“You’re just jealous of our friendship,” Stiles says cattily, butting the top of his head more firmly into Derek’s armpit.
“Right,” Scott says, putting his jacket on. “I’m jealous that I don’t get to snuggle on the couch with the two of you.”
“Obviously,” Stiles agrees.
“I have a fiancé,” Scott says. It’s his new favorite word. “I snuggle with her on the couch. She smells better than either of you idiots.”
Stiles makes an indignant sound, poking Derek’s side to get him to join in as well.
“What,” Derek mumbles.
He tends to check out completely while reading a new book. If he’s rereading something, you can get his attention. But if it’s a new book… “Pay attention to me,” Stiles demands with a series of pokes. Derek grabs his finger and turns the page with his other hand.
Scott sighs loudly. “Just friends,” he says. “Of course you are.”
And then he’s gone before Stiles can free himself, and Stiles is left pouting in his wake.
“Guh,” he lets out, giving up on the idea of freedom and giving in to the lure of Derek’s warmth. He throws an arm and a leg over Derek, turning his head on Derek’s chest to better see the book.
It’s in Italian, of course it is.
“Can’t believe he’s still going on about this,” he mumbles, mostly just to have said something. He doesn’t expect Derek to actually reply.
Derek does. “He does have a point.”
Stiles’ eyebrows shoot up. “You think we’re dating.”
Derek makes a noncommittal sound.
A fair reaction to this would involve flailing and creative facial expressions, but Stiles is just way too comfortable where he is. He settles for a tiny bite over Derek’s t-shirt. Derek doesn’t even react to it.
“We’re not dating. We’re friends. We hang out as friends.”
Derek turns the page again. “Not that different,” he comments.
“Yes that different,” Stiles says with a snort-laugh. “I don’t make my dates eat Pop-Tarts for dinner, and I don’t fart in front of them.”
“I would much rather you didn’t fart in front of me either—”
“It’s a perfectly natural bodily function, Derek.”
“—and that’s actually what happens when you’re in a long-term relationship.”
Stiles has never been in a long-term relationship, so he wouldn’t know if he would fart in front of them or not, but he kinda wishes he could right now, just to change the subject. There’s suddenly less air in the room and it’s getting kind of hard to breathe.
“Just go to sleep,” Derek says, pulling his own legs up and arranging Stiles in a mostly horizontal position with just one hand. He’s getting to be an expert at that. “I’ll wake you up when it’s time for the movie.”
Stiles closes his eyes gratefully.
When Derek’s eyelashes start to flutter – like fucking butterflies, what the hell – Stiles considers pretending to still be asleep. He could do it easily, he still has time, but he’s been watching Derek’s face for half an hour now and he kind of really wants to see his eyes open.
They open slowly. They’re sleepy and unfocused but still bright and—what the hell kind of color is that? Stiles really hates werewolves for fucking with his beauty standards, especially the Hales, with their dark, shiny hair and their eyebrows and their impossible bodies.
Derek is looking at him now, which makes sense because Stiles’ face is, like, an inch from his, but he doesn’t say anything. He licks his lips and lets Stiles take his time mapping his face. God knows what he’s thinking, but at least his eyebrows aren’t being grumpy at Stiles. Because they do that, the eyebrows. They can be surprisingly surly, especially when Derek is sleepy, but nope, not today, they seem peaceful right now, kind of expectant.
Stiles runs a finger along one, tracing the arch of it.
Derek’s lips fall open at his touch.
Stiles’ heart skips a beat.
“So,” he says, swallowing against the knot in his throat. “We’re dating, huh.”
“Kind of,” Derek says. Stiles has never heard his voice so soft before.
Stiles’ fingers tangle in Derek’s shirt. It’s a very old shirt, wearing thin from the wash. “You could’ve said something.”
“I did,” Derek says.
“Yeah, today.” Stiles pokes him in the ribs for emphasis. “You could’ve said something last week, or last month, or last year.”
“What was I supposed to say?”
“I don’t know,” Stiles says, his gaze skittering away from Derek’s face for a moment. “Maybe something like: Stiles, stop farting in front of me, I want to romance you.”
Derek laughs quietly, resting his forehead against Stiles’.
“Now there’s no hope for romance,” Stiles continues, warming up to the subject. “I have killed the romance because I can’t resist bean burri—”
Derek covers his mouth with a hand. “Stop talking about farting,” he says.
Stiles wraps his fingers around Derek’s wrist to pull his hand down, and then he conveniently forgets them there. “Right,” he says. “You should’ve said that months ago.”
Derek is looking at him all intensely now. “I love you,” he says, enunciating the words clearly.
It still takes a few moments for Stiles’ brain to really register the meaning of the words. “We’re pack,” he says, in a daze.
“Yes. I do love the pack. But you… I would step between you and an army of kanimas. It’s… different. It’s…”
Stiles licks his lips. “It’s a stupider kind of love.”
“Maybe,” Derek says with a smile.
A rogue smile grows on Stiles’ face. “You’re stupid over me,” he explains when Derek gives him an inquisitive look.
Derek rolls his eyes. “And you’re always over here for the ambience,” he says sarcastically.
Stiles has to give him that much, because they’re being honest and open and relationship-y, but first, he needs to try and see—he moves his chin up and they’re right there, lips against lips, the softest touch imaginable, and then Derek leans in and Stiles opens his mouth and it snowballs into a wet, hot, biting kiss, their hands grabbing what they can reach, Stiles making the most embarrassing sounds, and god, he can’t breathe.
“Wow, okay,” Stiles says panting. “That—happened.”
Derek presses a wet, sucking kiss under his chin.
Stiles can’t stop the moan escaping his throat. “Oh, god. Oh, god. This is real.” He grabs Derek’s chin to make him look up. “Derek, this is—this is a real thing. A real thing that is happening. With kissing and everything.”
“Yes, Stiles, you see, when two boys like each other very much—”
Stiles shuts him up with the least coordinated kiss in the history of kissing, but oh god, he can’t even—he loves every dorky bit of this guy, and he never thought—he came here today to watch a movie and steal his Pop-Tarts and now he’s kissing Derek.
“You are my favorite person,” he says, a little too desperately. He can’t say I love you. Not now, not yet. He’s never said it to anyone, not in a romantic way, and this is way too fast and scary—but it doesn’t seem to matter anyway, because Derek is smiling at him like he just handed him the moon and—wow.
Wow. That is one beautiful smile.
“Look at that,” Derek says, rubbing his beautiful smile all over Stiles’ face. “I think you just saved romance.”
Stiles, thankfully, does not choose that moment to fart.