Chapter Text
It’s just Stiles’ luck that Derek Hale walks into his American Literature class ten minutes late on the first Wednesday of the semester. He steps into the room in the middle of Dr. Connor’s explanation of his grading rubric and just stops.
“Uh,” he says, like the dumb fucking jock he is.
“Derek Hale,” Dr. Connor responds. “Nice of you to join us.” He turns to survey his students. Points to the empty seat right next to Stiles. “Why don’t you go sit over there beside Stiles? And at least try to be here on time on Friday, okay?”
“Yeah.” Derek adjusts the unzipped, half-empty backpack on his shoulder, and waltzes down the room like he doesn’t even care about the disturbance he just caused. He pulls out the chair right next to Stiles and collapses into it without a glance in his direction. Four minutes later his forehead is on the table and Stiles is trying with all his might to resist the urge to kick him in the shins to wake him up.
Derek Hale is a junior, and it’s not creepy that Stiles knows this, okay? He’s basically the biggest lacrosse star Beacon Hills University has ever seen so everyone knows who he is, even if they don’t follow sports, e.g. Stiles. And plus, they went to high school together for two years, because Stiles is in the grade below him. He wouldn’t bring this up to Derek, though, because it’d be too humiliating to see the blank look on Derek’s face when he racks his brain for memories of Stiles and inevitably comes up empty.
Anyway, Stiles isn’t really sure what he’s doing here, in Am Lit, because he’s a business major or something equally as unimpressive. This is a sophomore level English class for fuck’s sake. But it’s no surprise that with Stiles’ lot in life he’s about to be stuck sitting next to him for four long and arduous months.
Thirty-five minutes later the lecture ends and it’s like Derek has some sort of sixth sense or something cause his head pops up immediately and he starts to stand. Stiles goes the opposite way around the table and heads for the door but before he gets far, he feels someone grab his arm and he jerks back.
“What?” he snaps, glaring at Derek.
“Woah, what’s with the fucking attitude, dude?”
“I don’t like when people manhandle me.”
Derek lets go of his arm and raises his hands up in a peaceful gesture. “Sorry man,” he says. He gives Stiles a quick once-over and Stiles knows that he’s skinny, but he’s also just over six feet tall so it’s pretty hard for anyone to manhandle him (unfortunately, in some situations i.e. bedroom ones; the only time manhandling is acceptable) and Derek looks a little dubious at the verb. “I think I missed the part about homework for this class?”
“Read the fucking syllabus,” Stiles says, and then he turns and leaves Derek standing dumbfounded in the classroom.
Allison gets back to their apartment when he’s halfway through a rant to Scott. She walks in and seems to sense his foul mood, but she’s not intimidated. She goes to the kitchen and gets a snack and comes back and sits on the couch in the living room to watch him pace around the coffee table with his phone on speaker.
“This isn’t a reality show,” he scoffs, when she pulls a blanket over her lap.
“You’re right. It’s better,” she says.
“Is that Allison?” Scotts asks.
“Yes, hi Scott. Love you.”
“Love you, too! See you in one month—”
“Okay that’s enough I’m going to be sick,” Stiles says. “I called you to rant about the classroom situation, not listen to you two make love over the phone.”
Allison grins, drops a handful of Skittles into her mouth. “What’s the classroom situation?” she asks.
“Fucking Derek Hale,” he snaps. “He’s in my Am Lit class. He showed up late today and Dr. Connor made him sit right next to me.”
“And that’s a problem?”
“Obviously, it’s a problem,” Stiles says.
Allison stares at him for a second and then nods. “Oh, I see. Because you can’t stand up unless you’ve got a sweatshirt wrapped around your crotch?”
“That’s—what no,” Stiles sputters. On the other line, Scott chokes back a laugh. “No. This is serious. Derek Hale is the biggest asshole at this school.”
“The hottest one, too,” Scott says.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“You’ve had a crush on him your whole life, Stiles.”
“Okay, he’s good looking. Sue me! But he’s also rude and doesn’t even know who I am probably, and he shows up late to class and I don’t even think he knows how to spell his own name. Plus, he’s on the lacrosse team.”
“I was on the lacrosse team.”
“You’re the exception that proves the rule,” Stiles says. He collapses onto the couch next to Allison. “Whatever, he barely even talked to me today, so I doubt I’m going to interact with him all that much.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine. Talk to your girlfriend, I’m tired.” He closes his eyes and puts his head on Allison’s lap while she balances his phone, still on speaker, on his forehead and starts to chat with Scott about her first day.
Scott’s four hours away by car, at a school with a better pre-vet program, but he comes up once a month or so. It kind of just made sense for Stiles and Allison to live together. Best friend and girlfriend wrapped up in one neat, slightly eclectic little apartment. And Stiles has to admit, he’s never lived with a woman, and he didn’t really ever plan on it (seeing as he’s about as interested in them as he is in lacrosse) but now that he’s a week into this experience, he can see the appeal. Allison actually cares about things being relatively tidy and she washes dishes and likes to buy cute stuff at thrift stores to spruce up the place. Plus, it’s about a thousand times better than living in the dorms with a guy who locked him out every other Friday night to have sex and refused to get changed if he was in the room as if Stiles might not be able to keep from jumping his ugly bones.
Anyway, he’s pretty comfortable lying here on the couch listening to Scott chatter on excitedly about what sounds like the driest-ass science class Stiles has ever heard of, and before he even realizes it, he’s falling asleep.
~
On Friday, Derek manages to make it into class thirty seconds before ten. He saunters (hand to God, Stiles can’t think of a better verb to describe the movement) right on down the aisle and pulls out his chair. He dumps his backpack onto the floor and doesn’t even go through all the effort of taking out a notebook or something, so he at least looks sort of busy. He just slinks further into the chair and turns his gaze out the window.
It’s making Stiles anxious. He’s not a fucking teenager anymore, but Allison’s crotch comment was not helpful, and Derek is, well, objectively the hottest person Stiles has ever seen. He’s doing his best to pay attention, but every now and again his brain screams at him, uh, by the way this is the closest you’ve ever been to Derek before! Remember all the times you used to fantasize about him in the shower? Or when you were with other guys? Even a couple of times with Jackson! Remember all that? And now he’s right here, like a foot and a half away. And you can smell his cologne. And sometimes when he shifts you can feel his body heat. Wow, isn’t this just the greatest day of our life?
“Can you chill, man?” Derek whispers, snapping Stiles out of his mental spiral.
“What?”
“You’re driving me crazy with that fucking leg shaking.”
Stiles glares at his hands. He wills his legs to stop moving.
“Finally,” Derek mutters. He closes his eyes again.
After class, Stiles shoves his pencils and notes back into his backpack with thinly contained fury. Who the fuck is Derek to tell him to calm down? So, he bounces his leg up and down sometimes, what’s the big deal? Too disruptive for prince charming’s beauty sleep? He scoffs. He swings his backpack over his shoulder, and it jostles Derek awake on its way up.
“What is your problem?” Derek asks, with a yawn.
“I don’t have a problem,” Stiles answers snippily.
“You sure about that? Kind of feels like you hate me, and we’ve only known each other for two and a half days.” Derek pulls his backpack over his shoulder but stays stretched out in his seat, manspreading, and Stiles wonders if he even realizes he’s doing it. He pastes on his most blindingly white smile that Stiles used to see him pull out at high school games and assumes he still uses in college ones. “Come on, Miles.”
Stiles scoffs. “You’re such a fucking idiot,” he says, and storms away.
Now, maybe Stiles’ hate toward Derek is a touch past prudent, but he can’t help it, okay? Even if Derek never once spoke to him or even looked at him in high school, he was on the same team as all the guys who made his life so miserable he used to beg his dad to let him be homeschooled. And plus, Derek Hale is synonymous with lacrosse, and lacrosse also means Jackson, and Jackson means the worst eight months of Stiles life, bar the ones around the time of his eleventh birthday when Mom died.
So, yeah. Derek hasn’t really been enough of a jerk to warrant all the vitriol Stiles has been spitting about him to Allison and Scott and Lydia, but he sort of deserves it, by extension.
The girls try and convince him to go out that weekend, but he’s not in any mood for it. He wants to rot in his room all night on Friday and play Call of Duty with Scott online, which is exactly what he does. And on Saturday at nine, he goes to a coffee shop by himself and takes his Adderall and sits down and writes his first Am Lit essay that isn’t even due until next Thursday. And then he reads the first sixty pages of The Gulag Archipelago for his history class. And then he writes his five-hundred-word philosophy reflection. And then he looks at the clock and realizes it’s two in the afternoon and he hasn’t eaten or moved since he got here.
He packs up his stuff, goes to pee, and then gets in the car. He’s basically done with all his homework for next week already. Cause classes just started four days ago, so what is there to do really? He feels antsy and he wants to climb out of his skin. He wants to talk to Scott but he’s playing paintball with his roommate right now, and plus, Stiles needs to relearn how to do long-distance friendship with him again. That was the hardest thing about starting college last year. Not the classes or the new environment or homophobic roommate, it was being separated from the guy he basically thinks of as his brother.
Stiles collapses back forward and lets his forehead slap against the steering wheel of his Jeep. Maybe he should call his dad.
The thing about his relationship with his dad, though, is that it’s really complicated. It always has been. And things have been better since the incident his junior year, but they aren’t that much better. Sometimes he can pretty much put it all the way out of his mind, but sometimes his dad will laugh or say something or just breathe wrong and Stiles will have a flash of that night, and he has to stammer out a goodbye and hang up immediately.
He feels bad, because he knows Dad really regrets it. Obviously, he regretted it enough to stop drinking entirely and stay sober for going on three years now, but it’s still too fresh. And they never talked about it, either, so it’s kind of hard to move on from.
But now he’s thought about it so he can’t call his dad. He sighs and starts up his car. He goes back to campus, though, instead of the apartment and heads for the library. If he can’t do any more homework he might as well find something interesting to read.
He goes up the stairs till he gets to the third floor and starts traipsing through the science fiction section, looking for H. He’s narrowing down authors when he hears two girls on the other side of the shelf giggling.
“You’re lying,” one of them says. Stiles can’t see them, but they sound like freshmen, just by their lightheartedness and overall excited-to-be-alive attitudes.
“No, I’m not,” the other responds. “Literally, like my back against the wall, thighs over his shoulders.”
“You slut,” the friend says, but Stiles doesn’t think the other girl should be offended because it sounds affectionate.
“Yeah. I know. Everything they say about him is true, by the way. From skill level all the way down to size.”
Oh, great, Stiles realizes with a grimace. There’s only one guy they can possibly be discussing right now. He shakes his head, looks back down and spots Heinlein, Robert. He starts to scan the book titles.
“How many times?” the first girl asks.
“Six. I’m not joking.”
Jeez, Stiles wonders. He’s not a fucking prude or an eighty-year-old, but haven’t these women ever heard of tact?
“Yeah. I’ve heard he never fucks the same girl twice so I’m probably shit out of luck tonight,” continues Friday night’s winner-of-Derek-Hale’s-attention, “so you should go for it if you see him.”
“You don’t mind?”
“I’d only mind if I thought I had another shot at all that, but since I don’t, you should enjoy the ride.”
Finally, Stiles finds it (Starship Troopers, he hasn’t read it in like three years and it’s a comfort novel) and he pulls it off the shelf and heads back down to checkout. Tries to erase the memory of that horrifying conversation from his mind and fails.
~
On Monday, he’s anxious again. He’s heard tales of Derek Hale: sex god of course, and ignored them before, but it’s harder to shut out the rumors when Derek Hale: sex god, is sitting right next to him, yawning and stretching his back until his shirt rucks up and Stiles can see the start of his happy trail.
He snaps his focus back to the table. He’s got his essay (the one due Thursday) already stapled and sitting underneath his notebook. He runs his pointer finger along the top of it carefully, so he doesn’t get a paper cut, and when class is finally over, he leaves his stuff on the table and takes it up to Dr. Connor.
“This isn’t due for three more days,” Dr. Connor says, but he doesn’t seem all that surprised. He had Stiles last year, in Mid-Century Modern.
“I know. I just wanted to get a head start.”
Dr. Connor nods and hums. “Look forward to reading this,” he says, tapping it with one finger. Stiles smiles, sort of, and goes back to pack up his stuff.
Derek is sitting up now, blinking kind of blearily and he watches Stiles.
“What was that?” he asks.
“My essay.”
“We had an essay due?”
“There’s one due by midnight on Thursday,” Stiles says. Internally, he imagines a little Stiles banging on the window of his brain, watching his resolve to not talk to Derek Hale fly away. “I was just a little ahead.”
“Oh.”
Stiles pulls his backpack on. He walks out of the classroom and starts toward the campus library, but he soon hears the patter of footsteps and pauses to see Derek racing after him.
“Wait Miles—” he says.
Stiles glares at him. “It’s Stiles, you idiot.”
“Stiles?” Derek makes a face. “What kind of a name is Stiles?”
And just like that, the resolve is back, and Stiles turns away with a huff.
“No, wait sorry man,” Derek reaches for Stiles’ arm but jerks his hand back when Stiles whirls on him with a glare. “Jeez, can you, like chill? I’ve never met someone who was as fucking rude as you right off the bat.”
“What do you want, Hale?”
“Listen,” Derek points behind them with his thumb, “I’m only in this glass because apparently I failed Lit last year, and this was the only alternative that fit with my schedule.”
“Woah, that’s really interesting. Can you start over so I can record this conversation for posterity?”
Derek frowns, presumably because he doesn’t know what the word posterity means. “You’re an asshole, Stiles.”
“Gee, thanks.”
He starts away again, but Derek jumps in front of him. “Can you wait like three fucking seconds so I can finish talking?” He holds his hands out, so Stiles is sort of boxed in against the wall. “As I was saying, I’m kind of out of my depth here but I need a C average to stay on the team. Think you could help me out?”
“Help you out…?”
“Yeah, like, two hundred bucks an essay?”
Stiles feels his jaw start to drop open and he has to consciously slam it shut. They have at least six papers due this semester which means…but— “No fucking way. I don’t believe in cheating. Or plagiarism.”
“Come on, three hundred?”
“No. And it’s really gross that you’re just throwing your money around like that, by the way. Like, we get it, you’re rich and you think the rules don’t apply to you. Sorry,” he says the word in a decidedly un-sorry tone, “but I’m not going to do your work for you. This is college man. If you really need help, go to the writing lab tutors.”
And with that, he manages to duck underneath Derek’s outstretched arms and scurry away before the jock can attempt another proposition.
~
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
Stiles looks up from the table in the study room and meets Derek’s eyes.
“In my defense,” he says, as Derek lingers in the doorway, “when I told you to go to the writing lab tutors, I didn’t think you were actually going to listen to me.”
It’s Tuesday afternoon, and on Tuesdays and Thursdays from two to five, Stiles and Lydia Martin sit in these two fucking study rooms and offer up their services via the English Department for the more literary-challenged students of the University.
“You’re the tutor?”
“One of them.”
“Where’s the other?”
“Her schedule’s already full,” Stiles answers. This is true. Well, look at her. She might be a fucking ice queen but Lydia’s definitely hot. It’s no wonder nobody comes to him unless her six hours are already booked for the week.
“This is great. I’m assuming you won’t help me?”
Stiles frowns. “Of course I’m going to help you.”
“Well, you basically chewed my head off yesterday for asking so excuse me for being dubious.”
“Yesterday, you asked me, a fellow student, if I could do your work for you, i.e. cheating. Today, you are approaching me as a bright and malleable mind, eager to learn under my fully permissible tutelage services. That’s two very different dynamics.” Stiles points with the end of his pencil to the empty chair across from him.
“I don’t even know what you just said,” Derek mutters, but he pulls out the chair across from Stiles, right as the door behind them opens again.
“Heads up Stiles—” Lydia starts to say, before she’s inside the room and sees the culprit she was likely trying to give Stiles the heads up on. “Oh.”
“Hey, Lydia,” Stiles says, trying to convey about ten different things with his gaze, but she’s got her eyes locked and narrowed on Derek, who immediately sort of spread his legs and let a lazy grin fall over his face when she walked in. What a fucking asshole.
“Hey,” Derek says. “Lydia, was it? You’re the other tutor?” He looks at Stiles. “I’d rather work with her.”
“I don’t know how to read,” Lydia deadpans. “I was just coming to say my afternoon was slammed as a matter of fact. Good luck with…” she waves one blood-red nail around in Derek’s general vicinity and then turns and exits the room.
“Jeez,” Derek says, watching her go like a creep. “No wonder your afternoon is free. Who wouldn’t want to work with that?”
“In this room, we respect women,” Stiles snaps. Derek looks back at him with an eyebrow raised.
“Jealous?” he asks, baring all his teeth.
“Why would I be jealous?”
“That I’m going to steal your girl.”
“What?” Stiles scoffs. “She’s not my girl.”
“Anyone with eyes would come to that conclusion,” Derek says, rolling his own.
Stiles bristles and clenches his jaw. Like, okay he knows he’s not anything special to look at and Derek doesn’t even know he’s gay obviously, but it still fucking hurts to have your ugly, dorkiness just thrown in your face.
“Then how would you be stealing her?” he mutters. “And Lydia is never going to sleep with you, trust me.”
“Why? Just cause she won’t sleep with you?”
“Do you want help with this essay or not?”
Derek sighs heavily. He pulls out his phone. “I actually was hoping to negotiate a new tutoring situation.”
“Dude, I’m not doing your homework for you—”
“No, I get it Mr. Moral High Ground. But listen, I normally have practice at this time on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Is there any way we could do something a little later? Like eight? And also, not in this building, cause it makes me nervous when I have to watch my volume. It feels like kindergarten of something.”
Stiles crosses his arms over his chest. “You’re asking me if I’ll tutor you in the privacy of my own home every Tuesday at eight?”
“And Thursday.”
“No.”
“Come on,” Derek says, in a whiny, jock voice. “How much do you make here?”
“Fifteen.”
“An hour?” Derek asks. Stiles flushes. “What’s even the point, that’s like, pocket change.”
“Sorry I’m not a rich douche like you.”
“No, I’m not—you are so defensive. Not everything I say is an insult, you know?” Derek runs one hand through his dark hair and Stiles tries not to follow the motion with his eyes. “What about if I paid you thirty dollars an hour? That’s double your rate, yeah? Should be worth giving up a couple of hours two nights a week.”
Stiles looks at him. He frowns. He thinks about the state of his bank account. He thinks about how Derek is the biggest jerk on the planet. Finally, he sighs.
“Alright.”
“Great,” Derek sits forward, and he looks happy and he’s got that blinding smile on again. He hands Stiles his phone. “Put your number and address in. I’ll see you later.”
Later comes much too soon for Stiles’ liking. He goes home after tutoring, he thinks about eating but cooking seems like too much effort, so he just makes coffee. He sits down and finds his planner and plans down every single day of the next three weeks down to the hour. It helps when he has a schedule to follow. It’s easier to keep his brain in check.
Allison comes home at seven to make her own dinner and then goes to nap for half an hour, but he knows she won’t stick around. She’s an insane runner. She likes to go out and run around for two hours straight every night because it helps with her stress. Stiles thinks that would make him more stressed, if he weren’t doing something intellectually productive for two hours every night.
At eight sharp (at least he’s punctual) someone knocks on the door. He sighs, gets up and goes to answer it.
“Am I going to get mugged on my way out tonight?” Derek asks by way of greeting.
“This is school-approved housing,” Stiles says. “Half the building is students.”
“Yeah, and the other half are crackheads.”
Stiles would protest, but he’s actually inclined to agree. He steps aside and lets Derek in. He surveys the living room, the kitchen, the dining room.
“We can work here,” Stiles says, walking over to the dining table where he’s already got a bunch of his stuff spread out. “Have you started thinking about the prompt?”
Derek doesn’t answer for a second, he’s examining the gallery wall of thrift store paintings and photos he and Allison have been collecting all summer with Scott’s help.
“This is the fanciest guy’s apartment I’ve ever seen,” he says.
“What, having wall décor is fancy, now?”
“‘Décor,’” Derek repeats slowly. Stiles flushes again.
“Do you want something to drink?” he asks, to lessen the tension.
“What, like beer?”
Stiles rubs his forehead. He can’t believe he’s helping this idiot. “No, like water. Or soda. Because it’s Tuesday night and eight PM.”
Derek finally looks at him, moves to take a seat at the table. “Yeah, I’ll have some water. Thanks.”
Stiles nods. He goes over to the cabinet with all the glassware. He pulls out two cups and fills them with cold water from the Brita. He’s just coming back to the table when Allison walks into the room. She’s got her hair pulled into a high pony and a sports bra and running shorts on. Stiles doesn’t have to look to know Derek’s probably ogling her like a piece of meat.
“Allison Argent?” he asks.
“Derek Hale,” she answers with a smirk. “What a surprise to see you at my kitchen table.”
“He has practice during writing lab hours,” Stiles explains, sitting down and sliding Derek’s water over to him. He’s salty, now, because apparently Allison Argent is worth remembering but he’s just chopped fucking liver.
“Ah,” Allison answers. She makes a clicking sound with her tongue. “I’m off for a run. I’ll be back late.”
“Have fun.”
“Thanks.” She pauses in the doorway and frowns, cocks her head. “There’s food, by the way. If you didn’t eat, yet.”
“Yep,” Stiles answers, already turning his attention back toward the writing prompt for Am Lit he’s got between him and Derek.
The door clicks shut, and Derek sits up. “Do not fucking lie to me right now and say you’re hitting that.”
Stiles frowns. “No, I’m not ‘hitting that.’ Allison is dating Scott.”
“Huh?”
Stiles looks up. “Scott McCall. My best friend. He goes to a different school. I just live with Allison.”
“Your buddy trusts you to live with his girlfriend when she looks like that?”
“It’s the twenty-first century,” Stiles says, “believe it or not, men and women can be friends and trust each other not to cheat on them at the first opportunity.”
“Still,” Derek shakes his head. He leans forward and says conspiratorially, “you know, I went to high school with her for a bit.”
Now this is really too much for Stiles. His jaw drops open, although not for the reason Derek seems to think as he smirks and sits back.
“I. Know. That.” Stiles says, annunciating each word.
“Oh yeah, how? She talk about me?”
“Derek, you grade-A-fucking-asshole-idiot,” Stiles snaps. He stands up and slams his hands on the table. “I went to high school with you.”
Derek’s eyes widen. “Beacon Hills?” he asks. “You went to Beacon Hills?”
“Yes,” he says. “I went to Beacon Hills. I was in the same class as Allison. And your cousin, Malia, by the way. I’m Stiles Stilinski.” He points at his chest, as if this will help the situation.
“You’re…” Derek trails off, obviously racking his brain and coming up empty just like Stiles knew he would.
“I’m Sheriff Stilinski’s kid,” he says.
“What?” Derek sits up and snorts, “but that kid was…”
Stiles feels his face bloom red, because yes, he knows. That kid was a pathetic, hideous loser. He may still be ugly, according to Derek’s standards at least, but he’s way less of a loser now, and also marginally less pathetic. He sits back down and glares at his pencil.
“…looked so different,” Derek says eventually.
“Yes, I grew out my hair and lost the braces and shot up four more inches after junior year,” Stiles says tiredly. “But I guess you wouldn’t have been around for the great Stiles Stilinski transformation of summer-twenty-thirteen.”
Derek has the grace to look chagrined now. “Sorry, man. No wonder you hated me so much, I literally forgot who you were.” He gestures at Stiles sort of vaguely. “If it’s any consolation, you look a lot more…” but he doesn’t add any adjectives, probably that’d be too gay.
“It’s fine,” Stiles answers. “Let’s just work on this essay. Do you have any ideas what direction you want to go with it?”
Later, Derek hands him six crisp twenties, for the week, and says, “see you in class tomorrow, I guess.”
“Yeah,” Stiles says. He watches as Derek packs up his bag. He’s feeling extremely tired tonight. He’s not sure why.
“Thanks again for this, and I’m sorry,” Derek clears his throat, and Stiles thinks his ears look a little red, “for, you know, not remembering who you were.”
“It’s fine,” Stiles answers, “I was like persona non grata in high school. I was a blip on the radar. Nobody knew who I was.” Although, that’s not really true. More like, people who knew who he was generally made it their life’s mission to bully the fuck out of him.
“Still, you were right to call me an asshole.” Derek strains a muscle in his neck, and the action makes him look more awkward than Stiles has ever seen him. “Bye.”
Stiles doesn’t wave or say goodbye back, just shuts the door firmly but gently behind him and leans his forehead against it.
He supposes the one good thing about Derek confirming he’s got no recollection of Stiles from high school is that he either doesn’t remember the disastrous coming-out incident of Stiles’ junior year, or maybe he just hasn’t connected Stiles with it. That’s his saving grace. The fewer people remember that horrible-humiliating-life-ruining-ordeal, the better.
But jeez, it still stings. Derek Hale was literally one of Stiles’ sexual awakenings. He’s been obsessed with him ever since he and his family moved to Beacon Hills when Stiles’ was in eighth grade. He used to imagine running into him at coffee shops and becoming friends and then boyfriends. No matter that Derek Hale’s reputation as Derek Hale: sex god had already started garnering traction by the time Stiles got to high school with him. And plus, you know, there’s the whole straight thing. But Stiles always held out some hope, because Derek wouldn’t have been the first “straight” jock on the lacrosse team to bend him over. He wouldn’t even have been the second. He would have been the third. So, there was always that little inkling of hope in the back of Stiles’ mind, but it never came to fruition. Derek Hale went on to sleep with lots and lots and lots of girls and never once did he even spare a glance at Stiles or run into him at a coffee shop.
And Stiles was sure, when he started at Beacon University last year, that the chances were even slimmer, because this was college and there were twenty times as many students here as in high school. He had quite confidently resigned himself to the fact that a relationship with Derek Hale would forever remain his deepest, darkest fantasy.
But then six days ago, he showed up in Am Lit.
~
He spends the second weekend of sophomore year in much the same state as the first: wasting away in his room with nobody but Scott and his hand for company (Stiles would like to clarify: those things never coincided, he’s not a pervert).
On Monday morning he gets to Am Lit five minutes early per usual and stops in the doorway when he sees Derek Hale already in his seat, looking surprisingly chipper with two to-go coffee cups in front of him.
Stiles approaches, warily, and takes his seat.
“Morning,” Derek says.
“Uh, hey,” Stiles answers.
Derek slides one coffee over to him. Stiles stares at it for a second and then looks behind him to make sure there isn’t someone standing there. He’d think the motion was embarrassing in a pretty comical fashion if he wasn’t so preoccupied with being shocked. He looks back at Derek and then points to his chest with one finger, like me? For me?
Derek grins, “yes, the coffee is for you.”
Stiles pulls it over. He takes the lid off and looks at it. It looks like unassuming, black, drip coffee to him.
“It’s not poisoned,” Derek laughs, “jeez, you’re paranoid.”
“Sorry,” Stiles says. “This is just kind of unexpected. What’s the occasion?”
“Nothing. I just felt really good about that paper last week. I’ve never felt good about a paper before. I thought about it all weekend, like, how it was actually pretty decent for a dumbass.”
“You’re not a dumbass,” Stiles says with a frown. Because really, after a week and half of classes with the guy and two tutoring sessions, he’s not. He just has a little trouble with reading comprehension and Stiles thinks he might be dyslexic, cause whenever Stiles would explain stuff aloud or read things back to him, he picked up on them really fast.
“Well, either way. I was up for practice at five, you know”—Stiles blinks. He didn’t know Derek was getting up at five every day for practice—“and we got out and I felt pretty good so I thought you, as the brains behind said essay, should get a coffee as thanks.”
“Oh,” Stiles takes the coffee and sips it tentatively. “That wasn’t necessary. You paid me for services rendered already, so…”
Derek cocks his head to the side, and his smile drips into a confused sort of frown, but before he can say anything else, Dr. Connor strolls in to start the day’s lesson.
On Tuesday, he’s walking in circles around the dining room table with Scott on speaker, listening to the guy rant about his organic chemistry lab assistant when someone knocks on his door.
“Uh,” he says, “one second, Scott.”
“Are you having someone over?” Scott chirps.
“Not as far as I’m aware.” Stiles goes to the front door, the little peephole was painted over ages ago so he has to just risk his life and soul by opening it a crack and peeking out. Derek’s standing there with his backpack. “Derek?”
“Hey.”
“Uh,” Stiles says again.
“Derek Hale’s at your door?” Scotts says on the phone. “What is this, a porn—”
“Speaker, Scott!” Stiles barks. “Talk to you later, okay?”
“Talk later—”
Stiles hangs up the phone. He opens the door wider and Derek steps in, seemingly unaware of the dangerous territory that conversation was headed toward.
“What are you doing here? We don’t have another paper due for two weeks.”
“Yeah.” Derek walks over to the dining room table. He sets down his backpack and takes a seat. Stiles stands there, confused and sort of like huh?? “How are you with stats?”
“Stats?”
“The class. Statistics.”
Stiles blinks. He knows what stats stands for. “I passed. In high school, I mean.”
“I’m currently not really passing.”
“Oh.” Stiles pulls out the chair across from Derek. “Well, I mean, I’m no savant but I can try and help if you like.”
Derek nods.
“I don’t know if I’ll be any good,” Stiles reiterates. “Math was never my strong suit.”
“Yeah, but you’re…” Derek waves his hand in Stiles’ general vicinity.
“I’m what?” he asks, frowning.
“You’re all smart and stuff, I figured you’d be better than the math department freaks.”
“They’re not freaks.”
“I went down there yesterday, and they were ranking all the Boku no Hīrō Akademia characters by tit size.”
“Oh,” Stiles makes a face. “Yikes.” He cocks his head. “Also, how do you know what Boku no Hīrō Akademia is?”
Derek shrugs. “I used to watch that shit in middle school.”
Stiles grins. “You were a weeb? Derek Hale: lacrosse star, king of Beacon Hills, weeb.” Sex god.
“For like two years,” Derek says, rolling his eyes.
“This feels like blackmail material.”
Derek huffs. He pulls out his stats book. “Whatever. Can you help with this shit? I’m so fucking lost. I can’t prove anything.”
“Well, there’s your first problem,” Stiles says leaning forward onto his elbows to look at the disarray of Derek’s notes. “Number one rule of stats, you can never prove anything. You can only disprove things.”
Derek looks at him like he’s got three heads. “What’s the fucking point, man?”
“I don’t know,” Stiles shrugs, “this is why I’m an English major.”
They muddle along for about an hour and a half. Stiles does his best, and he’s definitely a little rusty, but he remembers as they go. Derek is definitely better at this than at writing, he realizes. Once Stiles starts to explain a concept, he can pretty much pick it up immediately and apply it. It’s just hard cause there’s so much stats mumbo jumbo, it’s difficult to define what any of it means.
When they’re through, Derek starts to pull out a bunch of twenty-dollar bills again.
“Oh,” Stiles says. “It’s fine, man. I barely even did anything.”
“Still, I took up your Tuesday evening.”
“Really,” Stiles feels guilty. He pushes Derek’s money away.
“Stiles, just take it.”
This is the first time Derek has ever said his name, he realizes. It makes his heart flip and he goes stupid for a second as Derek presses the money into his palms.
“So,” he says, once he’s all packed up. He makes no move to get out of his seat yet. “You’re a sophomore.”
“Uh, yeah.”
“How come I’ve never seen you at any parties?”
“I’m not really into the whole partying scene and plus,” he clears his throat.
“Plus?”
“Well, I’m not very popular. I’ve basically only got two friends here and then a whole bunch of acquaintances.”
“Yeah,” Derek says, looking up like he’s considering this. “But your two friends are both insanely hot girls for some reason so, you could super easily get into a party if you went with them.”
Stiles stares at him.
“Anyway, there’s a party this weekend if you want to come. I don’t know, get out of your shell and enjoy life for once.”
“Why are you being so nice to me?”
“What?”
“I mean, why are you doing all this? Getting me coffee and giving me money and inviting me to parties? Do you want me to put in a good word for you with Allison and Lydia? Cause I’ll tell you now, that’s never fucking happening.”
Derek shakes his head and he looks all grim. “You are so fucking paranoid, I don’t get it. I got you coffee as a thank you cause it’s polite. I ‘gave you money’ because you tutored me for six hours. I am inviting you to a party to be nice.” He looks back at Stiles and he looks a little guilty. “And I also feel kind of bad, you know, for not remembering you.”
“Listen, you don’t have to feel bad about that anymore,” Stiles says. “You and like ninety percent of your class don’t remember me. It’s fine, I was like a social pariah in high school.”
“Still.” Derek looks at him and Stiles isn’t sure what he’s supposed to say. “So, are you coming?”
“I don’t go to lacrosse parties.”
“It’s not a lacrosse party; it’s a frat party.”
“Yeah, but everyone knows your frat is the one with all the lacrosse kids.”
“What do you have against lacrosse kids?” Derek doesn’t let him answer. “And anyway, it’s not my frat. It’s my friend Isaac’s. I’ll text you the address. You can bring your friends.”
Stiles starts to open his mouth, but Derek holds his hands up like he’s defending himself. “Or don’t. If anyone asks, you can just say I invited you.”
“Um,” Stiles watches him get up. He has the oddest urge to ask are we friends? but he doesn’t. He just watches him leave.
~
On Wednesday afternoon Lydia glares at him over her cup of coffee. Her lips are pressed together in one fine line as she assesses him. The nails of her left hand click-clack against their table in the corner.
“You’re not serious,” she says, finally.
“Well, a little bit,” he answers. She’s making him squirm, with her death glare and evil eyes.
“Stiles, the first time I ever met you at orientation it only took about three seconds before you started telling me how much you hated Derek Hale.”
“Yeah, but that was a year ago,” he says.
“You told me he was rude to you in high school.”
“He didn’t acknowledge me, but that’s only because he probably didn’t even see me when he walked by.”
“That’s rude.”
“Whatever. Will you come with or no?”
“You have basically refused to accompany me and Allison anywhere for two entire semesters.”
“Yes, and now I’m groveling at your feet and begging forgiveness.”
“I was going to go to the basketball girl’s house on Friday.”
“What do you want to hang around a bunch of lesbians for?”
Lydia raises an eyebrow at him. “Where the basketball girls go, the basketball boys follow.” She takes her coffee and sips it neatly. “What do you need me, for? Derek invited you.”
“Yes, but I can’t show up to a frat party alone. They’ll kick me out for being too awkward.”
“Why don’t you take Allison?”
“Because you’re my best friend ever in the whole world and you were the first person I thought of to bring along?”
Lydia gives him a look.
“And because Allison’s going home for the weekend.”
“Stilinski,” she sighs, “I seem to remember the only time I’ve ever seen you drunk, you pulled me aside and made me swear an oath that I would never, ever let you hookup with or date a closeted jock ever again. You said, and I quote, ‘I would rather pluck my eyes out with a fork and eat them then go through that shit again.’”
Stiles scoffs. “Okay, well, firstly I was drunk so you can’t hold what I said against me. And secondly, Derek Hale is straight as a fucking pool cue, he just invited me cause he feels bad he didn’t remember who I was from high school.”
“But we’re still only going because you have a crush on him.”
“What, it’s illegal to dream these days?” he leans forward on his forearms and looks up at her with his eyes all pouty. “Please, Lydia? What’ll it take?”
She flicks her hair over her shoulder with a sigh. “You have to take over tutoring Wheaton.”
Stiles pictures that pervy incel and resists the urge to gag. “For how long?”
“The whole semester.”
“Fine.”
“And I get to say, ‘I told you so.’”
“When?”
“When Derek Hale inevitably breaks your heart.”
“He’d have to get custody of my heart in order to break it,” Stiles says. He knocks a closed fist against his chest. “And this thing is locked up behind iron bars. Or ribs. Whatever, he’s not gonna get close enough.”
But Lydia just purses her lips and frowns, like she already knows that isn’t true.
~
He’s not really sure what he expected. Like, he shows up and yeah, it’s a party. There are people everywhere. There is alcohol everywhere. Derek is nowhere in sight because it’s a fucking frat party and it’s complete chaos.
“Well,” Lydia says, “I need a drink.”
He follows her into the kitchen, watches waves of boys part like the red sea before her. Eventually, they get to the big orange Gatorade cooler filled to the brim with Jungle Juice. She holds out her hand and someone scrambles to fill a Solo cup for her. The guy looks expectantly at Stiles but he just shakes his head. Getting drunk with Lydia last year was an anomaly. He doesn’t do that shit. Like, ever, pretty much. Alcoholism fucked up too much of his childhood, he doesn’t need it fucking up his adulthood, too.
Lydia clutches her Solo cup in one hand and takes him by the other, steering him through the house until they’re in the backyard, surrounded by an alarming number of half-naked guys. Jeez, it’s barely eleven and they’ve all lost their shirts already? Lydia looks around in distaste until her eyes hinge on someone. She gives him a once-over and Stiles turns to see who she’s looking at.
He’s no Derek Hale, that’s for sure, but he’s big and burly and he’s already grinning at her. Stiles grabs onto her arm.
“You cannot leave me already,” he begs.
“I won’t. We’ll wait for that guy to come over here and start hitting on you.”
“What are you talking about—” he turns around to see who she’s pointing at. He’s not as cute as her guy, but beggars can’t be choosers he supposes. “That guy is not going to come over here and hit on me.”
“He zeroed in on you the second we got outside.”
“You’re just trying to get rid of me.”
“I’m literally not. Look, he’s coming over right now.”
“Oh my—I can’t do this. Lydia, I haven’t had sex in seven months, I can’t even remember how it works. I’m going to fucking humiliate myself.”
“Stiles,” she says, in that barking tone she uses when she’s commanding him to get ahold of himself. “Calm down. You do not need to have sex with him tonight if you don’t want to. And even if you do, you definitely did not forget how it works. All you have to do is get on your hands and knees and let that guy stick his dick in you.” Her eyes flit over him. “I mean, I’m assuming, maybe it’ll go the other way. That’s beside the point. You’re just working yourself into a panic for no good reason. It’s a party, talk to him for ten minutes while I get that guy’s number and then I’ll come back to find you.”
And with that, she seemingly vanishes only to be replaced by the other dude in a second.
“Hi,” he says. “Cam.”
“Hi,” Stiles responds. Up close Cam is a lot better looking that he first gave him credit for. He’s big, taller than Stiles, and about twice as muscular. He’s got curly blonde hair and freckles. He looks like he’s from San Diego or something. “Uh, Stiles. I’m Stiles.”
“Nice to meet you.” Cam drags his eyes all the way down then all the way back up Stiles’ torso and he feels his face flushing.
“Um, do you go here? Like to this frat? Are you in this frat?” Where the hell did all his coherent sentences go?
“Yeah, I pledged last year but I’m a junior. How about you?”
“Oh no, no way. I just, I have a class with Derek, and he invited me so…I’m not really into the whole Greek life scene. I’m not really cut out for…I don’t know.” He’s speaking kind of high and fast because Cam keeps stepping in real close, until there’s just a few inches between them.
“Shame,” Cam whispers, right in his ear, “we could have met sooner.”
“Uh, yeah right.” Stiles laughs. “You wouldn’t have spared me a glance if—they wouldn’t have let me into this frat, you know. Everyone’s so…I don’t know. I’m not like—” he gestures at Cam, who doesn’t really seem like he’s listening.
“Want to go make out?”
“Sure,” Stiles stammers, because he kind of does want to, even though he probably shouldn’t. “Where?”
“Come on,” Cam grabs him by the elbow and steers him back into the house and up the stairs. There are still people up here but it’s less crowded. Cam knocks lightly on one of the doors at the end of the hall and then pushes it open when nobody answers. He steps in and looks around and then motions for Stiles to follow.
“Uh, should you do that?”
“Yeah, it’s the VP’s room but we’re chill. He won’t mind.”
“Huh.” Stiles kind of feels like the VP of this frat might mind, but what does he fucking know? He’s in too deep to care.
Speaking of, Cam grabs him by the arms and shoves him hard against the wall perpendicular to the door and starts kissing all up his throat until he gets to his mouth. Stiles kisses back because, well, he’s gay after all and young and horny and this guy is attractive.
He opens his mouth wider and Cam starts to get excited. He puts his hands under Stiles’ thighs and hefts him up and fully against the wall and Stiles wraps his legs around Cam’s waist. He’s strong and he’s good at this and he thinks he’s going to let this guy fuck him tonight.
But just as Cam is starting to grind against him, the door flies open and someone barks, “Cam if you’re fucking someone in here again, I swear to god—” the lights flash on and Cam drops Stiles with a groan. “Seriously? Are you kidding me?” the voice continues.
Stiles isn’t sure who the guy is at the doorway, but he looks drunk and pissed and Stiles has it on good authority that drunk and pissed and guy are generally not a good combination of things to be around. He starts to smooth at his shirt nervously as the guy comes over, but he just grabs Cam by the back of his collar to yank him out of the room.
It is only then that Stiles sees there was a second figure witness to the interaction, and it is a one Derek Hale. He’s standing there with his mouth hanging open and a beer bottle in one hand and Stiles feels all of his defenses mounting faster than he can think.
“You—” Derek says. His mouth works like a fish. “I didn’t think you were…”
Stiles crosses his arms over his chest and tries to keep his breathing from getting too erratic.
“What?” he snaps.
“I guess it makes sense why you have so many hot female friends,” he says, dumbly. Stiles looks down, feels shame crawling up his neck, and he starts to storm across the room, tries to shove past Derek in the hallway.
“Let me go,” he says, when Derek uses his body to block off the hallway.
“Woah, calm down, it was a joke.”
“Whatever.”
“Why didn’t you say something?” Derek asks.
“Say what?”
“Anything, I don’t know. You could have told me you were gay.”
“Why, so you could fucking hit me? Shove me into the wall when you walked by? Call me a faggy twink? Huh?”
Derek’s eyes widen and he has the gall to look stunned. “What the hell, I’m not a homophobe. I wouldn’t have done that shit.”
“Excuse me for assuming, considering who you hang out with.”
“My friends aren’t homophobic, either.”
“Really?” Stiles snaps. He knows that Jackson and Theo aren’t here. They didn’t get into Beacon Hills University or maybe they didn’t get enough money or the chance to play lacrosse, but he’s willing to bet his entire life savings on the fact that this college has its own version of the high school jocks that made his life hell. “How many times do you guys throw around the words faggot and cocksucker in the locker room, then?”
Derek doesn’t answer that. He looks down at Stiles, maybe in shame or disgust or shock, who knows, Stiles doesn’t care. He puts his hands on Derek’s chest and shoves him bodily out of the way. Turns down the hallway. Gets the fuck out of there.