Chapter Text
Stiles wakes up and feels like shit. Absolute shit. His brain feels like it’s trying to shove itself out of his head through his eyes. His ears ring. His mouth is dry and gross. It’s all horrible.
It’s so horrible, in fact, that he doesn’t even see Derek for about two whole minutes as he sits up in his bed and tries to collect himself. He just sways on his mattress and eventually turns to try and grab his phone, doesn’t see it on his nightstand, then turns to look at the pillow beside him and sees Derek, sitting up and blinking.
“Uh,” he says. He pinches his arm and then blinks several times again.
“Hi,” Derek says. “You didn’t want me to leave.”
Stiles feels a weird sense of déjà vu. He thinks on the previous night, tries to recall what sort of situation he could have gotten into that would result in having Derek here and in his bed.
“Uh,” he says again.
“Let me get you some water. You probably feel pretty horrible right about now.”
Derek climbs off of the bed and Stiles sees he’s wearing jeans and a sweatshirt and that can’t have been very comfortable to sleep in.
When he returns, a minute later, Allison is with him. She gives him a long and heavy look as he walks through the room and Stiles wonders how on earth Derek explained this to her.
“Thanks,” he says, when Derek hands him the water.
“I tried to make him leave,” Allison says, “but you didn’t want him to go.”
Stiles looks at her. He looks at Derek. He’s not sure what the cover-up story is here, so he just stays silent.
“I told her,” Derek says. “In case you don’t remember. I told her we were together last semester.”
Stiles’ mouth drops open.
“And also,” Allison says, “excuse me, but Jackson? Jackson Whittemore?”
“What?” Stiles asks.
“I told her about him, too,” Derek explains. “That he was from your senior year.”
Stiles feels his heart pound against his chest.
“Um.”
“I—yesterday,” Derek clears his throat. Is he flushing? “I accidentally, I may have, choked him out.”
“What?”
“After—when he called you—that.”
Allison gives Stiles a skeptical glance, but Stiles is focused on Derek.
“I realized,” he continues, “that he was probably one of them. So, I asked. Sort of, er, forcefully.”
“Accidentally? Or forcefully?”
“Forcefully,” Derek affirms. “It wasn’t an accident at all.”
“Oh.”
“And then I—well, I just couldn’t go to that stupid formal, so I came here. To talk. But you were a little indisposed.”
“Right.”
Stiles feels, for once in his life, like his brain is not, in fact, going at a pace of about a hundred miles an hour. It feels as though his brain might actually be going backwards.
“So,” Derek says, “yeah.”
Allison folds her arms over her chest. She says, “I’m going to leave you two here to chat. If you need me, Stiles, text or call, okay? I’ll just be on campus.”
Stiles nods, kind of dumbly. Watches her leave.
Derek comes over and sits on the edge of the bed. Stiles looks at the dip in the mattress from his body, to assure himself this is real.
“Is that okay?” he asks.
“What?” Stiles says.
“If we talk?”
“Oh.” Stiles has brief memory of being called masochistic and a fucking liar and it feels very early to go through all of that again. “Can I just, er, shower? And maybe make coffee?”
“Sure,” Derek says. “I’ll go wait in the kitchen.”
“Right.”
Stiles sits there for a second, lets Derek just stare at him, before he gets up and leaves.
What the hell is going on, he thinks. Has he stepped into an alternate reality? One in which he and Derek didn’t have the most massive fallout of his life? Maybe. He’ll take it.
He gets up. Goes to shower.
When he’s done, he pulls on jeans and a shirt and goes into the kitchen. It smells like coffee already, and Derek’s standing by the counter, offering him a mug.
“Here,” he says.
Stiles takes the cup from him, warily, and looks down into it. Kind of reminds him of the first time Derek ever gave him coffee. In Am Lit, all those months ago, and he looked at it the same way and Derek laughed and called him paranoid.
“Er, thanks,” he says.
“Yeah.”
He sips it. Sets it down and stands on the other side of the counter, just looking.
“So…”
“So,” Derek agrees. “I have to apologize.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
Derek closes his mouth, though, and Stiles feels like maybe that was his apology. Well, better than nothing, he supposes.
“Uh,” he says, once a few more seconds of silence have passed, “it’s fine.”
Derek nods. He looks away. Stiles thinks maybe he’s supposed to say something else. What does Derek want him to say? He sips his coffee again while he considers.
“Was that all?” he asks.
Derek turns his gaze back to Stiles.
“I haven’t even apologized yet,” he says.
“Right,” Stiles says, feeling like an idiot. How long is he supposed to sit here and wait for this fake apology? He glances at the clock on the microwave. 8:42 it reads. He watches the little, green numbers. Eventually, it blinks to 8:43…8:44…
“I’m really sorry, first of all, for calling you all those things, when you broke up with me,” Derek speaks, finally. “I was so upset but the truth is, as much as it sucked, you had every right to break up with me, and the way I reacted was totally skewed. I didn’t handle it like an adult at all. I thought of all the worst things I could say, and I threw them in your face. You aren’t a masochist at all, breaking up with me was the opposite of what a masochist would do. I was hiding you like you were something to be ashamed of. I pushed you against a wall and gave you a scar. I talked about going out with another woman to cover up the fact that we were dating. It was all really shitty. You didn’t sign up for any of that.”
Stiles looks at his coffee because he thinks looking at Derek would be too hard.
“I’m really sorry that I hurt you. Emotionally, I mean. But also, physically. I want you to know that it was never my intention. And I didn’t even think that you were hurt—not that that’s any excuse—when I shoved you. I didn’t know until Boyd mentioned it. I’m really sorry, though. I’m sorry for doing it in the first place and I’m sorry for not checking afterwards that you were alright.”
“It’s fine,” Stiles says again, quietly.
“It’s not fine. It’s not. I would never want to be like your—like that. Someone who hurts you and then pretends it didn’t happen because I was too embarrassed to own up to it and apologize. So, I’m sorry Stiles. I’m really sorry.”
“I’m sorry, too.”
“You already apologized,” Derek interrupts. “You don’t have to do it again. It’s my turn, now.”
Stiles stares at his coffee some more.
“Anyway,” Derek says, “you don’t have to forgive me, ever. But you do deserve an apology.”
“Thank you,” Stiles says.
“And I’m also sorry for bringing up your dad. That was super shitty. I know you have a…complicated relationship with him. One I can’t understand. And you’ve asked me to respect that, and I didn’t. I don’t like him, but I do like you, so, sorry for that too.”
Stiles nods.
“Anyway,” Derek says. “I know it’s probably been a really rough twenty-four hours for you, so, I should go. But I wanted to say all this to you when you were sober. I’m sorry, Stiles.”
Stiles watches, aghast, as Derek starts to leave the kitchen. He feels this overwhelming urge to forgive him on the spot and beg him to stay, but he thinks he shouldn’t. He thinks he needs to maybe sit with this for some time, first.
He follows him to the door, anyway, and before Derek can open it, says, “can I ask you something?”
“Yeah?” Derek says, kind of hopeful, and Stiles wishes they were talking about something else.
“You, uh, you told Allison…?”
“Oh.” Derek nods. “I did. Back in December, Boyd, he, uh, he kind of told me to get my head out of my ass. About you.”
“He knew?”
“Yeah. I guess. Honestly, I think it was pretty obvious. I don’t know how more people didn’t figure it out. So, I told him. And Cora, too. And then Isaac. And, well, it’s just kind of evolved from there. I don’t care who knows anymore. I’m not going to keep hiding it.”
“Right,” Stiles says. “Congratulations. For coming out, I mean. It’s hard. But twinks will be, you know, lining up at your door now.”
Derek cocks his head, gives him an odd look with a half-smile. He says, “maybe.”
“Not maybe,” Stiles tells him. “For sure. So, just be on the lookout. We can be kind of scrappy.”
Derek’s smile stretches a bit more. “Right.”
“Best of luck,” Stiles continues, and he wonders why he can’t shut the fuck up about all the gay guys that’ll be fawning over Derek now he’s out, “with them. Have fun, I guess.”
Derek stands there. He looks like he’s about to say something, but eventually he just turns to open the door.
“Friends again?” he asks, not looking Stiles directly in the eye. Like he’s nervous.
“Of course. Friends.” Stiles says.
Derek nods. “See you later, Stilinski,” he says.
“See you,” Stiles answers. Watches him walk down the hallway. Says to himself, “what a start to the day.”
~
It is news, but it’s not the biggest news. Like, people are definitely talking about it around campus, did you hear? Derek Hale is bisexual! But apparently some guy at formal on Saturday night ate three living goldfish on a dare and then puked them up later onto a cop when he was getting arrested for public intoxication, so, that’s really much higher on the gossip column than Derek.
But it’s the number one thing on Scott’s mind, once Allison texts him, because he calls Stiles on Monday afternoon and says, “Derek Hale?!”
“Yeah,” Stiles sighs. “Derek Hale. Who would’ve guessed, huh?”
“I can’t believe this. You literally, like, what’s the word? For when you put all the thoughts out into the universe?”
“Manifested.”
“Yeah. You manifested this.”
“If I had manifested it,” Stiles points out, “he would have been out while we were dating. Not a month and a half after we broke up.”
“Oh.” Scotts pauses on the other line.
“What?”
“Just, I mean, you don’t think maybe he came out for you? So, you guys could get back together?”
“No way. I think he just got tired of hiding it. He said, ‘friends’ the other day. So, that’s what we are now. Just friends.”
“Oh. Well, I’m sorry man.”
“It’s fine. At least I got three months, right?” he chuckles weakly, Scott doesn’t.
“Was he nice, er, while you guys were together at least?”
Stiles thinks about Derek taking him out to eat, he thinks about his attentiveness in bed, he thinks about sitting and talking for hours, sharing things he hadn’t shared with anyone else.
“Yeah,” he says. “It was really good, actually. Really good.”
~
Stiles is in the library, a few days later, getting ahead in one of his classes, per usual, when he sees Derek leaning against the checkout desk talking to one of the guys that Stiles has seen walking around campus with a pride flag pinned to his backpack. He’s pretty cute, Stiles thinks. Like, curly hair and freckles; lean but toned. Almost six feet tall.
Good for Derek, Stiles thinks, not at all bitterly. He goes to the other checkout desk, the one manned by the moody girl who always tells Stiles his leg-bouncing is distracting when she’s studying in the same vicinity as him.
“Hi,” he says, “just these two today.”
She sighs, scans his books as he pulls out his student ID. She starts to wrap up his books with a rubber band and his receipt when a shadow falls across the desk and she flushes, her bored expression slipping into something bashful.
“Uh, hi,” she stammers.
Stiles knows she can’t possibly be addressing him like that, so he turns around and sees Derek’s migrated over to this desk now.
“Hey,” Derek says, but to Stiles.
“Uh, hey,” Stiles says. He takes his books from the once-again annoyed looking girl.
“Where you headed?” Derek asks.
“Just to the writing lab. I have new tutoring hours this semester.”
“Oh, cool. What are they?”
“Um.” Stiles moves his books from one arm to the other. “Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday from four to six.”
“Nice. Can I walk you?”
“Don’t you have practice right about now?”
“We just have morning practices this week. Cause of the game last Saturday.”
“Oh.”
Derek stands and looks at him expectantly. Stiles remembers he asked him a question.
“Er, yes. You can walk with me.”
“Great. Do you need help with your books?”
“No, I’m good.”
“Okay,” Derek says cheerfully. He adjusts his backpack on his shoulders and then starts to head out of the building, stopping at the door to hold it open for Stiles. Waves at the guy by the checkout desk.
“How was, uh, that guy?” Stiles asks when they’re outside.
“Who?”
“The guy back there. The cute one.”
“You thought he was cute?”
Is this a test of some sort? “Uh, yeah. He was pretty good-looking.”
“Huh,” Derek says, like he hadn’t thought about this, which Stiles knows can’t be true. “His name was Jeremy. He was just congratulating me for coming out. Kind of crazy that people keep doing that. I keep expecting them to cuss me out or something.”
“Well, people on this campus are pretty accepting.”
“Yeah,” Derek says. “So, I read your article from the semi-final game. It was good.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. You did a really good job of like, making things seem tense. Just through words.”
“Thanks.”
“Are you going to write for the final game, too?”
“Rudy wants me to.”
“You should. It’ll be another home game.”
Stiles isn’t really sure what’s happening.
“Um, maybe,” he says. They’re almost at the English Department. Does Derek intend to walk him all the way up to the study rooms?
“What classes are you taking this semester?”
“There’s Am Lit II, actually, with Dr. Connor again. And a Creative Writing Workshop. Newspaper, an intro psych class for fun, Spanish IV, Literary Theory & Criticism, and then Women in Lit.”
“That’s a lot.”
“It’s just seventeen credits.”
“ ‘Just.’ ”
“Well, one less than last semester, I suppose.”
“Any more eight AMs?”
“No. My earliest class is the psych one, at nine on Monday, Wednesday, Friday.” They’re in the building now, walking to the stairs together. People who recognize Stiles keep doing double takes when they see the two of them going up side by side. “Uh, what about you?”
“Oh, just a bunch of business shit. Nothing exciting.”
“Is—er, will there be a lot of lacrosse training, even once the final game is over?”
“Yeah. Not as bad, though. One hour less in the afternoons and Friday mornings off.”
“Still sounds intense,” Stiles says. Derek shrugs. They’ve arrived at the study rooms, Lydia’s already in hers, but she glares at them through the window and Stiles wonders if she remembers it’s two-way glass. “Well.”
“Thanks for letting me walk with you,” Derek says. “See you around again?”
“Yeah,” Stiles says, and then, because maybe he actually does have a teeny-tiny masochistic streak, “Jeremy seems nice.”
Derek gives him an odd look, then smirks. “Right,” he says. “Bye, Stiles.”
“Bye.”
He watches him turn around and head back toward the stairwell, the door swings shut behind him. Lydia emerges.
“Well,” she says. “What was he doing here?”
“Just, um, walking with me. I guess.”
“Are you two getting back together?”
Stiles isn’t sure when he said they were together in the first place, but he supposes he shouldn’t be surprised she was so perceptive.
“No.”
“Why did he walk you then?”
“I don’t know. Maybe to be polite?” Stiles turns to look at the schedule pinned by the door. Only two students have signed up so far, which isn’t surprising since it’s the second week of classes.
“Polite. Right.”
“Why do you care?”
“No reason.” Lydia tosses her hair over one shoulder.
“Okay, good. I don’t know what this weird grudge is you have against him, but he’s actually a really nice guy.”
Lydia purses her lips. She looks him up and down.
“If you say so,” she says, eventually. She goes back into her study room.
“He really is,” Stiles says again, to know one in particular. “He is. I wish everyone could see it, too.”
The next day is Friday and Stiles is awake at eight-forty and brushing his teeth when there’s knock at the front door.
“I’ll get it,” Allison calls.
Stiles finishes brushing his teeth, spits his toothpaste into the sink and then goes to get his backpack. He turns around and Allison’s standing in there.
“It’s for you,” she says.
“Huh?”
“The door.”
“Oh,” Stiles blinks. “Okay.”
He isn’t really sure why he’s so surprised to step out of his room and see Derek waiting there. He’s freshly showered, cause he would have been at practice this morning, and he has a McDonald’s bag in his hand.
“Hi?” Stiles says.
“Hi,” Derek answers, in an entirely too awake tone for the hour. “I got you breakfast. Need a ride to campus?”
“Um,” Stiles looks at Allison for no earthly reason, sees she’s preoccupied staring at the ceiling and trying to cover a smile with a yawn. “How will I get back?”
“I’ll drive you back. When does your last class end?”
“Two-fifty.”
“Perfect!” Derek waves his hand, in a get over here motion. “I got you a coffee too, but it was too hot to carry it up. It’s in the car.”
“Oh,” Stiles says, “thank you.”
“Yeah.” Derek presses the bag into his hands when he gets over there, then turns and starts down the hallway. “Come on. Don’t want you to be late.”
“Right.”
Stiles putters after him, still confusedly holding the McDonald’s bag in one hand, backpack strap with the other. When they get down to Derek’s car, Derek holds open the passenger side door for him. He climbs into the other side.
“Aren’t you going to eat?” he asks Stiles.
“Oh,” Stiles opens the bag. “Right. Thank you. Did you get something for yourself, too?”
“Whatever you don’t prefer.”
Stiles takes the sausage biscuit, because he thinks he remembers Derek liking the egg McMuffin better. He unwraps his and bites it, chews.
“Thanks,” he says again. “How was practice?”
“Good. We did a scrimmage and my team won.”
“No surprise there, how could they not?”
Derek grins at him, takes the muffin that Stiles hands him and inhales half of it in one go.
“You should really write about the game next week.”
“Er, yeah,” Stiles says. “I’ll ask Rudy.”
“Nice.”
They pull up to campus two minutes later, because it’s not like Stiles really lives that far away. He climbs out, isn’t sure what to say. Is this Derek trying to be friends? Like how things were at the beginning of last semester?
“I’ll see you here five minutes after your last class lets out, okay?” Derek says, over the hood of his car, cause he’s opened the door but just sort of pulled himself into an upright position with his feet still inside.
Stiles gives him a smile, an awkward thumbs-up.
“Yep.” He turns and makes it a few more yards without interruption.
“Bye! Have a good day!” Derek shouts after him, causing half a dozen heads to turn and stare at him. Stiles flushes, self-conscious that Derek Hale: sex god is telling him to have a good day in front of all these people who never even knew they used to date. What do they think could possibly be going on here?
Stiles turns to give him another half-wave, then scurries off to class.
On his lunch break, he goes to the student center on campus, wanders all the way up to the fourth floor where the counselling office is. There’s a receptionist sitting at the desk and she looks up to smile at him when he enters the room.
“Hi,” she says. “Name?”
“Oh,” Stiles says, “I actually don’t have an appointment. Yet. I was hoping I could schedule something? Maybe? I’m a student here and I kind of feel like I need to—it doesn’t matter. Is there someone available?”
“Of course,” she says. “We have eleven different counselors who work on campus. All their services are totally complimentary for students. Did you have a preference for when to meet with someone or just the soonest appointment available?”
“Um, well,” Stiles racks his brain for his calendar. “Uh, is there anyone for like, Monday afternoons? Any time after three?”
“Yes. Jessica Allard can do an appointment at five, but just for next Monday. Jason Lee has a recurring slot available at three-thirty all semester.”
Stiles taps his fingers against the receptionist desk. A whole hour every single week for the entire semester kind of seems like a big commitment. But what is he expecting, one appointment with Jessica will just magically fix his brain?
“I can also schedule you with Jason one month at a time,” the receptionist says gently, like she can sense his hesitation. “And at the end of the month, you can keep going if you like. These appointments are provided by the school so there won’t be any fees if you miss one. Although, three misses and you won’t be able to sign up for more than one at a time.”
“Okay,” Stiles says. “Yeah, let’s do the ones with Jason.”
“Great. And he is a Licensed Mental Health Counselor, just so you’re aware.” She clicks around on her computer for a second and then smiles up at him. “And what’s your name and student ID?”
“Er, I’ll just—” Stiles spells it out on a Post-It note and hands it to her. “There.”
“Oh,” she says, “well, I wouldn’t have gotten that on the first try.”
“Yeah. It’s Polish,” he explains.
She nods. Keeps typing around for a minute.
“Well,” she says once she’s done, “there you are. You should get a confirmation sent to your school email. Just call ahead if you need to cancel or reschedule. Bye, Mr. Mc-Mz—”
“Stiles is good.”
“Bye, Stiles,” she says.
Stiles smiles at her. He goes on his way.
~
It’s a very quiet weekend. Obviously, the girls try and drag him out both nights, obviously, he says no. He just can’t get over the fear of running into Derek out in the wild and watching him flirt with someone else. He wants to be mature and grown-up about the whole break-up; he was the one who initiated it after all. But that doesn’t mean it still isn’t going to absolutely crush him when Derek starts dating again. Especially, if he starts dating a guy. Because that would just be a fucking nail in the coffin, to see some other man with an out and happy Derek, when it was all Stiles ever wanted.
He sucks it up though. He tells himself it’s okay. He and Derek will keep being friends and when Derek starts dating again, Stiles will support him. Stiles will sit there and listen if Derek wants to talk about it. It will all be fine.
But heaven forbid Stiles has to actually witness Derek flirting with someone new in public.
On Sunday, he goes to Books & Brew to study and tries not to think about the time he came here with Derek all those months ago and they studied and talked. And then Derek kissed him later, for the first time. He focuses on his work, instead. Takes his Adderall, locks in, writes a whole essay.
When he leaves, it’s sunny outside, despite the January chill in the air. He shoves his hands in his pockets and makes his way to his Jeep.
It’s like his life has fallen into a steady cycle of perfectly nice existence. Like, he feels as though he’s relatively happy, compared to how bad things were toward the end of last semester, and his friends are good, and his classes are good, but there isn’t really a spark to life. It’s just plain, simple, nice.
He has his first meeting with Jason Lee who is also nice. He and Stiles have decided to start at his childhood and work through the phases of his life together. It makes Stiles feel kind of nervous, but it’s also nice that they have an outline. Like, Part I: life with two parents, Part II: life with one alcoholic parent, Part III: junior & senior year high school, Part IV: college & Derek. He can do this. He can get through this.
Speaking of Derek, the guy showed up at his house again on Monday morning, with breakfast and coffee. Stiles didn’t know what to do, he just took the bag and then went along with him. He feels like if Derek keeps doing this, he’s never going to be able to get over him, but he’s not about to tell Derek that now they’re finally on good footing again. He’s just going to suffer in silence.
On Wednesday afternoon, he gets out of tutoring at Derek stands outside of the building, leaned against the brick wall, looking up at the darkening sky.
“Hey,” Stiles says.
“Hi,” Derek answers. “How was tutoring?”
“Oh, you know. Everyone wants Lydia so I just get the overflow. Only half of my slots were filled today.”
“That’s just because nobody knows how good you are at explaining all that writing stuff yet,” Derek says, falling into step alongside him as he heads to the parking lot.
“Well,” Stiles answers.
“Hey, I meant to ask you. How do I get tested for dyslexia? Like, what type of doctor do I see for that?”
Stiles tries not to appear too surprised. He clears his throat. “You can go to either a qualified psychologist, an educational specialist, or a neuropsychologist,” he explains. “Probably the first option is going to be the easiest. They’ll give you like a more comprehensive test than what you could find online.”
“Nice. And then, what, they’ll just give me an official diagnosis, and I tell my professors about it?”
“Pretty much.”
They walk past the library, and that guy from the other week waves at Derek as they go. Derek smiles and waves back. Stiles looks down at his feet.
“Cool.” Derek says, a second later, “I’ll probably do that.”
Stiles nods. His voice feels stuck in his throat and he has to swallow a couple of times.
“So,” Derek says, “game this Saturday, right?”
“Yep,” Stiles answers, “I’ll be there. Front row.”
“Great.” Derek grins, his big, blinding grin with all his teeth. They get to the parking lot. Stiles noticed Derek parked close to him that morning. Probably a coincidence. “Are you going to any parties after?”
“Probably not,” Stiles says. “I’ve got lots of homework due next week so I’ll just, you know, go study afterwards.”
“Nice,” Derek says, nodding entirely too enthusiastically for that incredibly boring and predictable piece of information. “By the way, I won’t be able to take you to class on Friday morning cause it’s our last practice before the game.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s fine,” Stiles says, cause he wasn’t even aware this was going to be a standard practice. He thought it was just a random thing that happened twice. “Good luck. Even though you won’t need it.”
Derek waves goodbye.
~
Scott shows up on Friday night to surprise him and Allison with a visit, even though they’ve only been separated for three weeks. He says he timed it this way because he wants to see, of all things, the game.
“The game?” Stiles asks, “like, the lacrosse finals game?”
“Duh,” Scott says.
“Why?”
“You know, just because I don’t play anymore doesn’t mean I don’t still like to watch the sport,” Scott says.
“Well, yeah but,” Stiles gives him a skeptical look, “I mean, you’ve never cared about going to a Beacon Hill’s University game before.”
“Oh, you’re right,” Scott says, palm to his forehead. “Why don’t I just turn around and drive back down to Cal State. Because it’s illegal to do new things.”
“Don’t be annoying,” Stiles laughs. “I’m just surprised is all. Want to sneak into the front row with me? I can say I need you as a fact-checker for my article.”
“Yeah?” Scott says, all puppy-dog eyes, “yeah, okay.”
They leave two hours before the game starts on Saturday because apparently, everyone in the world is planning on attending, and even though Stiles is a student reporter, he still has to go through the annoyingly long security line and find parking somehow.
It’s slow moving, but Scott is a chatterbox like Stiles, so the time passes quickly as they wait. They talk about their classes for the semester, what to do for spring break, how much Scott loves Allison (who, despite this love, said she could not sit through another lacrosse game in her life now that her boyfriend wasn’t one of the ones on the field), and surprisingly, Scott does not bug Stiles once about his dating life. It’s nice.
When they finally make it into the bleachers and find a good place in the front row, it’s twenty minutes till the game starts, and the wind is cold and biting today. It didn’t rain the night before, but it got close, so the field is springy and damp. It makes Stiles nervous, thinking about Derek running and slipping and screwing up his leg or something.
A few minutes after they’ve taken their seats, someone else comes along and plops down right next to Stiles. He doesn’t pay them any mind, at first, until they nudge him in the side.
“Stiles?”
He glances over and sees it’s Cora Hale.
“Oh, hi Cora,” he says. “Er, I didn’t know you were coming up this weekend?”
“It was kind of last minute,” she says, “I thought it’d be nice to support Derek at his game. He told me I could sit up here with you, do you mind?”
“Oh, not at all,” Stiles says. He gestures to Scott. “Do you remember…?”
“Scott McCall? Of course! Good to see you again,” she says.
Cora slides over again, until she’s closer to Stiles’ side and he has the sudden anxiety that she’s about to chew him out or something, but she doesn’t.
“I haven’t come to see Derek play in forever,” she says instead.
“He’s really good,” Stiles tells her. “The best I’ve ever seen. By far.”
“Hey,” Scott says, “I’m right here, you know.”
Stiles rolls his eyes. “Derek’s still the best, hate to break it to you.” He adjusts the notebook in his lap and uncaps his pen. “Did you want to say something? A quote, I mean, for the school paper. Just anything about Derek and lacrosse would do really. I’ll do my best to work it in.”
“Oh, sure,” Cora says. “Let’s see, Derek and lacrosse. Well, there’s certainly a lot of history there. Our dad played lacrosse, and he taught Derek when he was just a kid, although they had a fight about him playing in high school when—before, you know. Sometimes I wonder if that’s why he plays, cause he feels guilty about not wanting to when he was younger.” Cora’s eyes get kind of far away for a moment. “Anyway, that’s probably too depressing to print, so how’s this: Derek’s worked harder to be good at lacrosse than I’ve ever seen anyone work for anything in their lives. People look at him and talk about talent, but talent is one percent of it, if that, the other ninety-nine percent is sheer perseverance and determination. Every day in high school he used to wake up and run to school instead of taking the bus. He’d get up in the summertime and train all on his own, no matter what other stuff was going on in his life.”
“Wow,” Stiles says genuinely, scrambling to write this all down, “that’s dedication.”
“Yeah. And don’t get me wrong about him not wanting to play when he was a kid, he loves it now. It’s his life. Not quite his whole life, I guess, but like, it will always be a part of him. As much as a limb.”
“Thanks,” Stiles says. “That was all good.”
She looks at him and is about to say something else, but then all the students in the stands are up and cheering and Stiles sees the teams have run out onto the field to do their stretches and warm-ups.
“Well,” he tells Scott, “here we go.”
It’s very close. So close that Stiles’ nails bite into the palms of his hands as he watches the last three minutes, and his pen lies forgot, clipped to his notebook. At some points, he stops breathing, and Cora and Scott don’t remind him to do so, because they’re in the same spot, leaned forward, faces turning red, watching like hawks.
But in the end, Beacon Hills pulls through, and it isn’t a surprise to anyone that Derek’s the one with the majority of the goals, who scores the winning point at the very last second.
Thousands of cheers erupt from the bleachers as the timer goes off, and there’s a breath of time where Derek turns around on the field and Stiles could swear he looks directly at him and smiles, but then students are pouring over the gate and flooding the grass, screaming their heads off and the motion, if it ever even existed, is lost in the chaos.
Cora rushes forward too, yelling excitedly, “Derek! Derek! You won!” even though he’s too far to hear her. The crowd has surged around him, by the time she’s on the field so Stiles doesn’t think she’ll have any luck getting to him sooner than five minutes, but he smiles despite himself.
“Are you going?” Scott asks, shouting to be heard above the noise of the student body.
“Oh, nah,” he says.
“Don’t you want to see Derek?” Scott asks, flashing him a searching look.
Stiles cocks his head at Scott, confused. “Um, I’ll tell him congrats in the media room in ten minutes, you know. I want to let him be with all his fans and his sister for now.”
He turns to try and make his way out against the wave of students still rushing forward and onto the field, cheering their heads off, but Scott grabs his arm to stop him.
“What?” he asks.
“Uh,” Scott says, he points, “I think Derek maybe wants to see you.”
“Huh?” Stiles turns around and sees that there, a dozen yards away, is Derek, holding onto Cora’s arm for dear life as he drags her back through the pulsating mass of students swarming around him. He’s got a single-minded focus written across his face. Surely that focus isn’t intent on Stiles, is it?
But just as he’s asking himself this question, Derek pauses to wave at him with the hand not clutching onto his sister and he cups it around his mouth and shouts something that’s lost in the commotion of onlookers.
“What did he say?” Stiles asks Scott.
“Dude,” Scotts says, “not a clue.”
Derek starts on his steady march toward them again, ignoring and pushing past every person who tries to stop him in his path with congratulatory screams or supplications for a high five. He’s got Stiles in his line of sight, and he’s like a bloodhound.
Stiles stands frozen, not sure that this is actually happening, convinced that somehow, his mind, in its still heart-broken state, has conjured up this incredibly vivid hallucination, but he can feel the chill in the air and the warmth of Scott beside him, so it has to be real. It has to be.
And then Derek, suddenly, is ten feet away, five feet, one, and now he’s standing right in front of Stiles. He exhales like that trek was somehow harder and more tiresome than the game he just won, and releases Cora into the safety of their little group. Up close, Stiles can see how sweaty he is, despite the cold, and his face is red from exertion.
“Stiles,” he says. Just that. Like it’s the only thing that was on his mind.
“Hi,” Stiles answers, dumbly. “Good job.”
Derek grins. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. You were amazing. I mean, congratulations, it’s—you were great.”
“Good.” Derek says. He looks at Stiles and Stiles can feel the eyes of hundreds of students on them. He wonders if it’s just his imagination, or if the cheering has lessened somewhat, at least in their vicinity.
“You earned it,” Stiles says, after a second, “you worked really hard for this.”
“I wanted to win,” Derek answers, “for you.”
“For me?” Stiles asks, feels one hand come up to point at his chest inadvertently.
“Yes. For you. So, you had something good to write about.”
“Oh,” Stiles says. “Well, you know I would write something good about you whether you won or lost.”
“I know,” Derek says. Then uses his words from all that time ago. “Cause you’re here as a friend, not just a fan.”
“A friend,” Stiles echoes.
“Although,” Derek continues, “I don’t know if I want to be your friend anymore.”
For a second, Stiles isn’t sure how to respond. All he knows is that his heart is dropping out of his body, right down from his chest to his legs, through his toes, and he opens his mouth, but no words come out.
“Not just your friend, I mean,” Derek says quickly, at his expression.
“Not,” Stiles repeats, “just my friend?”
“No.” Derek shakes his head. He stops and then grins his big, beautiful grin. He says, “Stiles, will you go out with me? For real this time?”
Stiles stares. He turns and looks at Scott, sure he’s misheard, but Scott just grins back and nods his head.
“Go out?” Stiles repeats again, looking back.
“If you’d like,” Derek says. “I’d really like to take you out on a real date. A proper date where we don’t have to pretend or hide anything.”
“But,” Stiles says, “that—that guy.”
“I’m not sure who you’re talking about,” Derek says, “but I can assure you, there’s nobody else I am even remotely interested in taking out. Besides you.”
Stiles breathes in. He nods once, finally.
“Is that a yes?” Derek says.
Stiles nods again.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” Stiles says. He thinks he can hear cheering again, but he only has the bandwidth to focus on Derek. “Yes.”
“Okay,” Derek says, he’s still grinning. “Can I kiss you now?”
“Here?” Stiles asks. “In front of all these people?”
“Yes, Stiles. Here and in front of all these people. Do you know why?”
Stiles shakes his head.
“Because I love you. I’ve been in love with you for months, and I’d like everyone to know it.”
Stiles is most certainly dreaming, he decides. But then Derek steps forward so there isn’t any space left between them at all. He puts one hand on Stiles’ waist and then with the other, he tips up his chin, so they look each other right in the eyes.
“I love you, Stiles,” he says again.
Stiles is too shocked to say it back, but he thinks Derek can read it in his expression anyway, because he leans in and kisses him.
Everyone is cheering again, screaming and running around, ecstatic about winning or Derek and Stiles or maybe about something entirely different, but Stiles registers none of it. All he knows is that he’s standing in the front row of the bleachers and Derek Hale is kissing him.
Derek Hale: sex god.
Derek Hale: lacrosse star.
Derek Hale: king of Beacon Hills.
Derek Hale: Stiles’s first crush. Stiles’s first love. The man who somehow, inconceivably, loves him too.
Stiles closes his eyes and kisses him back.