Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Life is a wave, which in no two consecutive moments of its existence is composed of the same particles.  

-John Tyndall

Now

"Make a wish," Lydia says as people laugh softly in the background. The emptiness in Stiles’ stomach grows, even though he’s eaten his share of barbecue and beer.

It's better than the ache in his heart. A simmering hurt that’s close to boiling over. A constriction so tight sometimes that he forgets how to breathe.

"Hope we don’t set off any smoke alarms," Stiles jokes. He sits, watching thirty flames dance like fireflies under the pull of the waxing gibbous moon. It’s possible he watches too long, however, because the laughter soon fades into an uncomfortable thrum, the hushed murmurs around him turning awkward and confused. 

"Avoidance won’t make you any younger there, buddy," Scott calls out and Stiles huffs out a laugh.

He closes his eyes. Makes a wish, and blows—

Then

Fifth Grade

It was pretty much a given that birthdays were awesome. And birthdays with Derek were the absolute best.

Stiles stared at the night sky. "If you had to choose, would you live on a planet or a moon?"

Derek turned. "On a planet, duh. We’re kind of living on one now?"

"You know what I mean, doofus. If you had to live anywhere but Earth." Stiles pulled out his notebook, opened it up, and rolled onto his belly. "Most people say Mars," he said, blowing out a breath as he started to scribble. "But I read about this moon called Enceladus. It sprays ice geysers into space. It's got like a hundred of them."

Derek sat up and peered over Stiles’ shoulder. "Ice geysers? Sounds cold."

"Of course it's cold; the entire thing is covered in ice. Like Hoth in The Empire Strikes Back. But ice means there's water." When Derek didn't say anything in return, Stiles barreled on. "Anyway, that’s why I think it’d be a cool place for the rebels to go on their next mission." The tip of his tongue darted out between his teeth as he wrote 'Enceladus', then highlighted the letters in a chunky blue marker to give it some extra pop. "Heh. A cool place. Get it?" he asked, sticking the pencil back in the notebook’s binding before passing it to Derek.

"Uh huh." Derek stared at Stiles' notes, at the names of the different places Stiles had suggested for their story. "Why don't you put the base somewhere less crazy? Like Endor. Which is also a moon, by the way."

Stiles wriggled next to Derek. He watched as Derek took the pencil and started to sketch some ideas for the battle station. Soon, a group of small, one-storied buildings filled the page. They looked a lot like those research stations in Antarctica that Stiles saw in the ratty copy of National Geographic at the dentist's office twice a year. Or the huge tent Mr. Winchester had in his backyard. 

"A forest moon that's basically Earth's twin is totally unrealistic," Stiles said, because duh. "Which is yet another reason why Episode VI will never be the best of the original trilogy."

Derek's eyebrows drew down and the space above his nose scrunched up like they always did when he was thinking hard. "I don’t get why you don’t like Return of the Jedi."

"I don’t not like it. It’s just not as good as Empire. We don’t need to have this argument again, dude."

"But the relationships!" Derek's whole face softened. "Han and Leia fall in love. And everything works out for the good guys in the end."

"Yeah, but the Ewoks," Stiles said, pulling a face. "That kind of negates everything you said. Plus, everyone knows Anakin and Luke are the real relationship of the trilogy."

"You’re such a snob," Derek managed to say with a snort, even though he was grinning. He finished his drawing and turned it around to show Stiles. "What do you think?"

"Woah." Stiles brought it up to his face and squinted as he took in Derek's creation. It was better than anything Stiles could have imagined. Derek was the best artist; it was like he totally could see what was in Stiles' mind, but even better. The whole base camp was like a real-life village, with headquarters, a research and medic station, and bunks. Derek had even drawn several transport vehicles and placed a squadron of rebels in front of one of the buildings. "This is awesome, dude," Stiles said, running his fingers reverently over the sketch. Unfortunately, it caused some of the pencil lines to smudge, and he closed the notebook and placed it inside his sleeping bag, hoping Derek hadn't noticed. "I’ll work more on my part tomorrow."

They both rolled over onto their backs, their bodies moving in sync. Stiles put his arms behind his head at the same time as Derek, their elbows brushing up against one another as they looked up at the April sky. The blades of grass prickled against Stiles’ clothes like a scrub brush, their breaths formed little cloudy puffs in front of their face, the crickets whirred, and it seemed like every star in the heavens was out tonight.

"I had another one of those crazy dreams," Stiles said suddenly.

"Yeah?"

Stiles swallowed. Derek never made fun of him, but even at ten—almost eleven—years old, Stiles knew his dreams were weird. "This time, I dreamt I was one of those things that float in the water."

"You mean like driftwood?"

"No, not driftwood. You know—those things that float in the ocean and have bright colors and a bell so you can see where you’re going?"

"Oh, yeah. A buoy."

"Yeah, that’s it. A buoy. Only I wasn’t the whole buoy. I was just the red light that sits on top."

Derek hummed. "That’s cool. So, you help people find their way home."

"Maybe. But it's also… I don't know, kind of sad? To be stuck in the same place all the time." Suddenly, Stiles felt cold. He reached down and pulled on the top of his blanket until the edge hit his chin. "Everything looks so much bigger out by you," he said with a sigh.

"Because there’s no one else around."

When Stiles looked out his own bedroom window, he could see Mr. Lloyd watching TV in his living room next door and Shana Goldfarb FaceTiming her boyfriend from her bedroom across the street. He couldn’t imagine living in a place like Derek's family did, surrounded by nothing but trees. 

"Don’t you find it lonely, though? Living all the way in the boonies, right next to the Preserve?"

Derek shrugged. "I like it out here."

Stiles sat up halfway and propped himself on his elbow. Derek was still watching the sky; the angle made it hard for Stiles to make out anything except for the thick shock of his hair, even in the light of the full moon. "Yeah, but it’s not doing any favors for your social life." He tugged on a tuft of grass with his fingers, felt the catch of the blades as they protested the movement before surrendering. "Do you think… Maybe this is the year we'll get popular?"

"I don't want to be popular if it means being like Jackson Whittemore," Derek said, and even though Stiles couldn't see it, he could hear Derek's scowl.

A warmth spread through Stiles’ chest at Derek’s loyalty. Most people who weren’t in Jackson’s friend group (that is, people like Stiles) would agree that Jackson Whittemore was a total douche. Come to think of it, there were probably some people in Jackson's friend group who thought so, too. Derek might not be super popular, but his parents were pretty rich. Like, rich enough that Derek had an original Star Wars: A New Hope movie poster signed by Mark Hamill, Carrie Fisher, Harrison Ford, and George Lucas framed in his bedroom. Which was, apparently, good enough to be considered 'cool' in Jackson’s eyes. 

Stiles had ten-dollar posters from GameStop Scotch-taped to his walls. He didn’t play Little League or go to sports camps, and his dad didn't make tons of money as a deputy. But when Derek had caught Jackson stealing Stiles’ notebook early last year, he had not only threatened to tell their teacher—which would have been total social suicide—but he’d also ended up talking to Stiles about Star Wars and Batman for what seemed like hours.

Being bullied by Jackson and getting Derek as a best friend in return had totally been worth it.

"Well, maybe we can start our own group. Who do you think we should—"

Derek jerked up suddenly, causing the bags of chips and their phones to slide off their laps. "Hurry up! Make a wish!" he said, grabbing Stiles' hand.

Stiles gaped. "My birthday’s not ‘til tomorrow." He picked up his phone and turned it on. "Which is technically, twenty-four minutes from now. I can wait until then."

"No! There's a shooting star!" Derek pointed frantically to the bright dot of light that was streaking through the sky, trailed by a tail of white and blue. "Make a wish," he urged as he squeezed his eyes tight and his lips silently moved.

Stiles made a wish. When he opened his eyes, the star was gone, and Derek was watching him expectantly, their fingers still intertwined and palms clammy.

"Well? What did you wish for?" Derek asked.

Stiles hesitated. He wasn’t sure if telling someone your wish made it not come true, but at the same time, he kind of wanted to know Derek’s, too. 

"I wished that someone would discover our story one day and that it would become super popular, and they’ll make a movie about it. Oh, and that we'll become famous." Stiles knew he was bending the rules by throwing so many things into his wish, but if it was all about their story, he figured it was okay. "What about you?"

"I wished we could be friends forever. Like, for another twenty years," Derek whispered. He said it so seriously, like they were in church or a museum or in front of the principal or something.

A warm, tingly feeling settled in Stiles’ chest. "That’s a good one, dude." His mouth dropped open soon after, however, when he did the math. "Oh my god, we’ll be like thirty. That’s so old," he complained and Derek laughed.

Eighth Grade

"Dude, are you sure she’s still sleeping?"

Derek gave Stiles a flat look. "It’s nine-thirty on a Saturday morning. She won’t be up for a couple of hours. Besides, since when do you care about getting into trouble?"

Derek had a point. Stiles knew it was usually the other way around; that it was his plans that led to Mr. and Mrs. Hales’ raised brows or his own dad’s long-suffering sighs as Derek tagged along. "I know, but it’s Laura. She will eviscerate us if she catches us."

"If we do it within the next fifteen minutes, we should have a seventy-five percent chance of—"

"Dude, no. You're making it worse. Remember what Han says when they're escaping Hoth? Never tell me the odds!"

"Fine, be a baby. You stay here, then, while I check out the goods," Derek said, swinging the keyring to Laura’s brand new Camaro from his index finger.

"The goods. You make it sound like some B-rated mafia movie." Stiles paled. "On second thought, your sister isn’t above murder, so maybe it’s not that far off."

Derek rolled his eyes. "The longer we stay here, the greater the chance we’re going to get caught. Besides, we have a getaway plan. Are you coming or not?"

Stiles wanted to tell him that it would be physically impossible to pull off a getaway on their bicycles from a muscle car, but he never got the chance as Derek stalked off ahead of him. Which… When did Derek Hale develop so much sass? 

All of Stiles' trepidation disappeared, however, when Derek hit the key fob, unlocking the doors to the Camaro with its pleasant, robotic chirp.

"Holy fuck," Stiles said as they slipped inside. He inhaled deeply, taking in the smell of the rich leather and the new car scent. "This is fucking dope."

Derek ran his hand along the dashboard. "Laura’s talking about going to college in New York or Boston. If she goes, maybe I’ll get the car when I get my license."

"Damn, man. Can you imagine if that actually happens? I mean, I know you’ll miss her, but this car is a total chick magnet." Stiles barked out a laugh as Derek’s hand dropped down to the center console to caress the gear shift. "Maybe a dude magnet, too. Seriously, though. We could double date."

Derek looked at the back seat. "There's not a lot of room for four people."

It was pretty small. The back of the front seat nearly hit the rear seat cushion. "Lydia’s petite. I bet she’d fit. And it’s not like I’m that tall, either."

"We’re thirteen, Stiles. We won’t be five feet tall forever."

"Five-foot-two, excuse you. Besides, I’m hitting my stride. Puberty and I are going to be best friends."

"I can tell. The crack in your voice is doing wonders for you. So is that pimple," Derek said, flicking Stiles’ forehead.

"What?" Stiles rocketed forward in his seat and examined himself in the rearview mirror. "Oh, my god. That wasn’t there yesterday," he wailed, turning his face from side to side. "It’s like a fucking beacon. How am I going to hide this thing from Lydia?"

Derek let out an exasperated huff. "Stiles, you could walk through school bare naked with a bullhorn on top of your head and Lydia Martin still wouldn’t notice."

Stiles’ hand fell from where it was prodding at the zit. "That’s mean, dude. Also, so not true. She waved to me yesterday at lunch."

Derek stared at Stiles like he was operating under Bizarro logic or something. "She was motioning to Jackson! She was telling him she wanted a side of tater tots! And I’m not saying this to be mean, but you deserve to have someone who likes you for who you are, even… even if you have a stupid pimple!"

"But Lydia's not only gorgeous, she’s super smart! She’s the only one who got Mr. Capasco’s question about algebraic representations of transformations right—besides us, of course. She’s literally the strawberry-blonde goddess of my dreams!" Stiles fiddled around with the lever on the side of the passenger’s seat. "I don’t get it. Middle school was supposed to be our time, dude. But now I’ve got pimples, and you’ve got braces, and we’re still outsiders while Jackson’s still popular and Lydia’s boyfriend and a douche. Life’s totally unfair."

"Well, you shouldn’t care what people like Jackson and Lydia think. When we grow up and go to college and get out of here, all this will seem like a joke."

Stiles narrowed his eyes and stared at Derek. "Sometimes I think you’re like an eighty-year-old guy trapped in an eighth-grader’s body." He let out a yelp as he jerked the handle up and the seat fell back, taking him along with it, his head hitting the back of the headrest. "Ow."

Derek was on top of him in a second. "Holy shit. Are you all right?" His lips were twitching, like he was trying to hold back a laugh, although his eyes were filled with concern.

"Great. Now I’ll have a bump on both the back and the front of my head," Stiles muttered. He looked up; Derek’s face was so close, their noses were practically touching. "Dude," he said, waggling his brows. "You could totally make out with another girl in here with the seats down like this. There’s plenty of room."

The tips of Derek’s ears grew pink as he scrambled to climb back into the driver’s seat. "Well, it’s not like we can do anything until we’re sixteen, anyway."

"It’s fun to pretend, though." Stiles pulled on the lever and brought his seat up so it stayed upright. "Who would you want to take on a first date? To test this baby out?"

"Dunno." Derek shrugged and grew quiet. "Maybe Paige?"

"The cello girl?" Stiles pictured the brunette in their English class. Paige wasn’t beautiful—at least, not in the unattainable, unapproachable way Lydia was—but she had a cute nose with these pretty brown eyes, and she didn’t seem to give a shit what people like Jackson or Theo Raeken thought of her. "I guess I can see it." He frowned. "You never said you liked her."

"You’re kind of putting me on the spot! Besides, it’s not like it’s happening now, anyway."

"I don’t think this thing with Lydia is going away. Nope, I’m in it for the long haul, baby. You’ll just have to be my best man when—" The rest of the words died in Stiles’ throat, his eyes widening as he saw Laura stalking out of the house, her nostrils flaring. "Abort, abort! We’ve been compromised!"

"What—Oh, fuck," Derek hissed, hustling out the door.

They both ran toward their bikes. Stiles nearly tripped over his feet as a stray pebble rolled under his shoe, throwing his body off kilter. He kicked up the kickstand and hopped on while Derek pedaled like a madman, already five steps ahead of him.

"You assholes!" Laura screamed. She ran forward, still dressed in pajama pants decorated with the Powerpuff girls and a tiny, cropped tee, with her hair a wild, untangled mess all over her face. She seemed torn between checking out her precious car to see what damage Stiles and Derek could have wreaked and wringing their necks. "I’m telling mom!"

And Derek apparently had no sense of self-preservation, because he was bicycling back toward Laura as Stiles waited for him at the bottom of the driveway. Stiles watched as Derek tossed Laura the keys from over twenty feet away in a perfectly executed arc, then pedaled past Stiles at full speed. 

"What are you waiting for?" Derek yelled. "Go, go, go!"

Stiles rode as fast as he could, even when he couldn’t hear Laura cursing their pitiful lives anymore. When he got to the trail that led to their favorite hiding spot, he hopped off his bike and walked it the rest of the way. Derek was already there, his bike propped up against a tree and his body on the large, flat rock that hung over the large creek below.

Stiles let his bike fall to the ground as he collapsed next to Derek. His legs were on fire; his breath was lodged in his chest. "How did you get here so fast?" he wheezed.

"Laura was going to rip me a new one. I had no choice," Derek said. Stiles would have laughed, but that would've required too much air.

"I can’t believe you’re not even winded." He poked Derek in the chest. When Derek didn’t even flinch, Stiles splayed out like a starfish on top of the rock and rested his head on Derek’s lap. "You may have to carry me back home. Seriously. It’s either that or I stay here overnight. My parents will be devastated because all that will be left are my remains, because I’ll be eaten by wolves or something. All that’ll be left of me will be my shoes." He waved his arms dramatically. "Here lies Stiles. May he forever rest in peace."

"You’re ridiculous." Derek snorted. He patted Stiles’ shoulder. "Besides, there aren’t any wolves in California."

"Are too; they found a pack of them a couple years ago up north. But fine. Mountain lions, if that makes you feel any better."

Derek snorted again, although it was softer this time. His fingers ticked an unsteady rhythm against Stiles’ arm, and Stiles found himself closing his eyes. 

"Do you want to head back?" Derek asked softly as the breeze rustled the leaves overhead. "Although I think we’d have to go to your place; not sure it’s safe at mine, at least for another couple of hours."

It was too early to do anything else, but Stiles was too keyed up, his body too overloaded with adrenaline to go home and fall asleep. And besides—

"Do you mind if we just hang out here?" Stiles said, opening his eyes. When he saw that Derek was watching him, his face calm and without judgment, he screwed up his courage and confessed. "I think something’s wrong with my mom." 

As soon as the words left Stiles' mouth, he wanted to pull them back. Like if they didn’t exist, his fear wouldn’t be real. "She had two doctor’s appointments last week. She’s never been sick a day in her life. My dad said she was just tired, but when I peeked at the calendar, there was an MRI scheduled for next week." Stiles looked up at Derek, his eyes wide. "I Googled it; an MRI is sort of like a CAT scan, but it uses magnets and radio waves to diagnose things, and none of them are good." His voice cracked at the end, and apparently it didn’t go unnoticed since Derek’s fingers stopped their tapping, his grip tightening ever-so-slightly.

"You should tell them," Derek said softly. "Your parents probably don’t realize you know as much as you do. If it were me, I wouldn’t want you to worry until I knew—"

Stiles sat up, all exhaustion fleeing him in that second. "Promise me, Derek Hale," he said fiercely as his fingers curled around Derek’s arms and he gripped with all his might. "Promise me that if it’s something important—good or bad—you’ll let me know right away. Because if it’s good news, I want to be happy for you. And if it’s bad, I want to be there for you."

Derek stared at Stiles. His mouth parted as the sun filtered through the canopy of leaves above, causing the colors of his eyes to change from gold to green and brown. "You’re my best friend, Stiles. I promise if there’s anything important, you and my family will be the first to know."

Stiles blew out a long breath, the panic he was feeling inside his chest easing. "Okay. You have to Special Pinky Promise, though, to seal the deal."

Derek looked down at his feet. "These Nikes are brand new!"

"Better make it across fast, then. I’ll even let you have the right side, where it’s less deep." Stiles stood and dusted off his jeans. He jumped off the overhang and skidded down toward the bank of the creek, leaving a litter of leaves and dirt in his wake. 

"The creek is ten inches deep at a minimum. My sneakers are going to get wet, either way," Derek yelled after him. He sidled up to Stiles’ left side, then looped their pinkies together, to Stiles’ surprise. "You take the right side since you’re shorter than me."

"Aww, boo. You do care. You really, really do."

Derek grunted. "Are we doing this or not?"

"Fine. Repeat after me: ‘I, Derek Hale…’"

"I, Derek Hale."

"Do solemnly swear…"

"Do solemnly swear."

"To share all important news, good or bad, with Stiles Stilinski because he’s my best friend and that’s what best friends do, and—"

"Stiles!"

Stiles gave Derek an innocent look. "Well?"

Derek let out an exasperated sigh. "To share all important news, good or bad, with Stiles Stilinski because he’s my best friend. Yada, yada, yada. Cross my heart and hope to die." He lifted a brow, looking very much like a judgmental Laura in that moment. "Good enough?"

"Fine." Stiles grinned. "Last one across is a rotten egg!"

They splashed through the creek, their progress slowed by the high waters from the recent rain and the cold. Stiles nearly went down on a moss-covered rock, and Derek almost let Stiles' hand go when he sank down into waters that reached his waist, but they made it across to the other side together, their laughter ringing in the crisp autumn air and their pinkies linked, never having let go.

Freshman Year

Stiles curled the edges of his pillow over his head. He’d been away for the entire summer, and now that he was back, nothing felt real. His bed was the same: his mattress still dipped near the top, his sheets still barely clung to the bottom left corner, and there was still a dent in his bedpost, a war injury sustained after an intense game of Mario Kart. The third step on the staircase still creaked loudly. And his dad’s shuffle still sounded as heavy as it had three months ago, when everything in their lives had changed so completely, nothing could ever be the same.

His dad cleared his throat outside Stiles’ door. "Hey, kiddo? " he said, his voice falsely bright. "There’s someone here who’d really like to see you."

Stiles lifted his head. Just enough so he wouldn’t be eating the pillowcase when he opened his mouth. 

"'M not in the mood."

His dad sighed, loud and long. "School starts tomorrow. You’re going to have to…" Stiles frowned at the frustration that simmered behind his dad's unspoken words. He knew his dad was sad and angry, but he was sad and angry, too. "It’s Derek. If you really don’t want to see him, I’ll tell him to go."

Guilt wormed its way into Stiles’ chest. He hadn’t heard a car drive up, which meant Derek had ridden his bike all the way from the Preserve. Even worse, Derek had been blowing up his phone with a ridiculous number of texts and calls—none of which Stiles had bothered to answer.

"Ugh. Fine," Stiles said. He sat up, his arms and legs moving as if on autopilot, and scrubbed at his face. Everything felt sluggish, his mouth dried out and sour.

Another set of footsteps raced up the stairs, loud but somehow light as the door flew open with a bang. 

"Woah," Stiles said as Derek barreled past his dad, who was watching their reunion with a ridiculously hopeful expression. "Dude. What happened to you?" It had been months since Stiles had seen Derek. Apparently, the ten weeks Stiles had spent with his two aunts and their cats in Oregon hadn’t had quite the same effect as the ones Derek had spent at sleep-away camp. Derek’s eyes were still this indescribable green-slash-rust-slash-blue, and his ears still stuck out awkwardly from his head. But he now had cheekbones and an actual jawline. And the rest of him… "What did they feed you there, anyway? You got so tall." Stiles hopped out of bed and walked over to squeeze Derek’s arm. "And, um, very muscley."

Derek’s face turned a bright red. "They fed us all this healthy stuff," he said, and holy shit, his voice was a lot lower. It was now, one hundred percent, a manly man’s voice, with none of the high-pitched squeaks Stiles seemed prone to. "There were no curly fries or Cheetos in sight." He nudged Stiles’ side, his braces flashing as he braved a small smile, and something settled in Stiles in that moment, seeing that not everything had changed.

"That’s not a camp, that’s a prison," Stiles began, just as Derek said, "It was like Alcatraz. I’ve been craving junk food ever since I got home." 

A half-cry, half-laugh pushed its way past Stiles’ throat. Derek didn’t say I’m sorry, or How are you? He didn't say any of the useless things Stiles had heard a thousand times from everyone else. The laugh felt strange, dry and unused, but it was also kind of a relief. Like Stiles could still remember how to. 

"I still have these," Stiles said. He bent down and rummaged under his bed, past the box that held his mom's wristbands from the hospital and all the birthday cards she'd written (although not the one his dad had signed for her when she couldn’t remember who Stiles was anymore). "Ha," Stiles said as he pulled out the Tupperware container holding a bag of cool ranch Doritos that was still two-thirds full. "Found it."

Derek gave the container a dubious look. His nostrils flared as Stiles opened the lid. "Just how old are they?"

Stiles grimaced. They were probably four—maybe five—months old. He sighed and looked at the seam on the bottom of the bag. There wasn’t an expiration date. "Look, if you don’t want any—"

"I didn’t say that." Derek took the bag from Stiles, grabbed a chip, and popped it into his mouth. "It tastes okay," he said gamely as he replaced the bag in the container.

Stiles took one as well, although the action felt significantly less brave after Derek had done it first. "Everything probably tastes ‘okay’ after camp food," he said through a mouthful of crumbs. "Did you have fun at least?"

"Yeah. I took a couple of art classes. Did some cool graphic designing with computers."

"There’s no way you got those muscles sitting in front of a computer all day. What else did you do? Lift weights?"

"Some days. There was also this path around the lake that reminded me a lot of the Preserve, so I took up running. And, uh, I did some stuff like swimming and football. I was thinking I could even try out for the team this fall."

A snort escaped from Stiles before he could stop it. It wasn’t that long ago that he and Derek were making fun of Jackson and the rest of the idiots who were set on making the JV football team as freshmen, like it was some required rite-of-passage for the popular crowd. "You’re serious," Stiles realized as Derek watched him quietly, his face uncertain and vulnerable.

The tips of Derek’s ears colored pink. "I like football. And… and I think I’m good at it." He shrugged. "I mean, I’m good for someone who’s never played before. I probably won’t even make the team—"

"Fuck that. Of course you’re going to make it. The team needs you, even if it’s just to raise the collective IQ." Derek shook his head, although his lips twitched. "I’ll help you practice," Stiles offered magnanimously.

"You will?" Derek practically beamed. "You know, you could try out, too. You’re smart, you’re fast, and—"

"Woah, hold up. I draw the line at becoming one of the pod. I’m totally uncoordinated. And have you forgotten about the part where Jackson Whittemore has made it his lifetime mission to make me miserable? There’s no way I’m going to subject myself to his company willingly." Stiles smiled at Derek's chuckle. "What position did you play, anyway?"

"Quarterback. I mean, I could do running back, too. But I like strategizing, and Coach says I’m fast with a good arm."

"Like I said, you’d probably raise the entire team’s IQ by at least thirty points. Boyd may be the only other person who isn’t totally clueless, but I think he plays defense." Stiles didn’t know all the players, but out of the ones from last year’s class, there weren’t any superstars, talent-wise. "Can you imagine if you were quarterback? That’s instant popularity, dude."

"You know I don’t care about that."

"No. But I’d be popular by association. So you’d be doing me a huge favor. Maybe Lydia Martin will finally know who I am."

Derek let out an irritated huff. "I can’t believe you still care what Lydia thinks. I mean, she’s in the same friend group as Jackson."

"It’s not the same. First, Jackson gets off on putting people down. Lydia is just… well, she’s just oblivious unless she has something in common with you."

"She was in three of your classes last year. And two before that," Derek said flatly. "Plus, you’ve known her since third grade. That’s—" Derek ticked off his fingers and moved his lips silently "—six years of ‘common’." 

"And by improving my ranking on the social hierarchy, you’ll give me another chance at commonality. Think of it as a Venn diagram. Although nothing about Lydia Martin is common." Stiles scuffed his toe against the carpet and twisted his hand in his lap. "Even if I can't date Lydia Martin, I’d like to graduate high school with some social cred. And preferably, not as a virgin, but I’m reasonable. I’d settle for at least being kissed."

"I bet you could get Erica to kiss you."

Stiles thought about Erica. She was sweet and shy, in their advanced math class, and a DC comic nerd like Stiles and Derek. There had been a couple times where Stiles had caught Erica watching him, and she’d reacted by stammering and blushing. A lot.

"Dude, no," Stiles said, shaking his head. "Erica’s a friend. One of the few I have, and the only girl, too. No way am I fucking up a friendship for a kiss." He bit down on his lower lip. "Although I would consider breaking the friendship rule for something like prom."

Derek’s eyebrows shot up. "You want to go to prom? That’s so—"

"Clichéd? Caving to outdated social rituals that only reinforce genderisms and stereotypes along with a touch of elitism?" Stiles gave a resigned sigh. "Yeah, but… I could still go while giving a big ol' Fuck You to all those things. I mean, Mean Girls and all those John Hughes movies can’t be wrong."

"Right. Because Hollywood is so real life."

"But here’s a case where it can be real life. Because the main character always ends up going to prom with the person of their dreams. Who also turns out to be all shades of awesome and really cool. Or they end up with their best friend, who turns out to be better than everyone else." Stiles’ eyes lit up. "We should do that! We should make a pact to go to prom together if neither of us is with anyone else."

"You have it all planned out, don’t you?" Derek asked softly.

Something in his voice made Stiles tumble back to earth. "Wait… Are you crushing on someone?"

Derek looked down at his hands and shrugged.

"Paige?" Derek shook his head. "Someone from camp?" When Derek remained silent, Stiles felt his anger grow at whoever had put that look of helplessness on Derek’s face. "Well, it’s their loss. Anyone who can’t see how amazing you are doesn’t deserve you."

Derek stared at Stiles, wide-eyed, before shaking his head. "And with Lydia—Uh, I mean, that goes for you, too."

"Ten-year plan, dude. Which is now looking more like an eight-year plan, thanks to your newfound skills." Stiles mimed throwing a touchdown pass, followed by the roar of the crowd.

Derek grinned. "So, what happens after that? At year ten?"

"Easy. We'll graduate at the top of our class—me as valedictorian and you as salutatorian; you know I’m right, and I’ll need the extra boost since you’ll be a hotshot quarterback, All-American athlete or something—and then we’ll go to an amazing college and be roomies. Somewhere like… I read that NYU and Columbia both have amazing programs for creative writing and architectural design."

"New York." Derek had a faraway look in his eyes as he nodded. The sunlight was slanting through the window, highlighting the length of Derek’s lashes. "That’s cool."

"I thought about what you said before. That high school would become meaningless once we graduate. That we’re meant for bigger things. Bigger than Beacon Hills." Stiles couldn’t imagine living forever in a place where everyone knew his business. Where people lived in the same houses, did the same jobs, from one generation to the next. Stiles had always thought he and Derek were destined for something greater, but for the first time, the thought of leaving his dad behind caused something to sour in his belly. 

"Yeah. Dream big, right?" Derek said with a soft smile.

A lump grew in Stiles’ throat. His mom had always told him to never give up on his dreams, no matter how big or crazy, because he would always bring something into them no one else could. The ache grew, and Derek must have realized it, because he quickly grabbed Stiles’ hand and threaded their fingers and held on tightly.

The Tupperware container fell to the floor, making the Doritos bag tumble out and the chips scatter from the bag’s mouth. 

"I miss her so much," Stiles choked out. He could feel the tears stinging the corners of his eyes, even though he had thought he was all cried out. 

Derek’s thumb brushed back and forth against the meat of Stiles’ hand, and the gentle touch was all it took for the dam to break and for all the feelings Stiles had buried to rush out. 

"It’s so fucking unfair," he said, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand angrily. "Do you remember when you said we’d be friends for the next twenty years? I thought that was like, forever. We would be thirty years old. Thirty, Derek. She was only thirty-six." Stiles couldn’t get enough air, even though he was breathing fast, as if he were trying to inflate a balloon that had a hole in it. "She never got the chance to see me get popular or hear about my first kiss. She didn’t see me graduate, or go to college, or make it big. And I’m fucking tired of people telling me I should move on. Like I want to feel this way on purpose. That I shouldn’t feel sad or guilty at the idea of moving on, even if it means I’d eventually be doing things she never got a chance to."

Derek untwined their fingers and bent down to pick up the Tupperware container. It was the same one Stiles’ mom had given them when she discovered Stiles and Derek raiding the kitchen for candy and chips during a weekend of marathon gaming. She had laughed and said something about Stiles’ bedroom being messy enough as she handed it over to them with a wink. Derek popped on the lid and placed it carefully at the foot of the bed, then moved closer to Stiles, the chips under his sneakers crunching as he pulled Stiles into a hug.

"I know," Derek whispered. "It fucking sucks."

Stiles sniffled. He knew that there wasn’t really anything anyone could say to make his mom’s death feel better. But somehow, with Derek, it did.

Senior Year

Stiles didn’t know whether to be grateful or pissed when one-hundred-and-seventy-five pounds of sheer muscle tumbled onto his blanket and nearly knocked him over.

"Hey!" Stiles huffed out as Derek rolled into his side. The impact made sand spray across Stiles' face and his pen skitter across the page. "Oh man. Look what you made me do," he groaned.

Derek had the grace to look guilty for a second. "What’s the point of coming to the beach if you’re just going to sit by yourself and ignore everyone, anyway?"

"I didn’t want to come. You’re the one who asked, remember?"

"Hey, Hale! You coming, or what?" 

Stiles looked up and shaded his eyes with his hand. Isaac’s and Danny’s faces were hidden by the sun, but their impatience was crystal clear.

"Nah," Derek said. He lobbed the football into Isaac’s outstretched hand. "I’m sitting out for a bit." He and Stiles watched as Isaac shrugged and the two running backs headed toward the water's edge where most of the incoming senior class was gathered. "I’ve barely seen you all summer," Derek said once Isaac and Danny were out of earshot.

"And whose fault was that?" Stiles couldn’t help the petulant whine that crept into his voice. "You’ve spent it all practicing for a fall sport. A fall school sport. When school’s not even in session!"

"We have a good shot at making States this year," Derek said, and Stiles knew that, okay? He knew it was the first time Beacon Hills High had been in the running to become state champs since—well, never—and that Derek was a big reason why. He’d taken over as starting quarterback last year after a knee injury had sidelined senior Brett Talbot for the rest of the season. Even though Derek had taken over a team too far behind to make it into the playoffs, he’d almost single-handedly won six out of their last seven games and made a splash in the papers in the process. "I’d rather be playing WoW and running the Theater of Pain dungeon than doing suicide laps with Whittemore. Trust me."

Stiles looked at his notebook and closed it carefully. For the last two years, it had only contained his writings, except for a couple of quick sketches Derek had done for the mines of the Underground World. He tried not to think about how Jackson was now ‘Whittemore’ to Derek. Just like Isaac and Danny were ‘Lahey’ and ‘Mahealani’, while Stiles was still... Stiles.

"It’s okay. I know how much this year means to you," Stiles said begrudgingly. He placed his notebook inside his backpack and watched as Boyd tackled Jackson.

"You still hate him, don’t you?" Derek asked as Stiles laughed at the sight of Jackson eating sand.

"Come on. With his gelled hair and his Porsche, and his douchetastic I’m-going-to-tell-my-father attitude? He’s like the Muggle version of Draco Malfoy. How can you stand him?"

Derek scratched at the trail of hair that led below the waistband of his Under Armor shorts. Stiles remembered when Derek was fonder of wearing Yoda-print pants. "You leave any personal grudges behind when you’re on the field."

"Does 'being on the field' include going to his house for all those after-game parties?" Stiles grumbled under his breath.

Sometimes it seemed like Derek had supernatural hearing. "Team bonding. It was important that I went, especially after taking over for Talbot. What kind of leader would I be if I didn’t show up in solidarity?" He blew out a long breath, causing the fall of his hair to flip off his forehead. "And I invited you. Every single time, if you remember."

Stiles looked away from Derek’s hurt expression. Junior year had been especially rough; Stiles' extracurricular calendar had been packed solid in a last-ditch effort to beef up his college applications, and he’d started a part-time job at Beacon Hills’ only bagel shop to save up for college. His dad wasn't making that much as the town sheriff, not close to what was needed to go to NYU. And Stiles preferred spending what little free time he had on things he actually enjoyed. Like gaming, or writing, or sleeping, or jerking off. Things that normally included Derek (except the jerking-off bit) but nowadays, unfortunately, 'Derek' also meant 'Derek-and-the-football-team.'

"You may have to leave it behind when you’re on the field, but the shit between me and Jackson is one hundred percent in the locker room, one hundred percent of the time. No way am I going to a party celebrating anything he’s part of."

Derek looked like he had bitten into a lemon. "Is this because he’s going out with Lydia?"

Stiles flailed, his jaw dropping. "What?" Stiles was genuinely shocked; Lydia hadn't figured into his romantic fantasies since the winter break of last year. 

It hit him, then. With less and less 'Derek-and-Stiles' time, Stiles had started to confide more and more in Scott McCall—another gamer in their class who may have played lacrosse but wasn’t a football dickwad. The realization that Scott had become more of a confidant than Derek lately caused something leaden to settle in Stiles' gut.

"Nah, dude," Stiles said. The carefree words felt alien on his tongue. "Revision to the ten-year plan as of several months ago. Lydia and I were lab partners for AP Chem. She’s still brilliant and even more gorgeous, which should be impossible. But she knows nothing about sci-fi or comics or MMORPGs, and she looked at me like I was crazy when I said it was animal cruelty after she'd bought some kitten heels. I like her, but we don’t have a lot of interests in common, you know?"

"Wow. That’s…" Derek let out a wry laugh and scrubbed his chin. Stiles didn’t know if he’d shaved this morning, but there was already a five o’clock shadow that sounded like sandpaper against Derek’s hand. "I’m sorry?"

"Don’t be. It’s better this way. The only thing that’s a bummer is I still have my v-card and only seven months to lock down a prom date, so… Go me."

"Well, we still have the John Hughes pact, remember?"

Stiles flailed again, this time with his entire body. Of course, he remembered. He just didn’t think Derek did. Or that Derek would want to. 

He looked at his best friend from out of the corners of his eyes. Puberty, genetics, and football had definitely been kind to Derek Hale. At sixteen, Derek was just shy of six feet tall, and had a six-pack without flexing and biceps that looked twice the size of Stiles’ thighs. Stiles wouldn’t be surprised if Derek could bat his long lashes and get just about any girl (or guy) to go out with him, because he—

"You certainly grew up nice, Hale."

Because he what? Stiles looked up, only to see gorgeous, blonde Kate Argent—head cheerleader, Senior Class President, shoo-in for this year's Homecoming and Prom Queen, and Beacon Hills’ own Regina George—flashing Derek a thousand-watt smile.

(She was also perilously close to flashing a lot more).

"Hi K-Kate." Derek stuttered. Stiles wasn’t sure if it was because Kate was trailing a well-manicured finger appreciatively along Derek’s shoulders or if it was because she was bending over to get closer to Derek’s… ear.

"You looked thirsty out there. I brought this over for you." Kate giggled, then produced an ice-cold bottle of Coke from behind her back. It looked like something from a television ad, with the droplets of condensation clinging to its grooved surface.

"Thank you," Derek said, blushing furiously as Kate’s hand lingered over his. He twisted open the cap, then took a swig before handing it over to Stiles. "Do you know Stiles?"

Kate’s smile shrank as Stiles drank greedily. "No, I’m afraid I don’t," she sniffed, her lips thinning. "Nice to meet you."

Stiles tilted the bottle toward Kate. "Thanks for the drink. It was definitely getting hot out here." His eyes never left hers as he took another extra-long sip, draining almost half before handing the bottle back to Derek. Kate’s own eyes narrowed and glinted with anger as she met Stiles’ challenging gaze.

"Yeah. Thanks, Kate. That was really nice of you," Derek said. Stiles looked at him sharply and frowned when he saw that Derek was looking up at Kate with a grin.

Kate’s smile was back in full force. "It was nothing," she said, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "Isn’t that the job of the head cheerleader? To make sure the quarterback is taken care of?" She gave Derek a wink and turned on her heel, her hips swaying as she made her way back to the rest of the pom pom squad.

"There’s no ‘i’ in ‘team’. Or in ‘head cheerleader', for that matter," Stiles said after he let out a long burp.

"Oh my god. I think Kate Argent likes me," Derek whispered, slightly dazed. His eyes were still watching Kate, traveling along the length of her shapely legs and bouncy curves.

"You’re lucky she didn’t trip over your tongue and drag you halfway across the ground. Isn’t she dating Brett?"

Derek shook his head. "They broke up right after his senior prom. I think they didn’t want to do the long-distance thing since he’ll be at UGA. Ennis said Kate didn’t want to break up before that because she was worried about Talbot's feelings, after everything he went through."

Right. Because Kate Argent was the epitome of a thoughtful and charitable person, who volunteered in animal shelters and children’s hospitals in her spare time (not). It had probably been because she’d wanted to go to senior prom, or because she was friends with Brett’s sister, Lorilee, who was also on the cheerleading squad. "Still. She’s kind of used to guys who are more… experienced."

Derek shot Stiles a look that wasn’t exactly hurt, but it wasn’t pleased. "Are you saying she’s out of my league?"

"No, just… " The thought of Kate getting her hooks into Derek was just unsettling; if Derek wasn't careful, Kate could rip him to pieces. "Look. Kate Argent has gone out with the Big Man on Beacon Hills' Tiny Campus ever since she was a sophomore. The title that now falls on your impressive shoulders, but you’re at a bit of a disadvantage since you’re a card-carrying member of the v-club like me. So you just have to act like she’s no better than you. Like—like you can take her or leave her."

Derek’s brows drew down, and his forehead wrinkled adorably. "So, in order to get her to go out with me, I have to ignore her?"

"Yes. But also… " Stiles let out a long sigh. "You also have to compliment her. See something in her that no one else does."

Derek was quiet for a moment. When he looked at Stiles next, his expression was unreadable. "Thanks. You know, for a minute there, I thought you were jealous or something."

Stiles punched Derek in the arm. "Don't flatter yourself, Derek Hale. You will forever be the guy who trapped us in your sleeping bag on purpose right after you farted. Why would I be jealous?"

Derek laughed softly. He drained the rest of the Coke, then turned to look at Kate. She was dancing with her head thrown back while being ogled by several members of the football team. "Good to know."

If Kate Argent was who Derek truly wanted, Stiles wasn’t going to stand in his way. Derek was smart; he’d see through Kate soon enough. 

*

Stiles knew Derek had once scored a 135 on an IQ test, but he was starting to question its validity because now Derek and Kate Argent were going out.

"Well, not going out out," Stiles amended as Kira replaced the container of tuna salad in the deli case. "It’s more like they’ve been hanging out a lot together. With the whole popular crowd. But she’s all over him, and if anyone saw them, they’d think they were a couple."

Kira closed the top of the case and wiped down the counter. "Is that a bad thing? I mean," she added when Stiles frowned, "Derek seems like the kind of person who’d tell someone 'no' if it’s something he doesn’t want, right?"

Stiles’ frown grew deeper. Derek was too nice, sometimes. There was no question who could be the more outspoken between the two of them. "Kate doesn’t seem like the kind of person who’d take no for an answer," he countered instead.

"Well, have you said anything to him?"

"No?" Stiles leaned against the counter as Kira arched a neat brow. "I thought he’d have come to his senses by now."

Kira threw the rag in with the rest of the dirty linen. "She’s pretty plastic," she agreed. "But there’s a lot of people who’d be happy to date Kate Argent. I mean, I can see why Derek would be interested."

"He deserves someone who likes him for who he is. Not just because he’s a star quarterback and local celebrity."

"Derek’s pretty hot, too." Kira giggled. "I get it, though. You just want what’s best for him."

Stiles hoped that's all it was. Sometimes he wondered whether he disliked Kate because he was afraid of losing Derek even more than he already had. Or whether it was because it seemed like everyone was pairing up: Lydia was with Jackson, Kira was with Scott, Erica was dating Boyd, and Danny was dating another football player named Ethan. Stiles wanted to be with someone, of course, but it had never really bothered him before now because he had always had Derek. But he’d already lost a part of Derek to football, and if Derek ended up with Kate… All the possible reasons made Stiles feel like a shitty friend.

"Yep," Stiles said, hoping it was true.

"You should tell him how you feel."

Stiles let out a snort. "It’s hard when I don’t see him anymore."

"Well, now’s your chance," Kira said and Stiles looked up to see Derek push open the door to the cafe.

"Hey." Stiles lifted his hand in an awkward wave as Derek grinned and the bell above the door jingled merrily.

"Hi, Stiles. Kira," Derek said, trudging up to the counter. He looked pretty beat; his hair was still wet, as if he’d just showered, and there was an ugly, purple bruise on his arm.

"Where’s the rest of the hirsute herd?" Stiles asked, shifting his weight onto the front of his foot as he peered over Derek’s shoulder.

"Grimaldi’s. I just needed a break from everyone today."

"Oh? Got a pass on the whole ‘team solidarity’ bit?"

Kira nudged Stiles’ side. Hard. "What can I get you, Derek?" she asked as Stiles scowled and rubbed his hip.

"Ham and Swiss on an everything bagel and, uh, one of those Tazo white teas." He handed Kira a ten and placed his change in the tip jar, then dumped his gear and backpack onto one of the empty tables.

Stiles brought over Derek’s order, startling when Derek grabbed his arm.

"Can you hang for a bit?" Derek asked with a wounded look.

There wasn’t anyone else in the cafe this close to closing; they mostly catered to the breakfast and lunch crowds. "I wasn’t sure if you wanted… You said you needed a break from everybody," Stiles began lamely.

"Not from you." Derek gave Stiles a small grin and patted the seat next to him. "Come on. I never get a chance to talk to you anymore."

Stiles bit back a snarky reply. Kira was making shooing motions with her hands, so Stiles took the hint and sat. "I know. I miss you."

"I know. Between practice and the games and schoolwork… " Derek’s voice trailed off, and his shoulders slumped. Stiles noticed the unhappy lines around his mouth. "Do you mind if I eat?" he asked, his fingers hovering over his sandwich.

"Yeah, man, go for it. Made it with all the fixings. I even whipped up your special mustard-mayo dressing."

"You remembered." Derek’s eyelashes fluttered as he took a huge bite. "It’s perfect," he sighed happily, and Stiles’ chest warmed at the compliment.

"We had enough midnight snack runs over the years. It’d be hard to forget."

The simple statement seemed to please Derek. He hummed softly and took another bite. "I miss those days. Maybe we can have another late-night gaming session soon. Regular season ends in a couple of weeks. And the post-season a month after that, if we make it to States. I know I haven’t been around a lot lately."

"Dude, I… Listen, I miss all that stuff, but us not spending time together… it’s not just you, okay? I’ve been working crazy hours trying to save up money. And I’m almost done with my application. I’m going to do Early Decision at NYU so I can work on the financial stuff and apply for as many scholarships as I can."

"Shit." Derek groaned. "Early Decision apps are due the first week of November, right? I’m going to have to work on it this week."

"Are you—are you applying early to NYU, too?"

Derek looked as if Stiles had suddenly sprouted claws and fangs. "Of course I am. That was always the plan, wasn’t it?"

"Yeah, but… " Stiles hated how unsure he felt. "We haven’t talked about it for a while. I wasn’t sure whether you still wanted to. If your plans had changed because you weren’t interested in an architecture program or if there was someone else you had to think about—"

Derek’s brow furrowed. "Someone else? Laura still has another year at Barnard; my parents are fine with me going to New York if it's a great program, especially since she’s there. And Cora is totally in her emo phase, so unless it’s something to do with The Smiths or My Chemical Romance, she couldn't care less. And you’ll be there, of course."

Stiles hated himself for pushing, but he had to know. "What about Kate?" He could feel the heat creep up his cheeks as Derek’s brows drew down so far, they nearly touched.

"I don’t know; I haven’t really asked her. That's not what we... I mean, she’s hot, and she’s fun, but she’s not The One, you know?" Derek took a couple more bites of his sandwich, tearing into it like it had wronged him, somehow. "I’m not going to make promises I can’t keep."

Stiles traced a circle against the tabletop. He remembered all the whispered promises he and Derek had made over the years, the pinky-swears and Unbreakable Vows, and the tightness in his chest eased a little. "Good luck, tomorrow, by the way," Stiles said, because he didn’t want to think about Kate Argent any longer. "It’s a big one, right?"

"Yeah. If we win, we’re guaranteed a spot in the playoffs." Derek finished off the last of his sandwich and wiped his fingers with his napkin. "I didn’t think you cared about football."

"I don’t. But I follow it because of you."

"Are you going to the game? Mom and Dad will be there. Cora might as well, if the sunlight doesn’t turn her to dust. I can ask them to save a seat for you."

Stiles shook his head. "Can’t. I’m working tomorrow. Need all the money I can get. I’ll be cheering you on from afar, though." He waved his hands over his head. "Go Cyclones!"

Derek picked at the corner of his napkin. "I guess we’ll have plenty of time to catch up next year when we’re roomies."

"Yeah. Can’t wait, it’s going to be amazing." Stiles made a move to bump his fist against Derek’s shoulder, but then he realized he could single-handedly ruin Beacon Hill’s chances of winning the game if he injured Derek’s throwing arm, so he settled for an awkward pat on the thigh instead. "I missed you, bro."

Derek gave him a blinding grin. The one that made his eyes lighten and crinkle at the corners. "I missed you, too." He stood and stretched, the hem of his shirt riding up a bit as he scratched his belly. "I know you don’t normally do football parties, but Boyd’s having one tomorrow and I’d really love it if you’d go. We’ll celebrate if we win and drown our sorrows in booze if we lose."

Derek was right; Stiles really didn’t do football parties. But Boyd had always been decent to him, and he wanted to be there for Derek, whatever the game's outcome. Plus, he missed hanging out with his best friend. "Yeah. That’d be nice."

"Awesome. I’ll text you the deets." Derek swung his backpack over a shoulder and lifted his gear bag. Christ, that thing looked like it weighed as much as Stiles.

"Go get ‘em." Stiles stood with his feet shoulder-width apart and began shaking his hips. "We’re the best. Our team’s too cool, we got the class to rock this school. Go Cyclones, go Cyclones!"

If possible, Derek’s grin grew even bigger. "Bring It On? You’re such a dork."

"That film rocks. Eliza Dushku, man," Stiles said, clasping his hand over his heart.

"I’ll see you tomorrow." Derek shook his head, his voice fond.

If possible, the grin Stiles sported as he watched Derek walk out the door was even bigger than Derek’s.

*

Scott McCall was a sweet guy who loved animals, did well enough in sports to be considered a jock, was a fun and considerate lab partner, and was earnest and well-meaning. He and Stiles didn’t have the same mental synergy that Stiles shared with Derek, but Derek had the advantage of having known Stiles for five more years. There was no way anyone could compete with that, no matter how awesome they were. Stiles was grateful for Scott’s friendship—grateful that Scott had friends that Stiles actually liked, at how quickly Scott had accepted Stiles’ quirks and adopted him into his life. He didn’t completely patch the Derek-shaped hole in Stiles’ social calendar, but he did a decent job of it, even if sometimes the cracks still showed.

Right now, surrounded by a bunch of testosterone-filled jocks and perky cheerleaders, and unable to pull off the blasé indifference of John Cusack, Stiles grabbed onto Scott like a lifeline. He caught a couple of surprised looks thrown his way. It was strange, being in a situation where he was being judged while simultaneously ignored.

"Hey, Scotty my man," Stiles said as he pulled Scott into an overly enthusiastic bro-hug. 

"Stiles! I didn’t know you were going to be here. Good to see you." Scott motioned to the other people he was standing with. "You know these guys, right? Isaac, Jordan, and Liam?" 

Isaac played football and lacrosse, and his snark could be as cutting as his cheekbones. Stiles wasn’t sure why Scott seemed to be such good friends with Isaac, although he supposed Scott’s softness balanced them out. He was pretty sure Liam was a junior on the lacrosse team, but he wasn’t familiar with Jordan. 

"Hey." Stiles lifted his hand and gave a stilted wave. "Have any of you seen the man of the hour?"

"Hale?" Isaac asked. He smirked when Stiles nodded. "Last I heard, he was picking up Kate. They’re probably running late. I have a feeling she’s showing her appreciation for the Hail Mary pass that clinched our season, if you know what I mean."

"Oh." Stiles pasted on a tight smile. He stared down at his feet—past his baggy khakis and graphic tee—and felt out of place among all the clout clothes, AXE, and pounding music. He pulled down on the hem of his shirt, wondering how quickly he could leave without being branded a total loser.

"Batman or Superman?"

Stiles jerked his head up. "Batman or Superman?" Jordan repeated, pointing to Stiles’ shirt as Stiles stared like a guppy.

Oh. "Actually, this is Nightwing. He’s another one of DC’s superheroes."

"Yeah, I love him. I mean, he was just named sexiest male character by Comics Alliance, so I guess I’m not the only one. I was wondering if you preferred his Superman origin story or when Dick Grayson took over the mantle."

"Dude, you know about the Superman connection?" When Jordan nodded, Stiles threw his hand up for a high five. "That’s frickin’ awesome."

"Don’t deflect. What’s your answer?" Jordan teased.

"Well, as much as I’m a sucker for new origin stories, there’s something about the worldbuilding in the originals that you can’t dismiss, you know? Like, I’ll always love the Star Wars original trilogy because the story and costumes and even the non-CGI special effects made everything more magical. And Star Trek—talk about iconic. So, I guess I’m partial to the whole Superman-as-Nightwing thing and how he can still be a hero without his normal powers."

Jordan tilted his red Solo cup at Stiles. "Good points. But I’m gonna have to differ on the idea that the originals are always the best."

"Oh, yeah?" Stiles asked, raising a brow.

"David Tennant."

"Oooh." Stiles grimaced as Jordan polished off the rest of his beer with a self-satisfied grin. "Okay, I’ll have to give you that. Tennant’s definitely the best Dr. Who." He looked around, surprised to realize that somewhere during their discussion, the rest of the guys had split. "I guess we kind of bored everyone with our nerd talk."

"I think a bunch of people just arrived, so they’re probably making the rounds. But I don’t mind," Jordan said, taking a step closer.

The party was getting crowded, and Jordan was getting into Stiles’ space. He was definitely cute, with a quick smile and sandy brown hair, and he was also fun to talk to. When his eyes flicked down to Stiles’ lips, Stiles felt a flutter of excitement in the pit of his belly.

"There’s an Anime and Comic Book club at school. It’s small, but I think you’d like it. The people in it are really nice, not like—" Stiles jerked his thumb over his shoulder "—these guys. I don’t think most of them could tell you whether Superman was DC or Marvel. Even with a fifty-fifty chance."

"That’s probably true. And I’d love to join the club, but that’ll probably have to wait until after football season is over. Especially since we’re in the playoffs now."

"You…" Stiles’ heart sank. God, he hadn’t even been here for half an hour, and he’d already made an enemy. Fuck his life. "Let me just slink on over the corner and take my foot out of my mouth," he said with a weak laugh.

Jordan clapped his free hand on Stiles’ shoulder. "No worries. I’m special teams—the kicker—so I’m kind of on the fringe, anyway. But how about you let me get you a drink to replace that foot and we’ll call it even?"

Jordan’s eyes were twinkling, and he sounded so sincere. "Yeah, uh… that’d be awesome. I’m good with… whatever." Stiles felt his face heat, and he did an internal face-palm. Good with whatever?

"I think I can handle that." Jordan flashed him a toothy grin. "I’ll get my jet belt on and be right back. Oh, hey Hale."

"Parrish." Derek’s smile was tight. Stiles hadn’t even seen him come up to them. Sometimes, Derek reminded him of a cat that needed to be belled.

"Gonna get Stiles something to drink. Don’t let him go, okay? We haven’t finished our talk yet; I think this guy might know more about comics than me." Jordan threw Stiles a finger gun and a wink.

"Yeah, I know," Derek said softly to Jordan's retreating back as it weaved its way through the crowd. He turned toward Stiles, his smile growing bigger. "You made it."

"I told you I would. Congratulations, by the way. I heard you completed a Hail Mary. Like a thousand yards or something?"

Derek chuckled. "Sixty-three."

Stiles snorted. "Is that all?" His face softened as Derek gave him a small push. "Remember when we used to climb that oak in your backyard with a bag of rocks and see who could throw them the farthest? You always won."

"You threw the fastest," Derek said magnanimously.

"If you mean I could release them the fastest, yeah. Didn’t matter though; I could launch a hundred of them and only get one to hit the target while you’d do it nine times out of ten." Stiles supposed their rock-throwing techniques were a bit like their personalities, in a way. How he was always fast, the multitude of his ideas and words tumbling out uncensored from off the tip of his tongue, while Derek was always pondering. More deliberate. "You always had it in you. I’m proud of you—no, that’s stupid, because it’s not like I had anything to do with your talent, but… I’m happy for you."

"You did, though." When Stiles looked up, he saw that Derek’s expression was a hundred percent serious. "All the times you practiced with me, before I made it onto the team. You never made me feel like it was a stupid thing to want, not once."

"Aww, man. You’re the best, you know that?"

Derek's next words were cut off as several people knocked into him all at once. He looked up, a blush stealing across his cheeks as his friends congratulated him with aggressive claps across his back and bumping foreheads. After a few moments, he popped his head above the scrum, a wave of relief washing over his face when he spotted Stiles still standing nearby.

Derek pushed his way past the mass of bodies and made his way back to Stiles' side. "Look, Stiles, about Jordan—"

"Oh, yeah. He’s amazing! Do you know he knows almost as much about Nightwing as we do? He might join the Comic Book club once football season is over."

Derek ran his hand across his face, nearly covering the whole lower half with just his palm. Stiles hadn’t realized it had gotten so calloused and huge. He was used to seeing those fingers wrapped around a pen, sketching delicate lines; no wonder Derek could handle a football so well. "He’s hitting on you."

Stiles smiled, pleased to know his suspicions were correct. "You think?"

"I know." Derek made a frustrated noise that sounded almost like a growl. "Jordan just moved here, so I know you don’t know him that well, but guys talk in the locker room. And he’s a… a himbo." Color suffused Derek’s face from his neck all the way to the tip of his ears.

Stiles’ smile fell. "Right. And Kate is a candidate for the Fields Medal."

"It’s not the same. I know you haven’t been with anyone yet—" Embarrassment swept through Stiles as Derek continued, oblivious to Stiles’ mortification "—and it’s not that Jordan’s a bad guy, it’s just that he doesn’t really do serious relationships. He’s kind of in things for fun. He’s not the kind of guy you should be giving up your virginity to."

"Woah, WOAH," Stiles said, his voice pitching into a squeak so high, people around them turned to stare. He took a deep breath. "First of all, what’s wrong with having a little fun?" he asked, his anger making it hard to lower his voice. "And not that it’s any of your business or weird that you think I’d go there after knowing someone for ten minutes, but I don’t exactly have tons of people falling over themselves to get with all this." Stiles pointed to himself, waving his finger irritably from his head to his toes. Derek followed its path with an unhappy expression. "I know I can be annoying, and if a cute guy who’s funny and ‘not bad’ seems to like me for some crazy reason, I’m not going to turn down the opportunity just because he likes to have fun. Besides, virginity is just a social construct."

"Right," Derek said, his jaw clenched into something that seemed anything but right, as Jordan came back and stood between them.

"Uh… Is everything okay?" Jordan asked as he handed Stiles a cup.

"Never better." Stiles took a large gulp of his drink and tried not to cough from the burn of liquid that was probably ten percent punch and ninety percent alcohol. His mood soured further when he saw who was coming their way.

A pair of slim hands slid down Derek’s shoulders. "Come on, Derek. Everybody’s waiting for you out back." Kate’s eyes flicked over to the rest of the group. "Hi Jordan. Stan."

"It’s Stiles—" Stiles called out, but Kate already had her back turned, dragging Derek alongside her. He turned to Jordan, slightly mollified, when he saw Jordan’s eyes roll. "Not a fan?"

"Kate’s an acquired taste."

"Haha. I’m not sure I’ll ever get there."

"She kind of reminds me of The Cheetah. She’s absolutely the type of person who would sell her soul for power and immortality." His green eyes twinkled. "Besides, I’m more of a Dick Grayson fan myself."

Stiles ducked his head as he felt his entire face flush. The dude was not only a Wonder Woman stan, but was sweet and funny, and—for some crazy reason—seemed to like Stiles. "Do you want to go sit down somewhere?" he asked, breathless.

Jordan nodded, apparently more familiar with the interior of Boyd’s house in the four months he’d been in Beacon Hills than Stiles was after living here his entire life. They planted themselves on the couch near the corner of the stairs and talked about Jordan’s life growing up in Iowa, his move from soccer to football, his love for his dog Flash, and his younger brother who was more interested in dancing than team sports. Stiles told Jordan about his sci-fi stories, although he kept Derek’s involvement in them quiet since he wasn’t sure if Derek wanted that information to be common knowledge. He told Jordan about his job at the cafe and his attempts to cook for himself and his dad, although he hadn’t done more than a turkey macaroni bake and lasagna. Jordan may not have gotten all of Stiles’ non-comic book references, and he may have been a little too nice (to the point where Stiles had to think about censoring what he said, first impressions and all). But Stiles found he was enjoying himself, for once.

Jordan’s company made it easy to tune out the abrasive laughter in the background and the music that pounded throughout the room, the bass notes vibrating through the soles of Stiles’ sneakers. It was pleasant enough that after an hour of talking and three cups of punch, Stiles moved easily when Jordan cupped his chin, leaning in as Jordan slotted their mouths together, their lips slick and tasting ever-so-slightly of the bitterness of Pabst. It made it easier to ignore the sight of Lydia and Jackson making out on the other side of the room, and to meet Derek’s eyes as Kate tugged him up the stairs, her hands sliding suggestively over the front of Derek’s pants.

*

Stiles woke up the next morning with a headache, sand in his mouth, Jordan’s number in his contacts, and a text from Derek.

Derek: I’ve got NEWS!

Stiles tried to focus his bleary eyes on the screen and blinked. He wondered what could be so important that Derek thought to text him at—Stiles stared at the time stamp—2:18 AM. He figured it wasn’t anything life-threatening, since Derek had kept everything grammatically correct and there wasn’t a flurry of follow-up texts or phone calls. 

Stiles: sorry just saw this just got up

He was about to add that he’d be half-coherent in another couple hours when he saw Derek’s text dots light up the screen.

Derek: Virgin boy is no longer

No. No. The alcohol remaining in Stiles’ belly made itself known as bile rose in his throat. Not that. Plus, a fucking eggplant emoji? The whole thing skated the line between douchebaggery and adorkability.

Still. He had made Derek Special Pinky Promise, and despite the people Derek surrounded himself with nowadays, he was not like Jackson or Kate. And while Stiles might still be a member of the v-club himself, he could at least be happy for Derek. He grabbed his phone and texted back with shaking fingers, muttering a short Fuck as the phone slipped, nearly beaning him on the forehead.

Stiles: happy for u

He squinted at his reply for a moment. He wondered whether it read snarky or supportive. Whether it sounded like something appropriate for a best friend.

"It’s too early for this." Stiles groaned. He hit send anyway, then threw his phone to the side and drew his covers over his head.

*

Stiles found out, from Lydia of all people, that the Cyclones had lost to the Eichen Warriors last night in the semi-finals, 32-30.

"So that’s why Jackson’s not having his party." Lydia pouted as she held Prada in her arms. As if Jackson's decision to cancel his fifth party of the year mattered to Stiles. As if Stiles had even been invited. "Anyway, I’ll take three plain, two sesame, one poppy seed, two egg, three everything, and one cinnamon-raisin bagel. And a half-pound each of lox and scallion cream cheese to go."

Stiles grabbed a large brown paper bag and dropped in the bagels one by one. A small part of him felt guilty he hadn't known about the loss. He wondered how Derek was holding up. Football wasn’t everything to Derek—he didn't eat and breathe every minute of the sport, the way some others did—but it had become a huge part of his life.

"That sucks. It sucks even more since the game was so close."

"Apparently they had opportunities. but they missed a field goal and there were too many turnovers. Derek can’t carry the whole team on his shoulders."

The tightness in Stiles' chest loosened a little. "Derek played well?"

"He had four touchdowns, including one he ran in himself. That boy could have been scouted if he’d started earlier. Or if he showed any interest in playing football after high school. I said three plain, not two, Stiles," Lydia reminded him as Prada yapped.

Stiles went back to get another plain bagel before filling the rest of Lydia’s order. "What time did they get back last night?" he asked, snapping his tongs together repeatedly until Lydia stopped him with a look. Eichen was like a five-hour drive without traffic; Derek had probably tuned out the rest of the team for the entire ride by jamming his ear buds into place, replaying everything in his head and wondering what he could have done differently.

"I think it was like two or three? Jackson really wasn’t in the mood to talk." She took her wallet out of her purse as Stiles set her order on the counter, then rang her up. "They’ll get over it. Basketball season starts in a couple weeks, and it’s not like they’re the only team in school with a chance at States." Lydia swiped her credit card and added two dollars for a tip. "Speaking of which, don’t forget to bring your materials on Jacobson’s and Clark’s papers on renewable energy to the next Debate Club meeting."

Stiles watched as Lydia exited, juggling Prada and the bag of bagels while looking completely composed in a pair of high-heeled boots. He grabbed the door as she made her way to her car and shook his head. Now that Stiles was over his blinding crush, he realized how ill-suited they were for each other. Sure, she was still ridiculously gorgeous and brilliant, but Jackson was more well-suited for Lydia's highly polished sheen and sharp ruthlessness than Stiles would ever be.

As soon as the morning rush died down an hour later, Stiles grabbed his phone and texted Derek.

Siltes: If I had a bag of rocks I’d throw them at every player from Eichen

Although we should probably use one of your trees as a target instead. We're too close to 18 to get a record. 

Worth it if it makes you feel better tho. Call me when ur up

After a moment, he sent Jordan a text, too.

Stiles: Heard about the game. Sorry dude

Once it was a respectable time for a Saturday morning, Stiles’ phone pinged with a reply:

Jordan P: It’s ok. Guess i can join your club now ;)

Stiles:  :)

By the time he finished his shift at four, Stiles still hadn't heard back from Derek.

*

It was crazy how long it’d been since Stiles had been to Derek’s house. It had probably been months—since the start of summer, at least, when Derek had left for football camp. But the minute he approached the large circular driveway and felt the familiar crunch of gravel under the Jeep’s tires, any awkwardness he might have felt slipped away. He threw the Jeep into park when he got to the front of the house, grabbed two large bags from the passenger seat, and walked up the steps as quickly as he could while protecting his precious cargo.

"Hey, Stiles." Laura threw the door open before Stiles could even knock. She gave him a smile. It wasn’t her usual one, filled with mischief and snark. Instead, it was tired and small.

Stiles stepped into her open arms. "When are you going back to New York?" he asked, wincing as the contents in the grocery bags banged across Laura’s back.

"My flight leaves at six in the morning," she said, taking a step back. Stiles made a face. "I know. It’s an ungodly hour. I’m going to pay for it so badly. I just thought we’d be spending today differently."

"How’s Derek doing?" Stiles asked quietly.

"He’s been better. But he’ll get over it. You know Derek; he’ll mope a bit and revel in all his man pain, and then he’ll find something else to focus on." Laura sniffed and looked down at one of the bags in Stiles’ hand, her eyes widening. "Did you go to Bee’s Diner?"

Stiles hugged the bag closer to his body. "Maybe? And hands off. This is for Derek."

"Oh, man. I’d do anything for a milkshake from Bee’s."

Bee’s chocolate milkshakes were Laura's favorite. She had once broken up with a guy because he'd bought her a Wendy’s Frosty when she was sick. Although they’d gotten back together again the next day.

"Sorry, Laur. I didn’t think." Stiles had called Laura as soon as he left work, asking her to tell him if Derek was going to leave the house. He hadn’t thought to do anything more than buy a couple of essentials and get to Derek's as soon as possible. 

Laura ruffled Stiles' hair fondly. "Make it up to me next year when you and Der are in New York. Just… go upstairs and get my baby brother back for me, okay?"

Stiles nodded and held up his contraband. "I’ll do my best."

Laura gave Stiles another smile—one that was larger and more genuine—before padding off toward the kitchen.

Stiles took the steps up to Derek’s bedroom two at a time. The house was enormous; it was big enough for all three Hale siblings to have their own bedrooms and still have an extra one for their guests. A part of Stiles had been jealous of its size and extravagance when he was younger, but with Cora now stuck in her emo phase, and Laura in college and Derek on his way there, the place just seemed empty and sad.

"Der?" Stiles rapped his knuckles against the door, then pressed an ear against the wood. "Hey, it’s me, Stiles. It’s your friendly neighborhood… you know." When that bit of comic history didn’t garner a response, Stiles turned around and plopped himself in front of the door. "You know how stubborn I can be. I'll wait here as long as I have to."

After ten minutes of butchering the lyrics to "My Humps," and serenading Derek with an off-pitch rendition of "Baby Shark," Stiles was readying himself to sing "Who Let the Dogs Out" when Cora came barreling out of her room.

"If you even think about singing another word, I’m going to rip your throat out with my teeth!" she hissed.

"Ouch. A bit harsh there, Little Hale," Stiles said, wincing as Cora slammed her door, the force causing the transom above it to vibrate intensely. "And after I’ve come a long way—"

Derek’s sigh was audible over the strains of MCR coming from Cora's room. "If I let you in, will you stop narrating, please?"

"I knew you'd got my Spiderman reference, dude! And yeah, deal." Stiles stood, hooking the handles of the shopping bags over his forearm to open the door.

Derek looked horrible. He was sitting on the edge of the bed with his hair plastered against his face, his jaw fully covered in stubble, and his eyes bloodshot and glazed over. It was probably the worst Stiles had ever seen him, including the night they’d gotten drunk and high out in the Preserve.

Stiles sucked in a deep breath, then removed several cartons from his bag.

"I’m not hungry."

"You’d better not waste any of Bee’s good food!" Laura yelled from downstairs.

"Shut up, Laur!" Derek stomped over and slammed the door shut as Stiles let out a small laugh.

"I forgot how much the sound carries from your room."

"Everything carries through the floors and walls of these old homes. It's even worse when you have sisters who can't mind their own damn business," Derek yelled through his cupped hands before flopping back on the bed. He picked up a Nerf basketball and began throwing it against the wall. Each time, it returned to his open hand with frightening accuracy.

Stiles laid out all the food from one bag on Derek’s desk. He removed a round plastic container from the second bag, then took out a stack of rumpled napkins and some plastic utensils.

Derek caught the ball one last time and sat up, eyeing the container. "That’s not from Bee’s," he said as he wandered over.

Stiles rubbed the back of his neck. "Laura said you hadn’t eaten all day. So I brought you a couple of things to cheer you up." He picked up the food one by one, holding it out to Derek like one of the models on The Price is Right. "Bacon cheeseburger, medium rare, with the works. Curly fries. And a strawberry shake."

The corners of Derek's lips twitched. "Don’t even pretend those fries are for me."

"Sharing is caring, and don’t front. You always sneak a couple when you think I’m not looking. Now behind door number four, we have some bagels and an assortment of cream cheeses: plain, vegetable, sundried tomato, and walnut and raisin."

Derek made a face. "Any salmon spread?"

"It was the end of the day. There were slim pickings, my friend. Beggars can’t be choosers."

"I take it back. You’re not Spidey; you’re the Idiom Man."

"Blasphemy! First, there wasn’t a single idiom in the bunch. A proverb, maybe. I'll even grant you a quasi-idiom for ‘slim pickings’, but that’s why I’m the writer and you’re the architect on this team."

Derek bumped Stiles’ shoulder. "You’re an idiot," he said with a roll of his eyes. Still, his stance softened, and Stiles took it as a win.

"Sit." Stiles hooked his foot around the leg of Derek's chair and pulled it out while pushing the plastic container toward him. "Because I also have this."

Derek peeled back the lid. "Chicken soup?"

"Yeah, well… The stuff from Bee’s is because you probably followed some insane diet during the season and it's time that we break that. And the soup is because my babcia always said chicken soup cures the soul."

"W zdrowym ciele, zdrowy duch. Teraz zjedz, Mieczysław," Derek said with perfect pronunciation. He smiled. "Wise words."

Derek had met Stiles' grandmother when she came to the United States for a visit when they were in seventh grade. He'd kept her company while Stiles performed the shit out of his role as Little Red in a bastardized version of Into the Woods and endured her questions about his friendship with Stiles and his own family while she patted his cheeks and called him a good boy. That single week had cemented Derek's status as Stiles' przyjaciel in her mind, and she'd given him hand-knit Christmas gifts along with the rest of Stiles' family until her death two years ago.

"Yeah. Wise words," Stiles said, clearing his throat.

Derek picked up the last item on the table. "An avocado?" he asked with a raised brow.

"You used to eat them all the time. I wasn’t sure what to do with it, though."

Derek turned the avocado around in his hand and snorted softly. "I still do. But I ate a lot of them during training. I'll probably save this for another time." He tapped the fruit against the surface of his desk as his eyes darted again to the burger.

Stiles pushed the burger and fries toward him. "Come on. Everyone deserves a nice, greasy meal once in a while."

Derek unwrapped the foil cover, his lips thinning. "We lost, though."

Stiles bit his tongue. He wanted to say it was stupid to hang onto some ridiculous diet now that the season was over, or as a punishment for some misplaced self-blame Derek certainly didn't deserve, but he remembered how it felt when people told him he had to ‘get over things.' As if what he was going through had no merit. 

"You know, when you told me four years ago that you were trying out for JV football, it was a total shock," Stiles said casually, reaching for a fry. It didn’t escape his notice that Derek’s eyes trailed the fry's path reluctantly as Stiles popped it into his mouth. "It took me by surprise because it wasn’t anything you’d shown an interest in before. But I wasn’t shocked when you made the team. And I was amazed, but not, like, crazy amazed, when you absolutely dominated and led us to the playoffs. Because you’ve always been able to get things done when you set your sights on something. And even though it sucks that you guys didn’t win yesterday, everything you did in the past couple of years was not only a win for the team, it was a huge thing for the school. For the whole town, even. No one could have imagined we'd get as close to becoming state champs as we did." He reached over for the shake, unsuccessfully trying to hide his smile when Derek play-fought to get it out of his grasp. "Anyway, you weren’t the reason the team didn’t win. You were the reason we had as good of a run as we did. How many times have we said that nothing ever happens in Beacon Hills? You gave people something to get excited about, and you can’t take that away, no matter how mopey you get."

Derek dropped his gaze from Stiles' mouth and picked up the cheeseburger. Stiles wanted to fist-pump the air when Derek finally took a large bite. 

"So what’s up with you?" Derek asked as he ate around a pickle that was sliding out between the bun and hamburger patty. Now that he’d committed to eating the thing, he was devouring it like it was his last meal. Stiles wondered if he should have bought a couple more. "Parrish mentioned the two of you’ve been hanging out."

The remnants of several curly fries dangled from Stiles’ mouth. "What? Uh, I mean, kind of?"

"Doing what?" Derek asked before taking a sip of his milkshake, his cheeks hollowing.

"Eh, nothing, really. He stopped by the cafe a couple of times after practice; I mean, he’s as busy as you are with practice and the games, so it’s not like there was anything worth mentioning." A cold and uneasy thought hit Stiles when Derek’s shoulders relaxed at the news. Derek had never been thrilled with the idea of Stiles hanging out with Jordan to begin with. "Wait. Do you have a problem with me and Jordan because… because he’s a guy? Because me being into dudes can’t be that much of a surprise to you. I mean, how many times have you had to hear me wax poetic about Chris Evans in a t-shirt or RDJ’s brilliant wit? Or Liam Hemsworth’s eyes, or even Danny’s dimples, I mean, you couldn’t have thought—"

"Woah," Derek said, putting his hand on Stiles’ shoulder as panic welled inside Stiles’ chest. "I don’t have a problem with you liking guys. I was surprised when I saw the two of you together at Boyd’s, because I never knew that you did. But of course I don’t have a problem with it." He looked up at Stiles, his eyes wide and earnest beneath his ridiculously long lashes. "Stiles, you're my best friend. I'd support you whether you were pan, or bi, or straight, or asexual. And for the record, I wouldn’t exactly object if Andrew Garfield pulled a Ryan Reynolds with me like he did at the Golden Globes, you know?"

Stiles thought back to the kiss that stole the show. "Okay, that’s ridiculously hot. Is it sad that a two-second gag is sexier than anything I’ve ever experienced in my seventeen years on Earth?"

"There’s no way that… What about Heather?"

"Dubious consent during a game of Truth or Dare while under the influence of alcohol is hardly hot."

"I don’t know about that." Derek gave Stiles a wicked grin. "I had to kiss Braeden the next round. It was pretty amazing."

Stiles gestured up and down Derek’s body. "Two hot people macking on each other. Plus, Braeden’s cool, and she totally likes you. I’m pretty sure she would’ve been all up in that, even if it hadn't been a dare. To tell you the truth, I thought you would’ve gotten together with her if you hadn’t started going out with Kate."

"Maybe." Derek stuffed the rest of his burger in his mouth.

"So what's sex like? Now that you've finally lost your v-card?" 

Derek choked, and Stiles gave him a couple of thumps on the back. Derek’s eyes were watering as he shrugged.

"Don’t hold out on me," Stiles begged. "My dick’s been untouched except for my own two hands. Give me some hope here."

"It’s… It’s okay." Derek continued quickly when Stiles snorted. "I mean, of course sex is great. It’s just that Kate’s had other relationships, but she’s my first. Sometimes I feel like she’s disappointed that I’m not more experienced or something."

"Well, that’s stupid. Everyone’s gotta start somewhere." Stiles frowned. "I guess it’s a tradeoff, right? Like, at least you get to reap the benefits of her knowledge. So, are blow jobs as incredible as I hope they are?"

Derek crumpled up the wrapper and threw it in the empty bag. "You have to watch out for the teeth," he said. Stiles made a pained noise. "Kate doesn’t really like giving head. She says I’m too hairy. Maybe I should think about getting myself waxed," he added as his neck colored a dull red.

Stiles banged on the desk so hard, Derek jumped. "What?" Stiles seethed. He'd always been jealous of the fact that Derek could practically grow a beard overnight and had manly arm hair, while Stiles could only manage a couple of scraggly whiskers above his lip and on his chin. 

"Look, I’m not going to force Kate to do something she’s uncomfortable doing. She’s not a bad person, it’s just you asked me about blow jobs, so there’s that."

"Why would you put your body through that, though? You’re not thinking about doing it, are you? You also shouldn’t let anyone force you into doing something you don’t want to." His mouth dropped open, his eyes growing wide. "Holy shit. I never even asked if you really wanted to go to NYU. Or even New York. Dude, there’s like six weeks before decisions, you could pull out if this isn't what you want—"

"Stiles, I want to go. Just how much caffeine did you have today, anyway?"

Stiles thought about it for a moment. "Uh… three cans of Red Bull, I think? Maybe three and a half."

Derek shook his head. "Don’t drive yourself crazy. I’m not stupid enough to move almost three thousand miles away from my family or to enroll in one of the most expensive colleges in the country just because you concocted this idea when we were kids. I’m excited to be in New York, too. Laura makes it sound like she’s having the best time of her life, and not only does NYU have a great program, there will be lots of opportunities for me to make connections. To get an internship down the road. I want to do this, okay? And if my best friend since forever is going to be there with me, then that’s just an extra reason why it's the best plan ever."

"Okay." Stiles smiled as some of the tightness in his chest loosened. "Six weeks until we hear, man."

"Six weeks until the rest of our lives," Derek added with a grin.

"Oh! I almost forgot." Stiles collected the trash after snagging the few remaining fries for himself and placed everything in the empty bag. He closed the lid on the uneaten soup container and pushed it to the corner of the desk. "For later, okay? I know you’ll be hungry again in a couple of hours." He then removed a small box from the remaining brown bag and positioned it carefully in front of Derek.

"What is it?" Derek asked, eyeing the box warily.

"Go on. Open it."

Derek lifted the flaps of the carton methodically: the right and left sides first, and then the front and back. "Oh," he said, his lips parting slightly as he stared at the cupcake inside.

"I tried to get them to write ‘Happy Birthday, Derek’ on it, but they said there’s no way they could do it. They wouldn't even write 'Derek'. Plus, it would ruin all that incredible frosting." Stiles took out a single candle, sank the base with the Superman logo onto the middle of the cupcake, and removed a lighter from the pocket of his hoodie.

Derek swallowed. "My birthday was last week."

"Dude. I know that. But you were away for a game, and we never had time to celebrate."

"Superman, though?" Derek asked, arching his brow.

"They were out of Star Wars stuff. Fits you, though. You know: the hair, the jaw, the muscles. All that amazing earnestness."

"Okay, okay," Derek said, the high points of his cheeks pinking as Stiles lit the candle. He bit his lower lip, his chest rising as he took a deep breath, then blew the candle out.

He took one of the plastic forks and cut the cupcake in half neatly. "You know what I wished for? I wished that—"

"Nuh uh." Stiles waggled his finger in front of Derek’s face. "We’ve told each other our wishes for almost ten years and none of them have ever come true."

"You wished you could play Luke in the next trilogy! His character was like sixty years old by that point. And then you wished the Mets would win the next World Series. That’s like wishing I could actually be Superman or something."

Stiles’ eyes narrowed. "You seriously aren’t making fun of my Mets, right?"

"Stiles, any Mets player worth mentioning is never healthy enough to last for the entire season. They are probably the unluckiest team in all of baseball."

Before Stiles could think better of it, he had dipped his finger into the frosting and then he was smearing chocolate all over Derek’s face. "Take that back," Stiles demanded, as Derek laughed. He managed to scoop up another gob of frosting before Derek gripped his wrist and dragged his sticky hand against his face. "Oh my god," Stiles sputtered, tugging on the front of Derek’s shirt as they both tumbled onto the floor.

His shoulder hit the edge of the seat painfully, causing the entire chair to topple over with a loud crash. He was able to hook his foot between Derek’s legs and roll him part way over, but Derek’s bulk and strength proved too much and he eventually pinned Stiles on his back.

"Take it back," Stiles gasped out between his giggles, trying to dislodge Derek from where he sat on Stiles’ thighs. Derek kept both of Stiles’ wrists pinned overhead as he lifted his free hand, wiped the frosting off his lower jaw, and slathered it over Stiles’ lips.

"What the hell are you guys doing?" Laura yanked open the door, then burst out laughing at the sight of Derek and Stiles on the floor. "Never mind. I don’t want to know," she backtracked, cackling as she closed the door behind her.

Stiles and Derek scrambled to sit up guiltily.

"I apologize. The Mets aren’t as bad as the Cubs." Derek reached up and grabbed several napkins and handed half of them to Stiles.

Stiles took some time to wipe the frosting from his hands and face. "Well, I guess one of our wishes came true, though. Remember that time when you wished we’d be friends forever? I mean, it’s not forever yet, but it’s been a pretty long time." He got up and picked up the remains of the cupcake along with two forks and sat back down on the floor. "I bet it still tastes good even though it looks like ass now," he said, placing the box between them as a peace offering.

"Yeah." Derek peeled back the cupcake wrapper on his half, unveiling the grooves it had left in the cake. "Thanks, by the way."

"It wasn’t anything. I wish I had time to bake something for you, but with work and all…" Stiles shrugged. "You ended up with the Safeway bakery special."

Derek smiled. It was soft and almost shy, with just the hint of his front teeth. "You know what I mean. Just… Thank you."

They ate their portions of the cupcake in silence. Stiles was right; it may not have been picture-perfect anymore, but it was still moist and sweet and totally worth it.

*

When Stiles’ calendar app pinged at 11:45 AM on December fifteenth, it took a moment for the significance of the date to sink in.

"Oh, my fucking god." Stiles jumped out of bed and dashed down the stairs, nearly tumbling over the last three steps as his body got ahead of his feet.

"Fucking fuck," he gasped as he opened the mailbox and saw it: an envelope with a purple-and-white logo on the upper left corner lying on top of a wad of Value coupons and the water bill.

"Oh my god. Sweet baby Jesus, omigod," Stiles said, his voice shaking as he clutched the letter in his hand. He dumped the rest of the mail on the kitchen table and threw himself onto a chair. His ass had barely touched the seat before he shot off a text to Derek.

Stiles: IT’S HERE!!!!!! 

This is not a drill. I repeat this is not a drill

Stiles snapped a selfie holding the decision letter from NYU and sent it off to Derek. "Come on, come on, come on," he whined. He spent fifteen agonizing minutes chewing off a hangnail on his thumb, realizing there was no possible way to lay on the couch without inflicting serious damage to his neck or back, and contemplating whether he needed a change in his Adderall dose because he was seriously jumping out of his skin. But even after all that, there was still no answer from Derek.

Stiles: Coming over now

When his screen faded to black without any response from Derek, Stiles shoved his phone in his pocket, grabbed his jacket and car keys and headed out the door. Maybe Derek wasn’t carrying his phone with him, or it had died. They had a deal; they’d promised to open their letters together, and it wouldn’t hurt to give Derek a friendly, more personal, reminder. Plus, the anticipation and nervousness for both his and Derek’s futures was going to make Stiles Hulk out if he had to wait any longer.

He made the ten-minute drive to Derek’s house in just over five. When he pulled up, Derek’s parents’ Land Rover wasn’t in the driveway, but Derek’s Camaro was sitting out front and the lights were on inside. 

He ran up to the front door, ringing the bell impatiently. "Dude, why aren’t you answering your phone?" he began as the door opened. "Oh. Oops," he backtracked when he saw who’d answered.

Cora’s eyebrows drew down into a vee.

"I guess the whole vampire and sunlight thing is a myth," Stiles joked, shrinking back a bit as Cora’s thickly kohl-rimmed eyes grew narrower. "Is Derek around?"

Cora jerked her head toward the stairs. "Yeah. But he’s tied up at the moment."

Stiles took a deep breath. He refused to be cowed by Derek’s baby sister. Even if she could probably kill him in her sleep. "It’s really important."

Cora suddenly looked like she'd sucked on a lemon. "I can't. He’ll chop off my head if I get him. But you can wait for him downstairs. He should be finished in two minutes. Three minutes, tops," she said, opening the door for Stiles with a smirk. It was amazing how all three of the Hale children had inherited devastatingly good looks and similarly sarcastic expressions.

"Uh… Thank you?" Stiles stepped inside, frowning as he followed Cora into the living room. His frown grew deeper when she took a seat on the other end of the couch. The last time Cora had willingly spent time with him was when she was nine and she’d tagged along with Stiles and Derek when they were collecting bugs and leaves for their sixth-grade science project. "You don’t have to stay. I promise I won’t steal anything."

Cora picked up a book that was wedged between the cushions and propped her legs up on Stiles’ lap. "Trust me. I’d rather be here."

"Okay, then." Stiles let out a long breath and drummed his fingers against the seat. It was quiet—too quiet for a home that was usually filled with the bustle of a large and boisterous family. Suddenly, he regretted his impulsivity in coming here unannounced. "Is everyone out? Is Derek still sleeping? Because I can totally come back later if—"

Cora shook her head, then pointed to the ceiling. "Wait for it," she said, right before curling into herself, wriggling closer to Stiles as if he could shield her from the rest of the world.

Stiles looked over at Cora, then up at the ceiling, before dropping his gaze to Cora again. "Wait for what?" he said and then his heart lodged in his throat.

Because there were sounds.

There. Were. Sounds.

Raspy, pleased sounds. Low sounds that slowly built in pitch and volume. Sounds that were too provocative, too teasing to come from Derek.

"Is that Kate?" Stiles whisper-shouted, his voice strangled. When Cora nodded, Stiles swallowed. "So when you said Derek was ‘tied up’, you meant…" Stiles let out a small meep as Kate’s words grew clearer, his face burning red hot with every Right there, tiger, and God, you feel so good, or Fuck, your tongue. Or, Stiles’ personal favorite, Derek, baby, where did you learn to do that?

Cora mimed a gagging motion with her hands. "That he was tied. Up. Literally."

"I…" Stiles knew Derek wasn’t a virgin, but there was a difference between having Derek categorized into some nebulous virgin, non-virgin dichotomy and visualizing intensely what being a non-virgin meant (in this case, that Derek was apparently kinky enough to be tied up, because holy fuck). He was sure Cora knew exactly what he was feeling as Kate’s words turned incoherent and her praises dissolved into a breathless whine. Embarrassment and an inappropriate rush of arousal made Stiles lightheaded, and he wiped at the line of sweat on his forehead, trying to scramble away before Cora could grow suspicious.

"Yeah. I nearly threw up the first time I heard them, too," Cora said, going back to her book as Stiles leaned over the arm of the couch, his head spinning. "You’d think Kate would get something new in her repertoire. It's always the same thing; I mean, Where did you learn to do that?" She rolled her eyes. "Like they've never done this before."

"I, uh, have to go," Stiles said, standing suddenly. Cora yelped as her legs slid from his lap and crashed to the ground. "Tell Derek I’ll call him later. Actually, scratch that," he amended, because the last thing he wanted was for Derek to know that he’d been here during that. "I’ll just call him. Don’t say anything." He ran out the door, his entire body shaking as Kate’s porn-worthy moans echoed in his head.

Stiles was a seventeen-year-old boy with a more than healthy libido, okay? And Derek and Kate were arguably the most attractive people in the entire school, but… This was Derek. The star quarterback who also happened to be Stiles’ best friend. The guy who’d eaten an earthworm as a dare after Stiles watched Bear Grylls do it on TV. The person who would FaceTime Stiles at all hours of the night if Stiles couldn’t sleep. The friend who imagined far away, out-of-this-world places and who wanted so many of the same things out of life, it was like he and Stiles shared the same brain, only better. 

Even though they’d talked about sex, Stiles had never thought of Derek in that way before today. He’d never imagined what Derek would look like as he slowly took someone apart—and it would be slow, because Derek couldn’t be anything but a considerate lover. And Stiles’ traitorous mind couldn’t stop seeing the different ways Derek could use his tongue; whether he’d flatten it like the time it got stuck to a pole during a ski trip in Tahoe, or whether he’d swirl it around like he did along the top of a soft-serve cone, or whether he’d flick it quickly between his lips like he did whenever he was nervous or deep in his thoughts. Stiles tried to drag his mind to safer places, like Mr. Harris with his mean-spirited smile and stupid striped ties and Coach Finstock with only his trusty whistle and his underwear, but that just made him think about Kate’s mean, stupid smirk, and whether it was one of Derek’s own ties or maybe his jockstrap that was bound around his hands and feet.

"Fuck," Stiles gritted out as he started the Jeep. He nearly made it out of the semi-circular driveway before he realized he'd left his letter behind. "Fuck." He threw the car into reverse, slammed it into park, and hit his head against the steering wheel. "Stupid, stupid, stupid."

Stiles didn’t bother shutting off the engine before he ran back into the house, letting himself in. It would only take a second for him to grab it; he could totally visualize where it must have fallen out of his hand when he’d practically shoved Cora off of him. Thankfully, Cora was gone, and the letter was exactly where Stiles thought it would be—resting next to the front right foot of the couch, its wrinkled surface staring back at him accusingly.

"Thank fuck." Stiles heaved a sigh of relief. He bent down to pick up the letter, turned around quickly, and let out a noise like a beached whale when he smacked into a solid brick wall.

"Stiles?" Derek grabbed Stiles’ arm with his free hand as he held onto a glass of water with the other. "What are you doing here?" Derek's hair was sticking up in a hundred different directions, his cheeks were colored pink, and the skin beneath his stubble was dusky and covered by a slick sheen.

"Uh," Stiles said stupidly, forcing his brain to reboot as he tried to ignore how Derek’s sweatpants were barely clinging to his hips. "I, uh, just wanted to remind you we’re getting our letters from NYU today."

The groove between Derek’s brows grew deeper. "Why didn’t you just text me?" he asked as his hand slipped off Stiles’ arm.

"You know me." Stiles tried to keep the bitterness from his tone as he inched the letter under the hem of his hoodie. "When something gets into my brain, it just takes over. And I was in the neighborhood, so… Anyhoo, it’s like after one, so I’m sure the mail is here if you want to go check now."

Derek’s gaze shuttered. "I can’t. Kate’s here, and besides, you don’t have your letter either. I’m taking her home at three. Why don’t I swing by after?"

Stiles’ face fell. "Three? That’s… that’s hours away, dude. This is life-changing information we’re talking about here."

"I know, but… " Derek ran his hand through his hair, looking faintly embarrassed. "Kate and I… We’ve been going through a rough patch. She hates the idea of me going somewhere far away next year, and I just don’t want to rub it in her face."

Looks like she doesn’t mind rubbing something on yours. "We’ve been talking about this for years."

"I know. And I’m excited, believe me. But like you said, we’ve waited so long already. What’s another couple of hours? Besides, it’d be weird doing the whole thing with Kate here. I’d rather do it when it’s just the two of us."

Yeah, it would definitely be weird. And this was definitely not the way Stiles had imagined this whole thing going down. He’d just thought… 

Well, apparently, he’d thought wrong. "Yeah. You’re right," he said, trying to take solace in the fact that Derek looked relieved, even though Stiles himself felt absolutely gutted. "I’ll see you around three."

"I can’t believe you’ve had your letter for hours and you can’t open it yet," Scott said after Stiles had congratulated him like a hundred times for getting into Foothill College, which had one of the best veterinary programs in the country. "That’s messed up."

"Don’t remind me. I’m thinking of rescinding Derek’s Best Friend privileges at this point. It’s a super egregious breach of faith." Stiles flopped down onto his bed, on his belly. "If I did, would you take over?"

"Dude, hypothetically, I’d be honored. But you and Derek have been best buds forever."

Stiles thought back to the birthday wish Derek had made a long time ago. "Forever’s a long time. And non-hypothetically, people change. They get girlfriends."

"Derek’s got it rough, man. Kate’s been giving him so much shit about going to NYU."

"Fuck her. He's wanted to go to NYU forever. Like, before they even met."

"I know. But Kate’s the kind of person who always gets what she wants. She’s like a magpie that likes to collect pretty, shiny things. And right now, Derek’s the prettiest and shiniest thing around."

Ugh. "Kate’s way more aggressive than that. She looks at Derek like a hunter who's trying to bring down their next trophy kill." Stiles’ eyes darted back to the letter sitting on his desk. "Still, Derek’s his own person. He could’ve said ‘no’."

"Look, Stiles… I know you know Derek way better than I do, but he doesn’t strike me as the sort of guy who likes confrontation. I mean, he probably does what he can to keep the peace. And he and Kate have been fighting a lot; I heard Kate ripping him a new one just the other day when he refused to go to Ennis’ party. He told her he had some family thing."

"Yeah. Every year, his family does the whole tree decorating thing every second Friday in December." Stiles felt lucky to be included in the sacred Hale tradition. This year, he and Derek had gotten buzzed on too much eggnog, enough so that he could ignore Derek’s creepy Uncle Peter and Peter’s comments about how nicely Stiles had grown up.

"And I’m guessing Derek didn’t invite Kate, either. So it’s a whole give and take thing, seeing as she’s his girlfriend. I mean, think about if it were you and Jordan in this situation."

Stiles couldn’t believe how Scott could be so perceptive, but also so wrong. "Dude! It’s not the same thing. Not even close!" He and Jordan had just moved on from kissing to feeling each other up—while still fully clothed—last week. It wasn’t close to tying each other up or doing X-rated things with their mouths. "Jordan and I are just hanging out. We haven't even come close to having the boyfriend convo yet."

"Well, if I was in Derek’s shoes and had to choose between you and Kira, I’d do whatever I could to make you both happy."

"Kira would never make you choose, though," Stiles said with a sigh.

He could hear Scott’s grin over the phone. "Yeah, you’re probably right," Scott laughed. "She’s pretty awesome."

"That’s seriously the best of both worlds. To have a girlfriend who’s also your best friend."

"One of my best friends. You’re one, too. You know that, right?"

Stiles’ heart swelled with unexpected affection. "Awww, man. Seriously, Scotty, you’re the fucking best."

They played Halo 4 for over an hour, at which point Stiles had to sign off.

"Dude, you really gotta go? We just ranked up to SR-20!" Scott whined.

"Sorry, man. It’s like three already, and Derek’s going to be here soon. I can’t wait any longer. I’m dying here."

"Fine. But call me with the good news when you can."

"Will do. Thanks for keeping me company, buddy." Stiles pulled up Derek’s contact as soon as he ended the call and shot off a text.

Stiles: Did it come?

Derek: :) On my desk

Stiles: I swear I’m going to spontaneously combust. Pedal to the metal dude

A series of several dots appeared on Stiles’ screen. He bit his lower lip, his heart racing in anticipation.

Derek: Sorry running late. Driving Kate home now. Be there in 30

Stiles stared at the message in disbelief as anger and frustration turned bilious in his gut. "Well, fuck that," he muttered under his breath. Maybe it was petty not to wait another thirty minutes when he’d already waited for over two hours, but the whole dream of them finding out together and supporting each other during the nerve-wracking event obviously meant little to Derek. He typed his response, his fingers shaking as he tried to focus through a curtain of unshed tears.

Stiles: Can’t wait any more call u later

His heart was pounding as he grabbed his car keys for the second time that afternoon and ran out the door. He wasn’t going to open his letter in the place where he’d been waiting for hours, like some pathetic loser. He felt stupid enough for waiting. Stiles didn't even think about where he was going. Instinct and muscle memory guided him as he parked the Jeep at the trailhead and trekked the three-quarter-mile path to the overhang. He was grateful to be wearing his good sneakers; the leaves were still damp from the morning frost, but weren't too slippery under his feet.

He sat, legs crossed, the coolness of the granite slab underneath him seeping through his jeans. The familiar ‘chup-chup’ of a hermit thrush in the background brought back memories of playing Super Mario Galaxy with Derek, and he laughed as his panic and anger lessened. He only had fond memories here, and they were enough to make Stiles turn the envelope over in his hand and slowly break open its seam with his thumb. He squinted as he scanned the content on the page. Then read the words more slowly for a second time.

"Oh my god." Stiles gasped as the built-up nerves and anticipation from the morning crashed down and threatened to bowl him over. He pulled out his phone with shaking hands; it took three tries to successfully call the one person who'd been there for him, always.

"Hey, Dad," Stiles said, his voice cracking.

"Stiles? What’s up, kiddo?" There was the sound of rustling in the background and then a door closing. "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah. I’m okay." Stiles took a deep breath. "I mean, if you’re okay with the idea of me going across the country next year."

"You got in?"

"Yup. NYU, class of 2017."

His dad let out a loud whoop. "I knew you had it in you. I’m so proud of you, son. Your mom… Oh hell, she would’ve been so proud of you, too."

Stiles grinned. "I’ll have eyes on you, though. Just because I’ll be three thousand miles away doesn’t mean you’ve got the go-ahead to eat all the red meat and fried foods you want," he said, his voice thick.

"Not all. But maybe a little more," his dad chuckled softly. "What about Derek?"

Oh, shit. "Uh… He wants to let his family know first."

There was an uncomfortable silence on the other end of the line. Stiles could imagine his dad’s cop’s brain working overtime in the face of Stiles’ pitiful coverup. "Is everything all right?"

"Yeah. Definitely. It’s just… I’ve been kind of dreaming about this moment for years, you know? I just can’t believe it’s finally happening." Stiles had just imagined it happening a bit differently. He’d never imagined that Derek wouldn’t be the first, or even the second, to know he’d gotten in. He coughed as the emotions of the day overtook him. Suddenly, he needed to get off the call before his dad figured everything out. "I gotta make some other calls."

"Sure. We’ll celebrate when I get home. How does Bee’s sound?"

"Using my good fortune to support your bad habits. Super sneaky, pops."

His dad laughed. "I’ll take it wherever I can. See you at seven?"

"Sounds good." Stiles smiled, a larger and more genuine one this time, as they hung up. He looked at the acceptance letter one more time, muttering several more holy craps, then folded it carefully and tucked it away in his back pocket. He shot off a text of excited emojis along with the words 'NYU baby' to Scott, then was about to stand and brush off his jeans when he heard someone running up the path.

"Stiles!" Derek looked like he was breathless—which was strange, since he usually ran this trail without breaking a sweat. "I can’t believe I finally found you. Why didn’t you answer your phone?"

"Why didn’t I—" Stiles looked down, finally noticing all the texts Derek had sent over the last twenty minutes. He opened his mouth to apologize before anger took over. "Maybe for the same reason you didn’t bother answering my messages for the last several hours. Because I was busy?" he spat out bitterly as Derek stared at him with a confused expression.

"You were busy. Sitting here by yourself," Derek said slowly.

Stiles stood, heat flooding into his face. "No, dickhead. I was at home, biding my time with Scott, who was good enough to keep me company. Unlike my so-called best friend, who asked me to hold up on finding out the most important news of my life because he was more interested in getting his dick wet." Or Kate’s dick, but whatever. "And even when I did as you asked, because we fucking promised each other for the last two years we were going to do this together, you still didn’t think twice about making me wait even longer. So yeah, I was busy with Scott, and then I was pissed that I had waited for you for nothing, and then I was busy driving out here before I stayed busy calling both Scott and my dad about getting in, so I—"

"You got in?" Derek’s face, which had gone through a myriad of expressions, from shocked to guilty to hurt, was now lit up with a huge grin. "I knew it!" He stepped forward to pull Stiles into a hug, only to have his face fall when Stiles pulled away.

"No way, dude. I’m still pissed at you. You…" Stiles needed Derek to know it wasn’t right. That a simple smile couldn’t bridge the hurt he felt. "Friends don’t make friends feel like they’re expendable. That was really shitty. Especially when you knew how important this was to me." To us, Stiles wanted to say, but he wasn’t sure how true that was anymore.

Derek looked like someone had slapped him. "You’re my best friend, Stiles. You’ll always be my best friend. But Kate’s my girlfriend; I can’t just… I mean, you and Jordan—"

"Why does everyone think Jordan and I are something we’re not?" Stiles asked, throwing up his hands. He also wanted to add that Kate was a certifiable, grade-A bitch, while Jordan was pretty much puppies and kittens, but pushed the observation aside. This was about Derek. Not Kate. "That’s beside the point. This was something we—I—dreamt about for so long. You not being there made it seem like it never mattered."

"I’m sorry." Derek took a step closer, slowly, as if he’d spook Stiles if he moved too fast. "I fucked up, okay? There’s no good excuse; all I can do is apologize, and I swear I’ll say I’m sorry a thousand times until you forgive me because even though I didn’t show it today, your friendship is the most important fucking thing to me and it kills me to know you'd think it was anything less." His hands were balled into fists at his sides, and for the first time, Stiles realized Derek's letter was unopened, although the outside of it looked pretty crumpled.

"Sooo." He blew out a long breath. "What’s the verdict?"

Derek just looked confused until Stiles gestured to the letter in his hand, at which point Derek rolled his eyes. "I wanted to open it with you. I promised to share any important news with you, remember? Good, or bad?"

And damn Derek with his earnest eyes and contrite expression. Stiles was hurt, but he couldn’t stay pissed. He moved close enough to nudge Derek’s shoulder with his own, which Derek must have taken as a sign of forgiveness based on the size of his grin. 

"Well," Stiles said gruffly as Derek ripped the envelope open, "Do I have to pray to the dorm lottery gods for a tolerable roomie, or…?"

Derek’s hands shook as he tilted the letter so they both could read it.

"I dunno. I think we make a pretty good pair. Don’t you?" Derek said, his teeth flashing as he grabbed Stiles around the waist and lifted him up in a bear hug. His hands were huge and steady, and their solidness grounded Stiles immediately.

"Oh my god. We’re doing this. It’s really happening," Stiles said excitedly. Any lingering resentment he was feeling faded as he pumped his fist in the air and the forest rang with the joy of their laughter.

*

"Wow, another one?" Stiles stifled the urge to rip down the fourth prom poster he’d seen that morning. "It’s like there’s nothing else anyone’s thinking about until the end of the school year."

"Prom’s kind of a big deal," Scott said.

"Maybe for those who are happily involved in relationships. For the rest of us, it’s just another reminder of how we’re somehow deficient. At least, in the eyes of high school hierarchy and outdated tradition." He frowned. "I mean, proms didn’t even start in high schools. They’re a throwback to a time when men and women were forced into separate colleges and they had to find some way to officially socialize. The entire cishet nature of its origins is problematic."

Scott rolled his eyes. "It’ll be fun. We’ll dance. Get drunk, get stoned."

"Yes," Lydia agreed, joining in their conversation "And though its origin and intent may be antiquated, it doesn’t mean it hasn’t changed with the times. After all, aren’t you going with Jordan?"

Stiles gestured up and down the hallway, his arms flailing wildly. "Look around us. I know you're on the prom committee, Lydia, but we just got past Valentine’s Day. And now we’re being slammed with another reminder of how the legacy of our high school years—not to mention our personal fulfillment—is tied to being in a relationship."

Lydia looked at him sharply. "No one’s forcing you to go as a couple."

"Why don’t you want to go with Jordan?" Scott asked.

"I never said I didn’t. It’s just…" Stiles sighed and let his voice trail off. He and Jordan had been seeing each other for nearly three months, and neither had been dating anyone else during that time. They’d never even talked about what they were; they just kind of slid into being friends with benefits, and from there to seeing each other exclusively and jerking each other off. But there wasn’t any mention of the L-word, not yet, and Stiles was still a card-carrying member of the v-club.

Because even though virginity was a social construct, he wanted it to mean something.

"Prom’s like twelve weeks away. It’s all anyone’s going to talk about until Macklemore and Lewis serenade us with Can’t Hold Us on our way out these doors."

"I vote for Counting Stars," Lydia said.

"I’m a Pharrell guy," Scott chimed in, whistling the melody to Happy.

"Ugh, see? The insanity’s started already."

"What insanity?" Derek asked as he tackled Stiles from behind. The momentum caused Stiles to stumble because, hello, Derek's thirty-pound weight difference plus the element of surprise equaled an unfair advantage. 

He nearly stumbled again because Derek kept his arms around Stiles a bit longer, the hard line of his chest plastered against Stiles’ back.

"Prom." Stiles sighed once Derek disentangled himself. "Specifically, what lame ass, top-forty pop hit will be Beacon Hill High’s senior prom theme 2013."

"Oh, that’s easy. Daft Punk, Get Lucky," Derek said.

Stiles arched a brow. "You already lead a charmed life, Hale. Leave some luck for the rest of us."

"Well, hopefully that luck continues because we’re trying to be roomies next year, right? I was going through NYU's website. Even though they’ll take requests into consideration, there’s no guarantee they'll honor the request. Plus, there’s a chance we could get stuck in a suite. Some dorms are cheaper than others, but they’re small or far from the downtown campus, so I wanted to see what your thoughts on those were, because… " Derek stopped, the tips of his ears tinged pink.

Stiles hated that his finances were limiting their options so much. "Maybe you should just put in for what you want. Especially if there’s no guarantee we’re going to be rooming together. I don’t want you to end up in Brooklyn just because of me."

"Hey." Derek stopped suddenly in the middle of the hallway with a look of displeasure on his face. Scott looked like he wanted to hang back, too, but Lydia tugged on his arm and they resumed their pace, walking several steps ahead of Stiles and Derek. "How many times do I have to tell you I’m not doing this because of you?"

"Right. Because you’d choose Othmer Hall over Brittany or Founder’s, regardless."

Derek made a noise of displeasure. "Let me rephrase. I’m not doing anything I don’t want to do. I want to have a great college experience, and a big part of that is sharing it with you. Besides, Brooklyn’s cool. It’ll be fun, no matter where we end up."

"Sorry." Stiles gave him a contrite look. "The whole thing’s stressing me out. But I did hear from the Scott Howard Memorial Scholarship committee. They awarded me two grand a year."

"Really?" Derek’s eyes grew wide. "That’s amazing!"

"Yeah. Every little bit counts, right?"

"That’s right, Idiom Man. Wait… that was an idiom, right?"

Stiles snorted out a laugh. It had been too long since he’d hung out with Derek, just the two of them, alone. "Yeah, it was."

Derek smiled. "See? That’s why we have to stick together. I’d be totally lost without you."

*

There was a smell to the halls of the hospital that Stiles would never forget. A cruel olfactory memory that lingered in the back of his nose like smoke and soot; a cloying, harsh scent that couldn’t sanitize the pain and sadness embedded in its linoleum floors.

Stiles had seen his mother take her last breath in these very halls. Now, he was praying they wouldn't be the site of his dad's, too.

"Hey. It’s not Starbucks, and they only had this or decaf. But it’s not half-bad."

Stiles quickly wiped his eyes with the back of his wrist. Laura, thankfully, said nothing as he took the cup of coffee from her outstretched hand. 

"Thanks," he mumbled. He wasn’t thirsty, but twisting the cup back and forth in his hands while trying to keep his fingers from getting burnt gave him something to do. After a minute, he moved onto fiddling with the white plastic tab on the lid. "Sorry. I know this wasn’t what you thought you'd be doing on your spring break. I just…"

"Hey. There was no way I was going to let you drive here by yourself. Not to mention go through this alone. I’m just glad Derek didn’t take the Camaro when—" Stiles looked up as Laura hesitated. Her face went through several complicated expressions before settling on disgust. "That Argent girl is a piece of work. I haven’t seen my baby bro since winter break. I’m only home for three days, and yet it seems like she’s hellbent on monopolizing every free minute of his time. And Derek’s either too stupid, or too nice, to do anything about it. Every night she has something planned for them that no one else can join."

"He’s not stupid. Obviously," Stiles said quietly. Laura wasn’t wrong, though; Kate seemed to hate it when Derek spent any time with friends or family if his plans didn’t include her, and purchasing theater tickets for the two of them and her parents and nobody else seemed par for the course. Stiles sighed and leaned back, placing his untouched coffee on the small square table next to them. "He doesn’t want to break up with her before prom because he knows how much it means to her and feels like it would be even more awkward to go as friends."

"Probably because they weren’t really friends to begin with," Laura said. She sipped her tea with an arched brow.

"Probably." Stiles let out a wry smile. "You know, Derek and I thought about going to prom together for a hot minute. Sort of like Andie and Duckie."

"Pretty in Pink? Awesome movie." Laura smiled a secretive smile of her own. "You know, John Hughes originally had Andie and Duckie ending up together."

"Really? He should’ve gone with that."

"Agreed. Unfortunately, legend has it that the test audiences wanted her to end up with pretty boy Blaine instead. Hence, the last-minute reshoot."

"At least Duckie ended up with the Duckette. That’s gotta count for something, right?" Stiles laughed weakly. He scrubbed his face, trying to distract himself with something—anything—before he started crying again like a fucking baby. "I can’t believe I’m talking about prom and a thirty-year-old movie while my dad is in surgery."

"He’s going to be okay, Stiles."

"You don’t know that, Laura!" Stiles cried. He'd heard it before, from kindly neighbors, the nurses and resident physicians—even his dad. Stiles had been told that his mother would be okay, even as she lost her memory and then her will to live, until he alone had witnessed her last breath. "In fact, you don't know anything. I’ve already one lost one parent, or have you forgotten?" He knew it wasn’t right to take his anger out on her, but Laura had both her parents, Derek was out with his girlfriend and her parents, and suddenly Stiles felt very much alone.

"Did you get any more news about his condition while I was gone?" Laura asked after a beat.

Stiles tilted his head, staring up at the fluorescent lights and hoping gravity would hold back the waterworks that were threatening to spill. "The bullet got Dad’s intestine, so they have to fix that. And there’s… there’s blood in his belly," he choked out. "It’s not… They called it a ‘slow bleeder’, so it wasn't a large vessel like his aorta or anything like that, thank god, but they still have to find out where it's coming from." He dug his fingers into the sides of his legs and tried to stave off the oncoming panic attack. The shock-turned-adrenaline-turned-numbness at the news of the robbery gone wrong had given way to an avalanche of feeling. An unstoppable wave of emotions that was about to drag him down with its undertow.

"Hey. Breathe with me, okay?" Laura’s arm was suddenly around Stiles’ shoulder, her voice a grounding presence in the background as white noise flooded Stiles’ ears. "Just follow my voice: Breathe in through your nose… Two. Three. Four. Five. And let it out, Two. Three. Four… " After Laura reached the count of seven, she took Stiles through the entire cycle several more times. He tried to clear his mind of everything but her voice and his breaths, and after a moment, the spottiness in his vision and roaring in his head subsided. Laura’s voice trailed off, but they continued breathing together.

"I’m sorry," Stiles rasped when it felt like he was no longer choked for air. "I’m sorry I took out my frustrations on you. I’m sorry I called the house when Derek didn’t answer his cell, and I’m sorry you drove me here, and—"

"Well, I’m not sorry," Laura said, squaring her jaw. "I’m not sorry because if I had to endure another second of Cora’s moping, I was going to be on the next plane back to New York. Plus, you’re family. There’s nothing we wouldn’t do for you—you know that, right?" 

Stiles rested his head against her shoulder and closed his eyes. He let the soothing feel of Laura’s fingers running through the strands of his hair wash over him. "How did your interview go, by the way?" It was the whole reason Laura was back in Beacon Hills and not at some alcohol-laden beach resort for spring break.

"Good. I think I’ve got a pretty good shot at one of the summer internship slots, although I won’t know for sure for another month." She let out a deep sigh, and Stiles' upper body moved along with the rise and fall of her hers. "I guess I could always work with Peter if I don’t get it, but… "

"The thought of being a high-priced corporate attorney doesn’t do it for you?" Stiles teased.

"Nah. Rather be a low-salaried DA or environmental lawyer and be able to sleep at night, you know?" Laura hummed in thought. "Actually, there was a time when I thought I wanted to be a deputy. Work with your dad. I thought he was super cool, growing up. And it doesn't hurt that he’s hot, too." She laughed as Stiles made a face. "Yes. Is hot. Present tense."

"My mom used to joke that my dad would've shown up at the church in his uniform on their wedding day if she hadn't—Oh, fuck." Stiles pushed himself up to sitting as Laura gave him a quizzical look. He glimpsed his reflection in the half-dome mirror overhead. Even though the image was distorted, there was no mistaking how his hair was sticking up in all different directions or how exhausted he looked, even though they'd only been at the hospital for only a little over an hour. "I can’t go to New York. I’m going to have to give up my spot."

"Woah. What are you talking about?"

 "I… " Stiles took a deep breath. His brain had a bad habit of constantly running at a hundred miles an hour, and he could sympathize with Laura’s inability to keep up with his apparent non-sequiturs. There had only ever been one person who could, besides his parents, and that person was currently stuck at some local theater production of Pippin. "You know my dad’s not pulling anywhere close to the kind of salary Peter is. And now that he’s hurt… If he even makes it out of surgery—"

"He’s going to make it," Laura said fiercely. "And Derek told me you got several scholarships. You’re jumping to conclusions—"

"NYU’s got one of the highest tuition rates in the entire country. Plus, living expenses in New York?" Stiles shook his head. "Even if that weren't an issue, I can’t leave. I know what you’re going to say, that my dad would want me to go," he said, "but whether he’s going to be out of work for two months or twelve, it doesn’t matter. I’ve been through this before. He’ll need someone to take him to his doctor’s visits, to therapy. He’s going to need someone to make sure he eats right and that things around the house are done and that he doesn’t get hurt trying to do them himself."

"Let's—Why don't you wait to see what the doctor says before making a rash decision?"

Stiles shook his head. "I need to be here for him—and not just for him, but for me, too. He’s all I’ve got, Laur. I’d be a mess if I were so far away, in New York."

Laura’s eyes went soft with sympathy. "I’m so sorry, Stiles. I know it was your dream. Yours, and Derek’s."

Oh god. Derek. "You can’t tell him, Laur," Stiles said in a rush.

"Stiles… This isn’t exactly something you can hide from him. He’s going to know."

"I know, but… I’m not saying that he’s stupid enough to give up his dream, but you know Derek tries to put everyone first. Look at tonight, for example. He didn’t want to hurt Kate’s feelings, even though I'm sure he's got zero interest in seeing the play or spending time with her parents, because he knows he can’t avoid hurting her when they do break up. And now, because you’re home and he’s not spending time with you, he’ll overcompensate to make it up to you. Oh, and I’m sure he’s going to feel super guilty about not getting my calls tonight, even though there’s a difference between feeling bad and being guilty, because it wasn’t his fault. But that’s just going to tip the scales to the 'Do what I can to make it up to Stiles' side. You know what I mean?"

Laura nodded sadly. "Yeah. I do."

"So you can’t tell him, Laura. He’ll find out, eventually. And maybe I’ll just defer for a year and we can pick up where we left off. But I don’t want him doing anything, intentionally or not, to jeopardize going. Or being happy that he can go, while I'm… Please, Laura. I couldn’t live with that. Not on top of everything else."

*

It was like watching a disaster unfold in slow motion. Stiles’ dad stumbled while juggling both his cane and an enormous shopping bag with one hand.

"Seriously?" Stiles squawked in indignation as he grabbed the bag. "The cane is supposed to go on the ground, not around your arm."

Noah huffed out an irritated sigh. "Contrary to popular opinion, I can still wipe my ass and pull on my pants one leg at a time. Oh, and walk the ten feet between the kitchen and the living room."

Stiles slung an arm around his dad’s waist and helped him to his seat. "Dr. Deaton said you’re not supposed to be doing anything strenuous." He placed the bag on the table, then lifted his dad’s shirt to check on his incision. The skin around the staples was healing nicely, to Stiles’ relief. "What if you fell and opened up your wound?"

"Deaton also said it was good for me to move around. All this worrying is unnecessary. If it doesn’t stop, I’m going to request a clearance to go back to work just to get a break."

"Dad!"

"Look, kiddo," Noah said, his tone resigned. "I know you mean well. And I’m not blind to everything you’ve done for me, but I’m really feeling better. The hovering isn’t necessary. And it’s not healthy. For either of us."

Stiles sank into the empty seat next to his dad. He closed his eyes briefly to steady his pounding heart as memories from that horrible night came flooding back. "I could have lost you," he whispered. "I can’t stand by and do nothing."

His dad’s hand was instantly on his, the touch as warm and comforting as when Stiles was a child. "You’ve already done more than I could ask of anyone, Stiles. And I can’t imagine how scary that was for you. But I’m better. Much better. And part of my recovery is doing all I can to become fully independent." His dad’s expression softened and he let out a little chuckle. "I feel a little hypocritical giving you this talk, by the way."

Stiles arched a brow. "How come?"

Noah shook his head, the corners of his lips twitching into a small smile. "Most kids start developing their coordination and fine motor skills when they’re about three. You, though… You seemed determined to gain it all within the first several months. You were this tiny ball of insurmountable energy. By the summer, you were walking and jumping and climbing everything imaginable. Just… Constantly testing your limbs."

Stiles ducked his head and smiled. He’d always been a hyperactive child. It wasn’t much of a stretch to imagine the trouble he’d gotten into, even at a young age.

His dad’s eyes softened as he recounted the memory. "I was putting away the groceries—you must have been two, maybe three, years at the most—and I'd left a box of gummy snacks on the kitchen counter. To this day, I’m not sure how you managed to sneak by me and do things so quickly, but… You dragged a chair over to the counter, climbed onto the seat, and pulled yourself up onto the ledge by scaling the seatback. I was a deputy, Stiles. Part of my job was to monitor people in custody."

Stiles didn’t even bother trying to stifle his laugh at his dad’s obvious dismay. "Genius knows no bounds," he said, wriggling his fingers.

"Mm hmm. Well, I’m sure you could imagine what happened next. I turned and saw you, and I swear—if anything, that made you more determined to reach your goal. But then the chair tipped over when you pushed off of it with your leg. My heart stopped; you… you looked so small, so vulnerable as you hung on. And before I could reach you, you’d slipped. You stared at me from the ground with this look of utter shock—like you couldn’t decide whether to be scared or defiant or pleased—right before you burst into tears." A sober expression washed over Noah’s face. "I felt so many things at that moment: guilt and fear. Anger at myself for being stupid enough to turn my back on you, even for a second. Remorse for leaving the snacks where you could see them. But mostly, I felt like I’d failed you. And I wondered, not for the first time, how other parents managed."

Stiles patted his dad’s hand. "Trying to keep someone who’s way too curious and accident-prone for his own good from getting into trouble is a losing proposition."

Noah gave Stiles a look that was both sad and fond. "Your mom sat me down and told me that falls in life are inevitable. That it was our responsibility as parents to do what we could to prevent the big ones, and to help pick you up if you couldn’t do so on your own. Honestly, I think I’ll always worry about you, as much when you're thirty as I did when you were three. But allowing you to test your boundaries not only teaches you your limits, it’s also how you grow."

Stiles didn’t think he could love his dad any more than he did in that minute. He coughed, trying to clear the lump from his throat. "All right. I hear you. I’ll try to lay off the micromanaging."

His dad squeezed his hand. "I know it’s your birthday, but I have another favor to ask." When Stiles said nothing in return, Noah continued. "I need you to take all that energy you’ve been spending on me and focus it back on yourself."

Stiles frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"You’re eighteen today. Eighteen. It’s… This may sound overly sentimental, but you’re on the cusp of adulthood. It’s a big deal. And instead of celebrating this milestone with your friends, you’re spending it with your old man."

"It’s the middle of a school week. A bunch of us are doing something this weekend. Besides, you’re my old man and my best friend. Well, you and Derek. Best friends, that is. Not the old man part. I mean, not for Derek."

His dad blinked. "Stiles—"

"There’s nowhere I’d rather be now, okay?" Stiles said, his voice rough. "Now, do I finally get to see what led to this whole conversation in the first place? You gonna show me what’s in the bag?"

Apparently, his dad was satisfied with the outcome of their talk because he nodded and pulled the bag closer. "I know this was always your mom’s thing, but I figured your eighteenth was a big enough occasion to bring back the tradition." He pulled out a large white box, and Stiles felt his own eyes practically double in size when he saw the gold-foil label of the bakery two towns over.  

"You went all the way to Sinema?" He ran his hand over the label reverently. It had been his mother’s favorite bakery, in her childhood hometown. It was also the place where she’d taken his dad on their second date, and where he’d refused to set foot again after her death. Until now. "Please tell me that’s a double chocolate cake with buttercream frosting."

"Perhaps." His dad chuckled as Stiles fist-pumped the air. "I’m not above bribery."

"Uh oh. Bribery for what? You mean college?" When his dad nodded, Stiles sighed. His dad hadn’t been subtle in his support for Stiles studying in New York, especially once he’d learned Derek had been accepted at NYU, too. "It’s too late for that, Dad. I’ve already notified the admissions office of my withdrawal. My spot’s gone. And honestly, it’s for the best. I wouldn’t be able to focus on my classes, being so far away from you. It’s a waste of a year, not to mention all that money. And I can always reapply next year if things change."

"Still. It’s not right. Putting your dream on hold."

Stiles pasted on a grin. It felt a bit too bright and forced. "It was a dream. I’ll still get a great education somewhere else. In fact, I already spoke to an admissions officer at Beacon Hills Community College, and there’s space for me in the incoming class. The only downfall is that you’ll have to put up with my sorry ass for another year."

"Oh, kiddo." His dad’s voice cracked. "You’ll always have a room here. For however long you need."

And there was that annoying lump in Stiles’ throat again. "Let’s hope for both of our sakes it’s just another year."

"Just know it’s an offer without an expiration date." Noah patted Stiles' hand, then unknotted the red-and-white striped thread holding the cake box closed. "I’ll be right back with some plates," he said as he started to stand.

"Sit. I’ll get the plates. My birthday, my rules," Stiles said as he made his way toward the kitchen. He took out some plates and glasses, then rummaged around the utensil drawer for some forks and the cake server.

"By the way, I ran into Melissa at the supermarket," his dad called out. "She said Scott’s been trying to reach you. Something about whether you’re going to prom because he needs to reserve a table."

Stiles froze from where he was opening the refrigerator door. "Yeah. I’ll… uh, I’ll call him soon. I just haven’t decided whether I’m going yet." He removed the milk, then balanced everything in his arms as he made his way back to the dining room.

His father’s sharp gaze seemed to burn a hole into Stiles’ back as he set down the plates. "So. How are things with you and Jordan?" 

Stiles sat. It was strange to think he was more comfortable talking about life’s future plans than a high school fling. "Fine. He asked me to go to prom as his date, if that’s what you’re wondering."

The furrow deepened between his dad’s brows. "And you don’t want to? Or just not with him?"

Stiles shrugged. "Prom seems kind of frivolous with everything that’s going on. And Jordan’s a great guy. He’s nice and cute and unbelievably patient. Anyone would be lucky to be with him."

"Anyone who’s not you, you mean," Noah said quietly as Stiles grunted his assent. "You can’t force yourself to feel something that’s not there."

"I know. Plus, Jordan’s heading off to UC Davis in a couple of months. Which isn’t that far, but it’s just far enough that it requires an effort neither of us is willing to make. So if we do go to prom together, we’re going as friends."

"So there’s no need for me to give him the shovel talk, then?"

Stiles felt his face flame. "No dad," he groaned. "Do I have to remind you I’m eighteen now? Plus, Jordan’s a great guy; if anything, I'm the one being a jerk. So no shovel talk needed."

"Fine. But I keep the right to give one, whether it’s now or in another ten or twenty years." Noah drummed his fingers against the table. "You know, your senior prom may not be the most important thing in the world, but it’s nice to do something fun with all your friends before everyone moves on. Life’s… Well, it’s too damn short. Don’t pass on going if it’s something you want."

Stiles took a deep breath. "Okay, I’ll think about it, Dad. I promise." 

"Good." Noah slapped the table with both hands, as if to signal the end of that conversation. "Now, how about a piece of that cake before it turns as old as you?"

*

"Dude," Stiles said, unable to keep his jaw from dropping. "What happened to your face?"

Because between Derek’s turn as Beacon Hill’s indisputable football hero, his membership in the high school honor society, his model-worthy good looks, and his bleeding heart (because yes, Virginia, Derek even volunteered at the local animal shelter, helping animals find their furever homes), Stiles had been pretty sure his best bud was a shoo-in for prom king. That is, until he saw the patchy red dots that were creeping up Derek’s neck and onto his face.

"I don’t know," Derek said miserably. "All I know is I feel like clawing my face off. It’s like I’ve been rolling around in a patch of poison ivy." He went to rub his neck, which only served to turn his skin a brighter, angrier red.

Stiles slapped his hand away. "Stop that," he grumbled. He scanned Derek's body, his eyes narrowing when he spied the spray of flowers making up Derek’s boutonniere. "Wait a minute," he said, pulling out his phone. He placed his thumb and forefinger along the angle of Derek’s jaw and tilted Derek’s head to the side, then moved in so he could get a good look at Derek’s skin. 

But, of course, the second he was in the perfect position, the toilet in one of the stalls flushed and someone came stumbling out. Stiles froze, and beneath his hands, he felt Derek stiffen.

Greenberg’s eyes darted between Stiles and Derek warily. "Uh… " He still had a hand on the stall door yet his body was slowly inching toward the exit. "I didn't mean to interrupt anything."

Stiles watched as Greenberg stood there uncomfortably. Suddenly, he realized that his and Derek’s faces were so close, it could appear as if they were up to something… compromising. 

Stiles jumped back. "Oh my god. It’s not what you—" he began.

"It's cool!" Greenberg stammered. "Love is love! Or, ha, what goes on in the bathroom stays in the bathroom. You know, like that Vegas saying?"

Stiles felt his eyes narrow into little slits. "What exactly do you think we're doing?"

Greenberg made a noise like a dying cow. "Nothing! I mean, just because Vegas is known as Sin City doesn't mean I think you guys are… I mean, just because you're both in here. Together—"

Derek snarled. Greenberg let out a small meep and ran out of the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

"Gross." Stiles made a gagging noise. "He didn’t even wash his hands. Although I have to admit, when you grabbed me and pulled me into the bathroom, I also thought it’d be for something more illicit." Heat flooded his face when Derek arched his brow. "I mean, you know: classic prom shenanigans. Stuff that could get us into trouble."

Some of the tension drained from Derek's face. "So, a regular Friday night for you." Derek said with a chuckle.

"Anyway." Despite Greenberg’s interruption, Stiles was able to get the picture he needed and did a quick Google search. "Dude, where did you get your boutonniere from?" he asked when the search results came back, his breath stuttering.

Derek’s brow furrowed in confusion. "From Kate."

"No, not who did you get it from. I mean… like, where did Kate buy it from?"

"Like I said: Kate," Derek repeated, as if Stiles were the dense one here. "Her prom dress is one of those flowy Grecian things. She said it made her feel like Artemis and she wanted her corsage and my boutonniere to reflect that, so she collected the flowers from the Preserve and made it herself. I think she got the idea from Reddit or something."

"What an idiot," Stiles muttered.

Derek’s eyes flashed with hurt. "I… I actually liked the idea. Trust me, I hated ninety-nine percent of everything else that went into planning this night, but of all of it, this was the one thing I was on board with. To take something from the Preserve was like she thought to include something that was important to me."

"Except these innocent looking yellow flowers? Google says it’s aconite. Wolfsbane," Stiles clarified, as Derek’s gaze dropped to the offending plant in horror. "It’s highly toxic. If you want to stay with the Greek theme, they used to use wolfsbane to poison their arrow tips when hunting wolves. Oh, and Medea tried to kill Theseus by adding aconite to his drink. As for you, my friend, it causes a nasty rash. Or worse." 

Stiles took a paper towel from the dispenser, enclosed the sprig within it, then removed the pin that held it to Derek's suit with his other hand before tossing everything into the trash. "Go. Wash your face and neck with soap and water. And don’t scratch," Stiles added, trying to remember the things he’d done for his first—and, thankfully, only—encounter with poison ivy.

Derek pumped the dispenser on the wall vigorously, each furious jab producing only a pitiful amount of soap for his efforts. "Wolfsbane. I don’t know why I’m surprised this is how the night’s turning out," he said with a sigh as he slathered the foam over his neck. 

Stiles leaned over and loosened Derek’s bow tie and collar. "You’re going to soak your shirt if you keep that up." He watched as Derek dabbed at his skin angrily. "If it’s really bad, we could find a pharmacy and get some anti-itch cream."

Derek grabbed several paper towels, folded them into a thick square, then ran them under cold water. "I’ll be okay," he said, leaning against one of the stall walls and pressing the towels against his neck. "It feels better already. I’ll be ready to go back out there in a bit." He shot Stiles a guilty look. "Shit. Jordan’s probably wondering where you are. You totally don’t have to wait around here with me."

"Nah. I'll text him. He’s cool. Besides, what do I have to rush back out there for? A bunch of Eminem-wannabes trying to sing the sped up lyrics of a Macklemore hit? Which… I totally called the prom theme, by the way. Usually, I’d take great pleasure in being right, but in this case…" Stiles shrugged as his words trailed off.

Derek huffed out a laugh. "Can we go back? This is the moment, tonight it the night, we’ll fight ‘til it’s over," he sang, the lilt of his off-key notes making Stiles go warm and fuzzy.

"You’re such a dork," Stiles said, nudging Derek's side. 

After a moment, he felt stupid just standing around while they waited for Derek's rash to subside. Plus, it was getting warm in the small space, so he shrugged off his jacket and began fiddling with his shirt, just to give himself something to do. "Ugh. I’m glad writing is my calling, because I can’t have a career where I have to wear a tie or some stuffy uniform every day." When Stiles failed to get his bow tie to knot properly after the fourth try, he tugged on the end until it slipped off his neck. "Nope. Tees and sweats forever, baby."

Derek let out a soft laugh. When Stiles looked over, Derek was still holding the compress to his skin—which looked considerably less red—and his eyes were fixated on the line of Stiles’ neck. "Wouldn’t want it any other way."

Stiles stuffed the tie in his jacket pocket. "Sadly, I’m not brave enough to face the wrath of the prom committee by rolling into the room in my hoodie and Hanes." He played around with the top two buttons of his collar for a bit. If he chose to leave them buttoned, it would look more formal, although the tightness of the material around his shoulders and neck made him feel a bit choked. If he left only one button undone, it looked like a mistake; two buttons struck the casual attitude Stiles was going for, but left the vee of the shirt opening low—low enough to show a glimpse of the dusting of chest hair he had going on. "What do you think? Casually formal, or just casual?"

Derek jerked his gaze up from Stiles’ chest. Stiles frowned; perhaps having both buttons undone was too much, even if it was just a prom at the local Holiday Inn. 

"Uh… " Derek cleared his throat. "It depends. Is it for dancing, or…?" He cleared his throat again, the tips of his ears growing bright red.

"Who knows? Jordan booked a room for the after prom, like everyone else. Why? Is it too creepy? Bordering on Peter territory?" Stiles waggled his brows with a playfulness he didn’t quite feel. Jordan had been incredibly patient over the last several months, but Stiles knew he was hoping tonight would be the night they moved their fuck buddy status to the actual… well, fucking. 

Derek gave Stiles a pained look. Perhaps the mention of Peter was too much. Stiles wanted to rid Derek of his sour expression, and it was so easy to reach out and distract him when he was already in Derek's space. Plus, the redness in Derek's neck was starting to look two shades darker.

Stiles removed the paper towels from where they were crumpled in Derek’s hand. "Time to get a new one there, buddy. Your skin’s getting irritated again." He chucked the old compress into the trash, then folded a stack of new paper towels and ran it under cold water. "Here," he said after he’d wrung them out, "This will be better." He slipped a finger between the collar of Derek’s shirt and his skin to give himself better access, then slid the compress in carefully. 

"Thanks," Derek said, his voice rough. Stiles hadn’t realized how much he was concentrating on the task, or how lowly his own head was bent. But when Derek’s fingers brushed over Stiles’ to hold the compress in place, Stiles suddenly realized he could see the bounding pulse at the crook of Derek’s neck. He was so close he could smell the scent of Derek, make out the notes of cut grass and sunshine and soap that filtered through despite the sharpness of Derek’s cologne.

Stiles moved back. His heart was suddenly pounding against his chest; the heat in his face flamed further when he saw Derek was watching him closely, his infuriatingly gorgeous green eyes darkening under a curtain of thick lashes.

"I…"  Stiles croaked out, his words failing him as Derek’s gaze dipped to his suddenly dry lips. Stiles took another step back, but even then, he couldn’t drag his eyes from Derek’s mouth. 

The silence hung heavy between them. Stiles was conscious of every rise and fall of his chest. The drip from the faucet he’d neglected to shut off all the way seemed interminably loud as Derek’s lower lip swelled with promise, gripped firmly beneath his teeth. 

It was the most excruciating ten seconds Stiles could ever remember, yet he didn’t want it to end. He tried to steady his breathing, but it felt like his heart was pounding out of his chest.

"Derek—" Stiles started.

"We should head back. Jordan and Kate must be wondering what happened to us."

The rebuff felt like Stiles had been plunged into an ice-cold bath. Smack dab in the middle of Antarctica. "Right," he said, backing up farther. "I… yeah." He grabbed his jacket, leaving his shirt unbuttoned as he ran out the door.

Stiles was pretty sure Derek was following close behind him. But Derek didn’t call out after him, and there was no way he was going to look back to satisfy his curiosity. What had almost happened in the bathroom… Sure, Stiles knew Derek was objectively ridiculously good-looking, smart and kind and super athletic. Pretty much anyone who had a pulse would be drawn to him. But Stiles also knew Derek was a softie. That he was a great listener. An artist who could imagine out-of-this-world, full-blown metropolises yet doodle ridiculous caricatures of Jackson or Mr. Harris. He was someone who would do anything for his parents or sisters, even if accompanied by an eye-roll. And he was, apparently, both kinky and good in bed.

Honestly, when it was all laid out like that, Stiles couldn’t believe he hadn’t realized it sooner.

I’m in love with my best friend, Stiles thought as he fought back a hysterical laugh. The situation was both ironically hysterical and sadly impossible, because Derek was with Kate, and Stiles was sort of with Jordan, plus Derek would be leaving for New York at the end of the summer. Most importantly—despite their briefly charged moment—it didn’t appear as if Stiles’ feelings were reciprocated. And as much as Stiles hated how manipulative Kate was, he could sympathize with her a little, because the knowledge that Derek didn't want the same things as him just added a whole other layer of hurt.

He pushed his way through the crowd, glad that the DJ was pumping Harlem Shake at a decibel loud enough to drown out his thoughts. He tried to take some solace that he wasn't the only person who felt miserable when he saw Coach Finstock’s constipated and slightly bewildered expression at all the gyrating bodies around him.

"Where were you, dude?" Scott shouted into Stiles’ ear as Jordan sidled next to him.

"Sorry. I was trying to avoid a last-minute wardrobe malfunction," Stiles said, apologizing to them both.

Jordan wrapped his arms around Stiles’ waist. "Guess you solved it, because you look pretty damn fine. Although I wouldn't mind creating a wardrobe malfunction of our own later."

Stiles tried not to shy away from Jordan’s touch. He might have been the king of corny one-liners himself, yet hearing one from Jordan made his heart race—and not in a good way. Stiles scanned the dance floor, almost unwillingly seeking Derek out, and nearly cursed when he saw him with Kate in front of the table with the rest of the football players and cheerleaders.

It was too far away for Stiles to read her lips, but there was no question Kate was pissed. She was jabbing her finger repeatedly against Derek’s chest, then pointing at his face, as Derek waved his hand in the air in response angrily.

"That’s going to make for an interesting coronation," Jordan said as he nibbled on Stiles’ ear.

"You think they’ll be king and queen?"

"Who else would it be? But seriously, the question should be, who cares? Speaking of kings and queens—beds, that is." Jordan stepped back and pulled something out of his back pocket. "This isn’t an assumption, by the way," he clarified as he slipped a plastic room key into Stiles’ palm. "I mean, we could use it to crash if we get stupidly drunk, or just hang out with a bunch of friends and watch movies. But if you want to use it for anything else… " Jordan shrugged, but the implication remained.

Ugh. This is all wrong. "Jordan—" Stiles whispered-shouted to be heard over the music. Which, of course, stopped that very second as the lights flickered on and Coach Finstock took the stage.

"All right! Everyone gather 'round; we’ve got some important announcements to make!" He tapped the mic several times. "Is this thing on? This room’s only paid for until eleven-thirty, so everyone get a move on. Greenberg. Jared. Let’s go. Jeez, my grandmother can move faster than that, and she’s dead." 

There were a few tittering laughs. When most of the student body had gathered and the nervous laughter quieted, Finstock continued. "Okay, let’s get going here. Will the following students please come up: Lydia Martin. Heather Miller. Braeden Simmons…"

Stiles and the rest of the audience watched as the nominees for Prom King and Queen were called onto the stage. He rolled his eyes as nearly each girl pretended to be embarrassed or shocked by her nomination. At least when Kate took the stage, she smiled smugly, like she deserved every vote. Jackson, Boyd, and practically the entire first string of the football team were called next, capped off by Derek. Derek didn’t look shocked, just uncomfortable with the attention. He didn’t look at Kate, even though she seemed like she was trying to will him to do so with her intense gaze. Instead, Derek’s eyes darted out over the dance floor until he spotted Stiles and promptly froze.

Stiles wanted to look away, but couldn’t. He was as hypnotized by Derek’s charisma as everyone else.

Jordan came up behind him. "Three weeks of high school left and everything’s still a big popularity contest," he laughed, the heat of his breath curling around Stiles’ ear. It was enough to break whatever hold Derek had on Stiles, and Stiles smiled weakly as Derek looked away.

"Now, for the moment that at least two of you have been waiting for. Beacon Hill High School’s Prom Queen, 2013 is… " Coach Finstock opened one of the envelopes in his hand. "Surprise, surprise. You guys," he said, shaking a finger. "Your head cheerleader, Kate Argent!"

Kate stepped forward. Her white Grecian gown flowed delicately around her long, tan legs as she bent down and accepted the sparkling tiara that was placed on top of her golden curls.

Coach Finstock waited for the applause to die down before holding up the second envelope. Stiles watched, his hands planted firmly in his trouser pockets. "And now, for your 2013 Prom King," Finstock announced as he opened up the ballot results. "Oh, blow me over; it’s another shocker. Our king is none other than our head quarterback, All-State Student-Athlete Derek Hale!"

Well, Stiles could at least cheer on his friend, as predictable as the results were. He clapped as Derek accepted his crown and scepter with a pink blush to his cheeks. His claps slowed, however, when Kate stepped forward. Her mouth was pulled into a predatory grin and Derek visibly stiffened, looking suddenly like prey. 

Stiles stopped applauding altogether when Kate stepped into Derek’s arms and kissed him in front of the entire crowd. It was a kiss that was purposeful and almost angry while Derek’s arms remained immobile at his sides, but grew soft and triumphant as Derek’s shoulders dropped, his hands curling around her tiny waist as he reciprocated her kiss.

Somewhere, through the roar of white noise in Stiles’ ears and the growing catcalls and applause, he heard Finstock muttering something about inappropriate displays of affection during school functions.

Stiles slid his hand back into his pocket and fingered the room key Jordan had handed him earlier. He took a deep breath. Let the sharp edges dig into his palm. 

Virginity is just a social construct.  

Stiles tipped his head back so that it rested on Jordan’s shoulders. "You know. The room. Is it true the showers here are big enough for two?" 

"I’m definitely up for finding out if you are," Jordan husked. He swooped down to claim Stiles’ mouth. Stiles tried to ignore the fact that the lips that kissed him were too thin, the eyes that stared at him hungrily too green, and the cheek that nuzzled against his too smooth. He tried to block out the images of Derek giving into Kate’s kiss, and the futile wish that it had been him instead. 

He told himself that he was lucky to have Derek in his life. Even if it was as a friend and nothing more.

*

By the middle of August, the slow trickle of grads leaving Beacon Hills’ borders had grown into an exodus. Jordan had two weeks of football under his belt and was already good friends with his roommate at UC Davis. Kira had spent the summer in SoCal with relatives before USC, while Erica and Boyd were off to Ohio State. Derek was leaving for the East Coast tomorrow, while Lydia would travel to Cambridge next week. It figured that Lydia would try to leave a lasting mark with the most memorable party Beacon Hills had seen in years before putting her stamp all over MIT.

To Stiles’ surprise, Jackson—who was heading to Stanford pre-law—was unusually subdued. Perhaps it was because the playing field would soon be leveled, or the pressure of living up to his family’s legacy. Or maybe it was because all the post-graduation sentiment had turned him into an actual, feeling person. Regardless of the reason, Jackson had started to gravitate toward Scott and Stiles as the others spread their wings and flew.

Jackson was dubious company, but Stiles accepted it grudgingly. He felt less abandoned surrounded by familiar faces. Pathetic as it was.

"Hey. C’mon," Derek said, tugging at Stiles’ shirt impatiently as they tumbled into the photo booth Lydia had rented for the occasion. 

Stiles' shoulder slammed against one of the walls and a dull ache bloomed, dispelling his alcohol-fueled buzz. 

He felt his face flame as he gracelessly fell into Derek’s lap. "Uh," Stiles said, sliding down onto the bench next to Derek. Not that the new position was much better, since the seat was barely wide enough to fit Derek’s bulk alone.

Seriously. Derek’s thighs.

"Come on, big guy," Stiles said, giving Derek a poke. Derek scooted over a paltry amount—which was totally unhelpful, since Stiles remained half-wedged on top of him. "Jesus fuck, how are you still packing on the muscle? Shouldn’t you have returned to a normal human size after the fall? Or are you staying on this alpha-male track forever?"

Derek’s eyebrows drew down, as if he were concentrating really hard. Which was a hard look to pull off when his eyes were red and bleary. He let out a low growl that, unfortunately, did things to the pit of Stiles’ belly.

"I’m the alpha now," Derek said, before dissolving into a fit of laughter.

"Yeah, yeah. Control those alpha eyes of yours before they ruin every shot."

Derek patted his head. "You’re so serious. When did you become so serious, Stiles?"

Ever since Dad got shot? Since I had to give up going to my dream college? Since I realized life’s got a terrible sense of humor and I’m crushing on my best friend? "Cut it out. Or we can forget about this," Stiles said irritably. He tamped down the flash of guilt that hurtled through him as Derek stared at him, his expression guileless. 

"Not Serious Stiles. Grumpy Stiles," Derek said, nuzzling against Stiles’ cheek. 

Stiles' jaw dropped at the intimate move. The brush of Derek's stubble was probably marking up Stiles’ skin, and he made a noise of protest as the camera clicked.

"Ugh. Also, look who’s talking, Mr. Grumpy Eyebrows," Stiles groused. Seriously, Derek’s eyebrows had an entire language of their own. 

Derek threw an arm around his shoulders and the camera clicked once more.

"‘M not grumpy. I’ll be ready for the next—Shit!" Derek groaned as the camera clicked for the last third and last time. He ducked his forehead against Stiles’ and snickered. Stiles, meanwhile, was having an internal meltdown because it was totally unfair that Beacon Hill’s hotter-than-the-sun best athlete in forever was hanging all over Stiles and fucking giggling. "One more?"

Stiles was pretty sure it would be a miracle if he made it out of tonight with his dignity and their friendship intact. "Nah. Let the others have their turn." They stumbled over each other trying to stand—the booth was difficult enough for two six-foot-tall guys to navigate while sober—before Stiles finally reached down and hauled Derek up, looping his arm around Derek’s waist and leading him out.

Derek didn’t seem to mind. If anything, he took advantage of the opportunity by sagging even further into Stiles as he snagged the lone bottle of beer floating on ice in a nearby metal tub.

Stiles gently pried the bottle from Derek's fingers and set it back down. "Hey, Der? Maybe you should quit while you’re ahead and go home. I mean, I know it’s just after midnight, but stuff’s winding down and you kind of have a big day tomorrow."

Derek blinked. "I do?"

"Yeah, dude. Racking up those miles flying to the Big Apple? Making friends and breaking hearts at NYU?" Stiles’ lips thinned as Derek continued to stare. Just how wasted was Derek, anyway? "Ring any bells?"

"I know. I was just busting your chops. Not leaving until the afternoon, though."

"Still." Stiles wrinkled his nose. "You should probably get home. Take a shower. Sleep this off."

Derek nodded vigorously, like Stiles had the best ideas. "Okay. Let’s go home. But not home."

Stiles stopped. "You’re making zero sense here, buddy."

"I wanna go to the Preserve. To the place we used to…" Derek pointed his finger at Stiles’ chest. "Our spot." He looked up at Stiles, his eyes suddenly clearer, and waited.

Stiles let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. "Yeah. Okay. Let’s get some fresh air and sober you up so you won't give your parents a heart attack."

"They won’t worry if I’m with you."

"You’d think they’d know me after all these years." Stiles shook his head, watching as Derek seemed to catch his second wind and bounded toward their cars with renewed energy. "We’re taking the Jeep!" he shouted after Derek’s lurching form, grateful when Derek didn't argue but gave him a sloppy thumbs-up instead.

As soon as Stiles got into the driver’s seat, he shot off a quick text.

"Okay," he said, replacing his phone in his pocket. "I told Lydia we’ll pick up the Camaro in the morning—Oh my god, stop that!" Stiles cried out as Derek jabbed the tongue of his seat belt buckle against the frame. He could imagine the scratches it was leaving on the plastic and metal. "My baby can only take so much abuse. She's not some muscle car; she needs a light touch." He pushed Derek’s fingers aside, trying not to think about how strong or warm they felt under his.

Derek grinned when the belt latched with a click. He settled back against the seat as Stiles started the car, then patted Stiles’ thigh. "You’re the best."

Stiles sighed. "Yeah, that’s me. Champion Seat Buckler. And you thought being an All-State quarterback was cool." He pulled out of the driveway and made the right, driving more slowly than usual because Derek’s hand was still on his thigh and it was suddenly hard to breathe. In fact, it was a good thing Stiles had lived in Beacon Hills for his entire life, because he was pretty much driving on muscle memory, as focused as he was on the heat from Derek’s hand that was leaching through his jeans. By the time they reached the Hales’ driveway, Stiles was surprised he could even exit the car.

His legs felt like jelly.

"Let’s go." Derek shot Stiles a surprisingly sharp smile as he slid out of his seat. His eyes still had a reddish hue, but even in the light of the Jeep's interior, Stiles could see that some of their normal watercolor was starting to bleed through. As they cut through the field toward the edge of the forest, Derek only seemed to grow steadier on his feet—his steps surer, his posture straighter, only stopping when they reached the forest's edge.

"Man. This is… Remember?" Derek whispered, grabbing Stiles' hand and pointing toward the night sky.

The grassy spot where they’d spent most of their nights camping under the stars as kids was now overgrown. The stars that dotted the heavens overhead were unchanged, however, and the memories they evoked as they twinkled against the gray-blue fabric of the summer sky brought on an overwhelming rush of nostalgia.

"Yeah." Stiles coughed to clear the hoarseness from his throat. All this was going to be gone tomorrow, the divide between their past and future demarcated in thick, double-yellow lines. "It’s been so long."

Derek sat, tugging Stiles down next to him. Even after they were both seated, Derek stayed close, close enough that the hairs on his forearm brushed up against Stiles’ with the smallest movement. 

"Remember your birthday? We were in fourth… no, fifth grade. Yeah, because we were in Millman's class," Derek said. "We came up with the idea for ‘Magical Bullet’ that day."

"It's ‘Magic Bullet’. And I remember spending half the night arguing about the two letters."

"You won, though." Derek nudged him playfully. "You always win."

"I don’t know. Doesn’t feel like I’m winning much these days." Stiles took in a deep, shuddering breath. "Sorry," he said, his voice thick with remorse. "The last thing I want is to spend your last day here being such a downer."

"Hey. Stop that." Derek nudged him again, but then gave it up in favor of wrapping his arm around Stiles and pulled him close. "You’re so strong Stiles. So strong. I mean… Like, all this time, you've been helping your dad, and you still got into BHCC and were fucking salutatorian of our class. And I know Lydia's genius levels of smart, but she barely beat you out for valedictorian, even with everything you had going on. You… You’re the best, Stiles. You’re so fucking strong, no matter what kind of shit’s going down. It's like that saying: when life gives you lemons, and all that." Derek's face was scrunched up into an adorable pout. "That's an idiom, right? Wait… Not an idiom."

Stiles huffed out a laugh. "It’s not an idiom; it’s a proverb. You never could get those right." He flicked Derek’s arm with his forefinger.

"Stiles," Derek whined.

Stiles fought to hide his grin. He stayed still—too scared of saying something he’d regret, of breaking up this lighthearted moment. It had been so long since Stiles had felt like this. Where it was just him and Derek against the world.

"I’m going to miss you. I’ve missed you so much already," Derek said, and woah, he sounded almost angry.

"I’m still here, buddy," Stiles said carefully, straightening himself out.

"I mean I’ve missed you the last couple of years. We barely hang out anymore."

Anger soured the warm feeling from before. "Could’ve fooled me," Stiles gritted out.

"Huh?"

"I wasn’t the one replacing our time with practice, a girlfriend, and a whole new crew!"

"Excuse me. You had Jordan. And Scott." Derek spit out the words like they tasted foul in his mouth.

"Only after you disappeared from my life!" Stiles sighed when Derek flinched. Perhaps that was a bit harsh. "Okay, it’s not like you dropped off the face of the earth or anything. But we went from best bros who talked every day to me feeling lucky if I got even a single text from you on the weekends. And as for Scott… Well, Scott’s awesome, okay? I’m pretty sure I’d still be friends with him, no matter what. It would’ve been better if we all hung out together, but he was never meant to be your replacement. With everything you had going on, it just fast tracked my friendship with him a bit." Stiles scrubbed the back of his neck. "Gotta tell you, I’m surprised you even noticed." 

Stiles knew it wasn’t fair to lay out years’ worth of grudges when Derek was already in a mood, his head muzzy and emotions on high from weed and beer, but now that Derek had brought it up, it was hard to hold back.

"Fuck," Stiles said. Derek let out a hurt sound. He was too drunk to navigate his hurt properly, but he knew he couldn’t throw away years of friendship just because he was bitter about his unrequited crush. "Sorry. It’s just you’re heading off tomorrow while I’m staying behind. I’m totally in the running to become Beacon Hills’ newest cliché and I'm taking it out on you."

Derek stared at Stiles for several more seconds, his eyes unblinking, until his expression smoothed over. Apparently, he was just as good at the game of denial as Stiles, even while sloshed. "Which one?" Derek asked, lying down on the grass and interlacing his fingers behind his head.

"What do you mean?"

Derek snorted. "Which cliché? I mean… This is Beacon Hills."

Stiles laughed softly. "Fair. There are a lot to choose from. Okay, what about—going into the family business."

"Jackson."

 "Agree, hands down. I think his dad has his engraved nameplate with 'esquire' already ordered. Hmm... What about 'First to Get Married?'"

"Not hard. Erica and Boyd."

"You think? I mean, Scott and Kira could give them a run for their money." Stiles laid down on the grass next to Derek. Derek patted his arm, and some of the tightness in Stiles’ chest eased.

"They'd win 'First to Have Kids,'" Derek said, his words slurred yet voice filled with such conviction that Stiles grinned.

"Totally, dude. Scott and Kira are like the embodiment of puppies and kittens times ten. Plus, they’ve got the whole high school sweetheart, first love thing going for them."

"Yeah. Lucky them." Derek released his grip on Stiles’ arm and let his hand drop to his side. He was quiet for so long, Stiles almost thought he’d fallen asleep.

"Guess that’s not something we’ll have to worry about, right?" Stiles said as he nudged Derek in the ribs. Derek grunted out something unintelligible in response. "I mean, it’s not like either of us were with the love of our lives."

"Yeah," Derek said again, sounding really, really sad.

Something soured in Stiles’ stomach. Something more than the cheap alcohol and chips he’d consumed earlier that night. "Derek," Stiles said, sucking in his breath, "Do you still have feelings for Kate?" 

Derek looked at Stiles like he'd just announced that werewolves were real. "Kate? No, why would you think that?"

Because you left me hanging and then broke my heart by sucking face with her in front of our entire class? Because you blew off something we had been planning to do together since we were kids because she was in your bed? "I mean, it’s not that big of a stretch. You guys dated for nearly a whole year."

"Not a year. Eight months." He tugged on a tuft of grass. "I wasn't even happy for most of it." 

"Wait. You blew off our weekends for someone you didn’t even like?"

Derek shrugged. Stiles didn’t know whether to be angry or confused at the revelation, but Derek’s blasé attitude just made everything worse. "I don’t get it," Stiles said, his frustration destroying what was left of his already-compromised brain-to-mouth filter. "Why’d you stay with her if you were so miserable? You could have, like, anyone you wanted."

"Yeah, right," Derek said, and now it was his turn to look frustrated.

"If not you, then what chance do us mere mortals have?" Stiles asked. For some insane reason, Derek looked even sadder, and Stiles was not having that, not when Derek was going to be heading off to New York in a little over twelve hours. "Like, even if we took away your athletic prowess, or your killer bod, or your kick-ass car—"

"Laura’s car," Derek mumbled.

"Semantics," Stiles said with a wave of his hand. "You inherited it for all intents and purposes after she left, and it’s you, not her, who’s been driving it around for the past two years. Ergo: your car. But that's beside the point, because even if you didn’t have the Camaro, or any of the other things I listed, the deck’s still stacked unfairly in your favor. So much in your favor you could probably claim tesserae for the past ten years and still make it safely through a reaping."

Derek rolled halfway over so he was leaning on his elbow. His face was hidden in the shadows, his expression unreadable no matter how hard Stiles squinted. "You don't get it," he said, his voice tired. "Before, when you said… I was never jealous of Scott. Maybe I was bummed he was like your new best friend—"

"I told you already, it wasn't the way—"

"Whatever. Thing is, I was angry with myself, but I wasn’t jealous. At least, not of him."

"Who then—Wait, are you saying you were jealous of Jordan?" Stiles asked, his voice pitching high as Derek hung his head. "You'd been dating Kate for ages before I even met Jordan. And Jordan and I—We were friends more than anything else. Okay, maybe friends with benefits, but it wasn't this deep love connection. We knew it wasn't anything serious. Why would you be jealous?"

"But that’s the point! You were friends. You actually liked hanging out together. You could be yourselves. And I—I never had that with Kate." Derek laughed, strained and bitter. "Kate never saw me as anything more than a thing. It was part of the image: head cheerleader dating the quarterback. She would've gone for anybody wearing that jersey."

"Maybe not Greenberg," Stiles mused, aiming for levity but falling flat as Derek's lips thinned.

"It wasn’t just Kate. All those parties, all her friends… The only thing people cared about was that I’d show up. All anyone could talk about were the games, or… or my stats. None of the guys on the team even know I draw! They were all surprised when I got into NYU because they thought all I wanted to do was play football. I can't even talk Star Wars with them because… because they think Anakin is some whiny, emo kid, because they only know the prequels!"

Stiles bit back the fact that Jordan was familiar with not only the originals and prequels but also the extended universes; he wasn’t completely insensitive. "I’m going to be brutally honest, okay?" he said after a long sigh. "Because tomorrow you’ll be heading off to a really amazing school in a really amazing city. And the kicker is, you’ll fit right in, because you’re the most amazing person I know. Well, besides my dad," Stiles added, because Derek was looking at him with this dumbstruck look on his face, like he couldn't believe a single fucking word that was coming out of Stiles’ mouth, "which is some pretty heady company, you know? You’re the best, Derek. You’ve been my best friend for half my life. You’re smart, thoughtful, and funny, and—despite the whole, I don’t know, Calvin-Klein-underwear-model physique you’ve got going on—you’re actually just a dork underneath. That’s meant to be a compliment, by the way. From your even dorkier bestie. So… Yeah. You’re hands down the best friend I could’ve ever hoped for. Period." It was a torrent of word vomit carried forth on a river of alcohol and crushed hope, but Stiles didn’t care because Derek deserved to head off to college assured of his status. 

"The letter. I wasn’t there when you opened your letter."

"Oh." Stiles bit his lip. "Yeah. That was kind of shitty." 

“Yeah.” Derek took out the photo strip from his pocket and held it in front of him, squinting. “I’m sorry.”

Stiles frowned. It wasn’t like Derek hadn’t apologized already. 

“Water under the bridge. Just remember how awesome and forgiving I am when you’re making a million other friends at NYU, okay?” Stiles looked down and let out a startled laugh. No wonder Derek was staring at it as if it held the answers to life. In Aramaic. “Dude, you are so going to be hurting tomorrow,” he said as he helped turn the photo strip right side up and handed it back to his drunk best friend.

Despite the lights of the Hale house shining in the distance, it was hard to make out all the details captured by the photo booth. But Stiles couldn’t ignore how he and Derek were up in each other’s space, with their hands resting familiarly on each other’s shoulders and faces so close that if either of them had turned even fractionally, it would’ve been easy to mistake the pose for a kiss.

Derek held the pictures next to Stiles’ face, then gave him a sloppy grin.

“I could never forget you.” He reached up and pushed the fall of Stiles’ hair off his face.

Stiles felt his cheeks heat as Derek’s hand lingered. "Der—" Stiles croaked, his body rigid, too afraid to move lest he lean into the touch.

Derek turned further into Stiles, so he was nearly bracketing his body before pushing himself up to sit. "There," Derek said as he fumbled the opening of Stiles’ chest pocket and tucked the photo strip inside. His fingers remained in place, curled against the edges of the pocket, and Stiles thought there was a good chance Derek could feel his heartbeat pounding underneath. "Now you can’t forget me, either."

"You take it. You’re the one going away," Stiles protested.

"You’ve always supported me—even football, which you hated. You make me feel like I could do anything. You’re the only one who gets me, Stiles. Only you." Derek finally removed his hand, only to bring it up to Stiles' face, then slowly drew his thumb along the curve of Stiles’ cheek. "Who was that dude? The guy who erased Bertha's memory? In Harry Potter?"

Usually it was Stiles who made huge leaps in thought. If they were anything like this, he wondered how anyone could keep up. "What? You mean Barty Crouch?"

"Yeah! Barty Crouch. The dad."

"Seriously, you remembered Bertha Jorkins but you couldn't remember a pivotal Death Eater?"

Derek just looked at Stiles, his face fond and proud. "Even Barty Crouch’s memory charm couldn’t erase you from my life."

Stiles knew where this was heading. It seemed inevitable, promising all the disasters of a runaway train. Because while Derek was leaving for New York, Stiles would remain behind, surrounded by reminders of a past that were even more indelible than the pictures on a photo strip. He wouldn’t be able to escape the schoolyard where he and Derek first became friends. Or the grocery store where they’d both gotten, then promptly lost, their first summer jobs after destroying a display by recreating the Death Star battle after hours. It would be impossible to avoid the small town park where they’d smoked the pot they’d stolen from Laura’s stash, both feeling reckless and carefree while laughing for hours. And he’d never be able to escape this—the otherworldly night sky that seemed to glitter most intensely near the Preserve, or the intoxicating smells of the fields and woods where he and Derek had spent countless hours. 

And as for tonight—well, what was one more memory to add to an already long, Derek-filled list? Stiles knew they should probably talk things out first, especially if stuff was about to go down while Derek was hardly sober. But then Derek leaned closer still, his soft hair tickling the curve of Stiles’ cheek, his lips tasting of rum and beer and happiness and promise as he captured Stiles’ mouth. His hands were strong yet gentle as they settled against Stiles’ hips, and all Stiles could think was how perfectly they fit against each other, and how nothing he’d shared with Jordan had ever felt quite as right, as if all the years he and Derek had spent in each other’s company had been leading up to this.

He wove his hand around the nape of Derek's neck and deepened the kiss as they swallowed each other's moans. They would figure things out tomorrow. After all, one year apart was inconsequential when they had a whole future to look forward to.