighter to Scott’s hair to support himself. “Sorry,” he whispered, staring down at him. Scott winced slightly and then adjusted the grip that he had on him, blinking the water out of his eyes. Stiles watched as Lydia barked at Isaac, who held her by the knees, trying to remain upright for long enough to see the game through. Never the most coordinated, the pair continued to shift until they were stable. Allison had stepped back far enough to referee the match.

The four of them shifted towards one another until they were parallel. Scott and Stiles weren’t particularly tall, at least for men, but they still had a few inches on Isaac and Lydia, who had about as much synchronization as opposite species of birds trying to woo each other with complicated, unprovoking mating dances. Stiles and Lydia teased one another as Allison counted off on her fingers, rounding down to one and shouting for them to begin.

With a lurch forward, Scott squeezed Stiles’ legs and moved towards Isaac. Stiles’ hands left his hair and folded in a defensive position in front of his body. Lydia’s sunglasses were pushed up into her hair and she had a sinister smile on her face, painted nails curled under her balled fists. They met in the middle, and it was all Stiles could do to lean forward and push at Lydia, who appeared to be using all of her strength to knock Stiles backward. 

“Dude, you suck!” Scott hollered from beneath him, voice vibrating through Stiles’ thighs as they gripped the side of his neck. Stiles laughed and, in the second that his guard was down and his eyes were closed, Lydia managed to throw him back, sending both him and Scott flying backwards into the water. Once submerged, Scott let go of his knees, and Stiles kicked his way towards the surface, trying to keep from choking on water as he cackled. 

All it took was half a minute of victory cheers from Isaac and Lydia, who had eased back onto the sandy ground beneath them, for Allison to reach them from where she stood, begging for a go. Lydia looked between the four of them, flicking her hair back behind her shoulders. 

“I can take you for a spin,” Scott offered, hair a disheveled mess on the top of his head. His shoulders were slightly redder than the rest of his body, showing proof of the weight he’d supported only moments before.  He was breathing heavily, and turned his head to look at Stiles, who was less than pleased at this new development.

Pursing his lips, Stiles moved out of the way, heading in the direction Allison had judged from. It wasn’t the gesture itself that bothered him. It was the principle of the thing. It was how hastily Scott had offered to bear her weight and grip onto her thighs, likely reveling in the look Isaac shot him. All at once, the subtle annoyance that plagued his mind when he thought of Allison and Scott’s less-than-ideal relationship went from an itch in the back of his brain to a rock-solid vibration in the forefront of his mind. He was, in the bluntest of ways, jealous and humiliated. 

Of course Scott would choose Allison over him. Allison was beautiful, with her wet hair tossed over one shoulder and her slim torso dotted with freckles. She was prettier, with her bare, long legs and jutting collarbones. Even with mascara subtly running down her face, she was better-looking than Stiles in every way. Who would Scott prefer to carry around: a thin beauty of a girl or an awkward, solid teenage boy? The answer was clear. 

Stiles stood, water swathing his waist, watching as Lydia and Isaac leaned into one another, strategizing quietly while Allison nodded in understanding at Scott’s instructions. Scott leaned down again, waves covering half of his face, and gently took hold of her when she gripped onto the top of his head and slotted her legs beside it. With much more grace than he’d ever shown Stiles, he steadied himself, and glanced up at her to check that she was comfortable. Her fingers pulled at his hair as she held onto him, and his eyes glimmered.

The respect that Allison was regarded with was something that Stiles could never dream of having. His relationship with Scott was too rough, too sharp around the edges, and too messy to be blissful. He could never be the skinny girl around Scott’s shoulders, painted toes gleaming in the sun and harmony sounding between them. He readied himself and counted downward, but he couldn’t have cared less who won. 

In the time it took Stiles to wade out of the water, Derek finished grilling, and was less than enthusiastic to feed the teenagers under his care. He set out paper plates along the picnic table and then dropped empty buns on them, snatching up his own plate to serve himself before anyone else could. A variety of chips ranging from salt and vinegar to ghost pepper sat in the center of it all. Stiles silently sauntered over, served himself, and sat down alone. Derek waved over everyone else and positioned himself against the weeping tree, his burger already halfway eaten. 

When Scott became visible in Stiles’ peripheral vision, he tracked his movements, watching as he grabbed hold of a towel, wiped his chest and arms down, and then slung it over his shoulder. He grabbed a plate with an obvious glare in his direction, and then prepared his burger and dumped a load of salt and vinegar chips on his plate. Lydia, Isaac, and Allison had settled in across from Stiles, which left Scott no choice but to slide his plate beside him and ease onto the bench. Isaac was talking about lacrosse and who he felt was qualified to be team captain, but neither of them were listening.

Scott’s arm brushed the older boy’s as he leaned his elbows onto the table and gripped his burger, all the while gazing at Stiles with a look that asked ‘Why’d you storm off?’. Stiles gave no verbal response, only pushed around the chips on his plate and hugged the towel he had draped over his shoulders closer to himself. His eyes moved from Scott, back to his plate, and to Scott again. They got lost in this awkward cat-and-mouse chase for well over a minute before he steadied his gaze on his plate and didn’t look back up. 

Stiles made an effort to contribute to the conversation around him and continued to shun his closest friend, both physically and generally. He knew, in his heart, that he was being irrational. He also knew that he couldn’t blame Scott for any attraction he might feel towards Allison. The two of them had talked about it before, late one night in the kitchen, but from what Stiles had gathered, he wasn’t interested. Alas, Scott was straight, and there were many girls that he’d been entangled with, but she wasn’t one of them. This development, above all, was confusing more than it was agitating, and for once he allowed himself to revel in that confusion instead of stamping it down within him in the name of pretending to be excited for Scott.

Pulling the towel off of his shoulders and crumpling it to rest beside him, Stiles ate the remainder of his dinner, aiming a lopsided thumbs-up at Derek from where he stood, half-hidden by shadows cast from the sun that was making its way toward the horizon. As he was chewing his last bite, however, he felt a hand ghosting over his leg. Scott was trying to reassure him from under the table. Just as his hand made contact with the damp skin of Stiles’ thigh, however, he shot up, mumbled an apology at the minor rustle it’d created, and dumped his trash into a community trash bin connected to their’s and another person’s site.

Dusting himself off, he slipped his carton of cigarettes from his backpack and took a seat next to Derek, back resting against the trunk of the tree and legs spread out before him. It was there that he sat in silence as Derek shuffled away from him and back to the table. It was there that he smoked and watched Lydia and Isaac stumble back into the water, the pink sky casting them with an ethereal glow. It was there that he saw Scott and Allison sitting down a little ways away, staring out at the same view that Stiles had, only moments ago, found to be beautiful. A bitter taste that had nothing to do with the food that he’d eaten or his cigarette consumed his mouth, and he shut his eyes.

When they next opened, it’d been anywhere between fifteen and thirty minutes, and Allison and Scott were still perched beside each other, pointing up at the sky as stars revealed themselves to them. Allison, for all her general ignorance regarding the more fantastic elements of their world, was immensely skilled at identifying the stars, and her voice traveled over Scott’s head and into his ears. Lydia was slipping her sundress back on, and Isaac had taken Derek’s place beside the tree, likely feeling equally as agitated as Stiles did. Derek was already fisting his hand into his front pocket and tugging out his keys, clearly ready to get going.

“It’s getting late, and you lot have work tomorrow,” Derek said, encouraging the pack to stand up and prepare to leave. Their reservation was reserved until the following morning, but nobody wished to stay the night surrounded by horrendously large insects that chirped as hoots of laughter rang through the air from across the water. 

“Let’s get out of here,” Isaac agreed, pushing himself off of the trunk and heading over to where he’d left his things, glancing over at Allison and jerking his head to the right to let her know that it was time she separated from Scott.

Allison stood up and Scott popped up beside her as Lydia and Stiles picked their way around their grounds, picking up any loose wrappers or cups from their evening. Lydia had her flip-flops on, and for a moment the sound of them hitting her heels as she creeped around was the only sound Stiles could hear.

After a small gathering complete with goodbye hugs, Derek set off, quickly followed by Allison, Lydia, and a displeased-looking Isaac. Stiles promised to see them tomorrow, after they all got back to Beacon Hills and rested up. In the morning, they agreed to meet up at a coffee shop in the center of the town and then go to a museum from there. While Scott walked with them to their cars, Stiles yanked his shirt from the ground and shoved it inside his bag.

Still brimming with agitation, he stuffed the remainder of the treats Allison had brought along with her into the blue backpack, ignoring Scott as he stalked back to the table and crossed his arms, eyebrows drawn together at his blatant display of anger. The fire that once raged out from within the pleasant hearth now spluttered cowardly, the remaining flames licking themselves dry and sending ashy sparks into the air. The sun had just fallen beneath the trees surrounding the lake, and the remaining daylight peered at them cautiously from the protection of the forest. 

With a grimace and an all-to aggressive smack of his hand against the metal of the glowing hurricane lantern, Stiles gripped it, turned down the wick and blew into it, extinguishing the light illuminating them and hoisting the bag over his shoulder. He crossed over to where Scott stood, shoulder-checked him, and moved towards Roscoe to toss the items into the backseat.

Staggering back slightly in response, Scott turned towards Stiles’ retreating frame, arms flying up and extending helplessly. With an exasperated sigh, he yelled, “Stiles!”

Stiles didn’t look back, only dragged his car keys from an open side pocket of the bag and unlocked the car, lazily slamming everything down and kicking the door closed behind him. He ran a hand through his salt-licked hair and gazed past Scott in furious silence.

“Stiles,” Scott tried again, more helplessly this time, dropping his hands to his sides and easing towards him. He walked until he loomed a few feet away from the older boy, stuffing his hands into his pockets and gazing through his frumpled hair at him. “What’s your deal?”

Stiles knew Scott knew the answer to that question before it had even come out of his mouth, so he pinned him with the sharpest gaze he could muster and said, “Why the sudden interest? You didn’t seem to care much when she was still here.”

Laughing bitterly, Scott replied, “Is that what this is? You’re jealous because I didn’t ignore my friends in order to tether myself to you?” 

“You disregarded me !” Stiles seethed, eyes rolling. “This gathering, this event, was for me. The least you could have done was pretend you wouldn’t drive back into Beacon Hills after dropping me off with the intention to fill the void I leave with frilly shirts and bouncy curls.”

Scott let his head hang and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I won’t need to ‘fill the void’!” His head snapped back up, face pulled back in a snarl. “Not everything is about you, dude! Why are you being so selfish?”

“Me? Yeah , I’m being selfish. It’s my fault that you’re so absorbed with whatever will bring you short-term pleasure that you forget that everyone else around you has needs,” Stiles retorted, backing away from Scott and his car towards a wall of rock.

Scott scoffed, “And what is it that you need, Stiles?” 

Stiles, still backing away from the werewolf, stated, “A decent friend.” 

“Oh, really?” Scott spit, striding over, face hardening to match his dilated eyes. He splayed his left hand over Stiles’ stomach and gripped his shoulder with the other, shoving him backward until his shoulder blades collided with the tawny-colored rock. “You mean that?”

 The exterior of the rock was rough, and scraped against the bare skin of Stiles’ back, already flushed from the red-hot anger that had formed in his face and spread down the rest of his body. The sky blue towel that had been thrown over his shoulder slipped with the struggle and ended up tangled beneath their sneakers as Scott further invaded his space. His muscles were rigid with frustration, but he remained focused enough to track the movement of the other boy’s hand from his sternum to his hip. His breath stilled when Scott pressed into the bone visible there, eyes unflinching as they gazed into his. 

“Answer me.”

Stiles broke his gaze, tilting his head to the side and feeling Scott’s warm, heaving breaths against his cheekbone. “I mean it.” 

Scott chuckled, letting his neck dip to press into the space directly beside Stiles’ neck, ears twitching in response to the growing pace of his heart. “Begging for time off to drive fifty hours with you clear across the country is me ignoring you? Letting you spend night after night in my bed is me neglecting your fucking needs and being a bad friend?”

Stiles swallowed, hands balled into fists at his sides. “You made me look like an idiot, standing chest-high in water while you hoisted her onto your shoulders.” 

“Are you incapable of sharing?” Scott pressed, feeling Stiles slump further into him, pressing their chests together. “Do you feel entitled to all of me?”

“I had you before she did,” Stiles mumbled, the fight draining out of him. Resentment coursed through his body and he willed himself to focus, to stand his ground. Instead, he felt arousal pooling low in his gut, leaned into the fingers tracing down his bicep. 

Scott let his hand slip from Stiles’ wrist to his waist, hand sliding back behind him to rest on the small of his back. Using the strength he knew Stiles didn’t have, he pressed the two of them closer together, reveling in the way their hips slotted together.

Stiles’ heartbeat thrummed in his fingertips and, in as bold of a move as he was able to muster, let his hands unclench and make their way up Scott’s back, settling on his trapezius. “You were mine first.”

Amber irises brightening considerably, Scott’s eyes flicked down to Stiles’ lips, light pink and obstructed by a bit of mustard in the corner. Hand lifting and fingers finding refuge on Stiles’ jaw, Scott let his thumb reach up and brush against the smooth substance, swiping it off. Returning his eyes to the older boy’s, he slipped his thumb into his own mouth, taking with it the bit of mustard. 

Stiles’ eyes were hooded, and when Scott removed his thumb from his mouth, Stiles leaned in and, after bumping noses once or twice, captured his lips with his own. He felt light-headed as Scott enveloped him entirely, kissing him feverishly and letting his hand run along the skin of his chest. The kiss was sloppy, wet and hot and rushed, and he huffed into it.

Scott took Stiles’ bottom lip into his mouth and sucked on it, earning a groan and a tug of the hair on his nape. When he separated from the other boy and breathed harshly against him, it was only a few seconds before they were together again, Stiles’ tongue brushing shyly against Scott’s as they explored one another.

He let his hands wander, shifting along the naked expanse of Stiles’ chest and down his stomach, fingers catching in his happy trail before shifting back up again. He could feel the effect that he had on Stiles, from his increased heart-rate to his pheromones to the hardening he felt along his thigh. Never having done such a thing before, he was wary of overwhelming him.

He pulled back enough to open his eyes, glancing down between them and then hurriedly back up again, taking in the blush of Stiles’ cheeks, the glossiness of his lips, and the glaze in his stare. With a steadying hand on his waist, Scott asked, “Is this okay?”

Stiles nodded quickly, present just enough to answer his friend’s questions coherently.

“I don’t want to scare you, Stiles,” Scott whispered, staring with such intensity that Stiles’ knees buckled at the implications of those words.

“It’s okay. I trust you,” Stiles promised, pushing the tousled mess of Scott’s hair up off his forehead. For good measure, he added, “Asshole.” 

Scott laughed and then leaned back into Stiles, pecking the corner of his mouth and the knob of his chin before trailing down the underside of his jaw, relishing in the prick of his five o’clock shadow and drinking in the quietly muttered ‘ Scott ’ that sounded from the other boy. 

“You were nicer to her,” Stiles bit out, hands separating from his neck and scratching down his back. Scott growled softly into his ear, taking advantage of their position to press his nose against one of Stiles’ scent glands, breathing in deeply and letting his tongue peek out of his mouth to press against it. The older boy’s breath hitched and he pressed further into Scott, eyes squeezed shut. 

“Is that what you want?” Scott questioned, voice strained, “To be treated like a princess?” He ran his nose over his Adam's apple and, using the hand splayed across his back, eased down until he cupped one of Stiles’ clothed cheeks, squeezing. Stiles audibly groaned at that, hips bucking in stutters against Scott’s thigh.

With a hiccup, Stiles said, “ Oh, I’m so sorry.” He nudged Scott’s head with his own until his face came up from where it had settled in his neck. Scott’s eyes were wild and his eyebrows were drawn together. He stared at Stiles with familiarity, with understanding and with something darker, something that only worsened the pool winding low in his gut.  

“It’s okay,” Scott reassured, continuing to fondle Stiles as they stood. He felt himself hardening as well, the pressure of Stiles’ stomach against his dick overwhelming him. With a peck and a somewhat reckless gasp, he stated, “Car. We should get into your car.” 

He felt the other boy nod against him, and with a somewhat embarrassing separation, followed by an awkward tug of Stiles’ beach towel from the dirt, the pair scurried over to Roscoe. Stiles had the keys, and he hastily stuck the length of the key into the lock and twisted it to his left, scrambling in. 

The car doors locked and Stiles was no longer in the driver’s seat. Instead, he was climbing over the console and into Scott’s lap, palms pressed firmly against his chest. He settled himself down, and, with a soft smile, grabbed hold of his friend’s idle hands and maneuvered them so that they rested atop his own thighs. 

Scott’s cheeks were a gentle scarlet, and he looked up at Stiles through his lashes. Despite his plethora of intimate experiences, he was nervous, heart racing rapidly and hands shaking slightly. No, he had never thought of Stiles this way, but he was enthralled with what he saw above him nonetheless. Maintaining eye contact with his friend, he let his hands creep up past his waist to rest on his ass, pulling him closer.

Stiles grabbed hold of the dog-tags around Scott’s neck and tugged on them until their lips met again, breathing in the exclamation of surprise from the other boy. Their tongues met in a shy dance, and Stiles was buzzing with excitement. He kissed further into Scott’s mouth, letting his tongue run along the back of his teeth. He was desperate to memorize this part of him, a part that he’d never seen before. 

With a sharp exhalation of breath, Scott grinded up against Stiles, fingers digging into the flesh of his ass. He kissed the corner of his mouth with a sigh, eyes trailing around the constellation of freckles that Stiles had on his neck. “You taste like cigarettes.”

Stiles hummed. “I wanted our first time to be more romantic, but I can’t wait to get you home,” he mumbled, right hand trailing down from Scott’s chest to the tent in his shorts. It was there that he let it rest, applying pressure to the bulge there and feeling the very thing that he had seen so many times but had never been able to take advantage of. 

“You’ve thought about us like this?” Scott asked through gritted teeth, stomach tensed and eyes shut. He pushed up against Stiles’ hand slightly, trying to stimulate what had gone ignored for so long.

With a push of the heel of his hand against Scott’s cock, Stiles says, “More times than you can fathom.”

Scott let one of his hands leave Stiles’ ass to rest against his lower stomach instead. Asking for consent with his eyes, the other boy nodded earnestly and, in a moment, Scott’s hand was around Stiles’ dick, squeezing just enough to make him slump against his frame. “Tell me about them.” 

With a shaky exhalation, Stiles whispered, “I’ve imagined us just like this before, except I had you above me and you were jerking us off.” Sweat had his hair sticking to his temples and he latched onto Scott’s neck, worrying the skin beneath his jaw with his teeth. 

Scott purred, thumb gathering the pre-cum oozing from Stiles’ head and using it as lube, hand leisurely stroking him as he toyed with his ass. The car reeked of sex, of Stiles and of sweat. The pheromones wafting off of him made Scott’s head dizzy. “That’s.. I’ve never been with a boy before.”

“Neither have I,” Stiles replied, tongue working to soothe the bruised skin of his neck. 

“You haven’t been with anyone.”

Stiles hiccuped a moan into Scott’s ear, cursing. “I want- I want to feel you,” he said, swatting half-heartedly at Scott’s hand and snaking his right hand into his trunks, shoving the band of them down with his other hand, giving a pleased whimper when Scott steadied his grip on him and allowed him slide his pants down so that they were halfway down his thighs. 

Stiles eyed Scott’s cock, breathing in short bursts. Scott was thicker than him, but no longer. He had a patch of hair at the base of his dick, a landing pad that Stiles wanted nothing more than to dig his nose into. “Good,” was all that Stiles said about it, however. 

Scott was quiet, staring darkly at his lips. With his left hand, he reached behind Stiles and shoved him until his chest was level with his face. He eyed the underside of Stiles’ face as he took his left nipple into his mouth, lapping at it before biting gently down on the bud and teasing it. Stiles was quivering, heart racing from what Scott assumed was both nerves and pleasure. Scott reached between them again, letting his pointer finger trace a vein on Stiles’ cock before he closed his hand around the base, basking in the groans he was coaxing out of him. “I’m happy I’m your first.”

“Shut up,” Stiles responded. “I wanna try something.” 

Scott watched as Stiles rested his hand atop his own and guided himself closer until their dicks were close to touching, heat radiating from him. Scott rested his head on Stiles’ sternum, getting the idea. He let the older boy connect them, and soon, Scott’s hand was wrapped around the both of them with Stiles as a guide. 

Quickly, impatiently, Stiles forced Scott’s hand to move, his other hand braced against the headrest of the passenger seat. He was grunting between every breath, eyes open and rolled towards the roof of the car. 

“I think - fuck - I think this is romantic,” Scott heaved out, speeding up the pace of his hand and sighing at the pressure he felt. Stiles was right up against him, rubbing and leaking and slipping. He was hot to his very core, thighs shaking. Scott kept his eyes open, orgasm approaching faster than he’d like to admit at the sight of them together like this. 

“Tell me I’m better than her,” Stiles whined. “Scott, please. Tell me she won’t get you like this.” 

Scott growled softly, holding on to the final thread of his sanity like a lifeline. “Nobody’s ever gotten me quite like this so quickly,” he responded. “This is it, I’m yours.”

Sobbing at his words, Stiles gave a brief warning before his orgasm hit, cum erupting from his dick and painting the both of them. Scott followed close by, spewing a string of curse words and Stiles’ name. He continued to work them together, hand slicker than ever with cum and spit and sweat, until Stiles was grabbing hold of his wrist, crying out at the overstimulation.

Before Scott knew it, he was laughing, a stark and out-of-place sound amidst their recent activities. The light in the car was still on, and he was more than aware suddenly that anyone could have seen them. Anyone could’ve seen them against the rock, someone could be watching them as he gasped for breath. Soon, Stiles was laughing too, and between kisses and choked sniggering, Scott reached back into the backseat and wiped them both off the best he could. 

Suddenly, he was tired. Despite it, he calmed himself down and looked at Stiles to say, “We need to get back, but we should probably stop at a gas station so that I can get an energy drink.”

Within twenty minutes, Stiles was asleep in the passenger’s seat in his exercise jacket from that morning. He’d left the car running while he ran into the shop, shoving Stiles’ shoulders just enough to stir him awake until he got back. While inside, he bought an energy drink and a cup of fruit for his boy. Hoisting himself back into the driver’s seat, he offered the cup over with a smile and then they were back on the road. 

Richard & Linda Thompson played quietly from the radio system in Roscoe, and Scott hummed along, driving along empty backroads with his high beams on. He’d seen a few signs regarding deer potentially running out into the street, so he drove fairly slowly.

Soon, the boys would have to talk about this, whatever this was. For now, however,  Scott glanced between the road and his friend, smiling gently and continuing towards his house.