I think I'll Survive
Scott and Stiles are sitting together on the steps at school, chatting idly about the weekend when all of a sudden, Scott stops mid sentence, eyes wide. Stiles sways his head out to look at whatever the problem is.
“Who’s Allison talking to?” Scott wonders. At first Stiles thinks this is some jealousy thing - Scott, she's an attractive female, dudes are gonna talk to her - but no, that's not it.
In the distance, on the sidewalk of the parking lot, is Allison. And right in front of her - Derek.
“That’s him,” Stiles gapes, dragging Scott up so they’re standing, “That’s Derek.”
“Seriously ?”
Immediately, Stiles pulls Scott along with him until they’re closer yet still out of earshot. Their conversation doesn’t last for very long however and Derek is off, leaving quickly, footsteps heavy and fast paced. Allison watches him all of two seconds before she turns around, gasping at the same time Scott and Stiles appear, surrounding her.
“What did Derek say to you?”
“How do you know him?”
“Is this about Matt?”
She squeezes her eyes and throws her hands up, patiently waiting for them to back off of her. When they do, she lowers her guard again and raises her head, squinting at them.
“Yeah, he was telling me about that creep.”
She blinks at Scott - they both know who he was really after. Stiles steps forward, gesturing for her to spit out more details.
“Some other girls heard about him stalking me,” she explains, looking to Scott again, “They don’t know it was actually you. So, um, they came forward and Matt apparently assaulted a few in the past. The guy has a history of relationship abuse.”
“Who would have thought?” Stiles adds with a scoff but Allison keeps going.
“And after he told me Matt was going to jail, he asked me something kinda weird.”
The two boys glance at each other silently, then back to her as she finishes. She chews her lip and sighs.
“He asked about my aunt Kate.”
“Why?” Stiles cuts in, overly eager.
“I'm not sure. My aunt’s been staying at my house for a few months. I told him where to find her.”
“You told a guy you don’t know your address? Are you crazy?”
“He’s a cop, Stiles.”
“So? Ever heard of abuse of power? You see it in the system all the time,” Stiles scorns, turning to Scott like he wants back up but Scott doesn’t pick up on the hint.
“Whatever is is,"Allison continues, "Aunt Kate will deal with it. She can take care of herself."
"Unless this guy isn't who he says he is."
Allison sighs a second time, smiling to Scott as if saying - how do you deal with this - and having nothing left to say about it, she walks off, leaving them alone.
“Well, that’s great. Some shady guy comes up to her and she gives out information like it’s a walk in the park. Why aren’t you worried about this?”
“He wants to talk to her aunt, it has nothing to do with Allison,” Scott answer innocently, “Besides, Derek is a cop. I don’t see a problem.”
“I don’t trust him,” Stiles deadpans, following Scott back inside, muttering to himself down the hallways. “This guy had a bad vibe. I don’t like him.”
“He saved your life, remember?” Scott exasperates, already ready for school to be over. He sits in front of Stiles in class, dumps books on the desk, and rummages for homework at the bottom of his dirty backpack.
“Or he waited until I was in danger so he had a reason to arrest Matt,” Stiles suggests casually. He catches the disappointment crossing Scott’s features and rolls his eyes. “What? He was on this guy’s ass for a while from the sound of it. He couldn’t make an arrest without probable cause.”
“Stiles, come on.”
Coach calls roll and they don’t talk about it anymore after that.
“Who the hell is this guy?”
Stiles blurts it out - a much louder volume than necessary - which prompts the door of his room flying open, his dad at the door, furrowed eyebrows, detective side at work.
“Is that my laptop?”
“Yes,” Stiles responds, nodding slowly, still typing away without flinching. It isn’t until his dad jerks his chair backwards, prying him from the keyboard, that he panics. “Okay, hold on, dad - wait - “
“Stop taking what doesn’t belong to you, Stiles. Go. To. Bed.”
“But, dad, hear me out. There’s this undercover cop right and I need to find out why he’s in town and -”
“I don’t care if the Pope is in town,” the Sheriff shoots back, crinkles forming at the forehead, “It’s way past your bedtime, kid.”
“Dad, listen to me for one second.”
The Sheriff loosens his grip on the chair and crosses his arms, waiting for whatever holy explanation Stiles is about to pull out of his ass.
“Do you know anybody named Derek?”
The Sheriff doesn’t seem amused in the slightest, in fact his face has gotten a little redder from anger, and he snaps the laptop shut, picking it up.
“No. Now get some sleep.”
Dejection falls over Stiles the second his dad leaves, like someone knocked him over. Pissed off, he sneaks downstairs and steals a bottle of liquor from his dad’s cabinet, and takes the keys to the jeep with him.
“Dude, what are we doing?”
Scott’s staring up at the ceiling, his arm dangling off his bed, his head at the end of it instead of on the pillow. Meanwhile, Stiles is sitting in Scott’s computer chair, arms folded over the back, legs propped up on the desk, expression quizzical as he ponders Scott’s question. Instead of giving a coherent response, he takes a much needed swig on the liquor, offering it out to the other eagerly.
“Hey,” he begins, smiling lopsided, “We deserve to chill out sometimes, right? I mean - what’s it gonna hurt?”
“Your dad’s the Sheriff and you’re a minor,” Scott murmurs, taking the bottle lazily and putting it close to his lips but stopping, “And my dad was a bum drunk. I should slow down.”
“Well, guess what, Scotty,” Stiles breaks out, diving into lecture mode, rolling the chair around in a circle until he’s face to face with Scott again, “I’m tired of listening to my dad’s rules. And screw yours.”
“You don’t mean that, Stiles.”
The draft from the night air goes into the room and it bothers Stiles enough to where he swoops up, slamming the damn window shut, and returns to the chair. Scott is pursing his lips - just kinda making weird expressions every now and then as if he’s thinking a little too hard on something. A habit of his.
“I have a bad feeling about this Derek guy, Scott.”
“Why? Let it go sometimes, man, forget about it.”
“I can’t,” Stiles tries to explain, unsure if it’s even possible to communicate the racing, constant, obsessive mindset once an idea has settled in his head, “It won’t stop.”
“What won’t stop, Stiles?” Scott asks quietly, going more somber, fighting the alcohol to pay attention. Stiles licks his lower lip and shakes his head.
“Everything.”
Scott is about to sit up but decides not to - maybe it’s too hard, his head might be swirling around. As soon as he sucks in a breath, Stiles goes first.
“I love my dad,” Stiles admits quietly, taking the bottle back from Scott and drinking it for so long that Scott throws him a worried look. Stiles quickly removes it from his lips and wipes his face with the end of his sleeve. “But he’s there too much. Always hovering and waiting for me to mess up or I don’t know - I wish he would trust me sometimes.”
“That’s not true,” Scott mumbles, “He’s protective of you, you know that.”
“Yeah, I know. Why do you always do that?”
“Do what?”
“See the good in everyone? I can’t do jack squat without feeling bad about it because of you.”
Scott just laughs, the contagious, amazing laugh that he has. Stiles would laugh too if he weren’t so intent on tracing the outline of Scott’s face with his eyes. God, that’s creepy.
But he does - and he watches the way Scott’s fingers move against the bed sheet, kind of like they’re playing with an invisible string. How he absent mindlessly shuts his eyes for a while and reopens them, as if he’s afraid of falling asleep, and the way he sighs every now and then - gentle and relaxed.
“You feel bad about stuff, Stiles. You just won’t admit it.”
“Uh huh, sounds more like you’re pushing those goody two shoes vibes on me again.”
“Hm. Maybe.”
The time goes by, unnoticed by both of them. They don’t mind. It’s been ages since they talked, well - they talk everyday - but like, not really talked.
“You know, Lydia asked Allison to be her valentine,” Scott exclaims, turning his head so he’s looking at Stiles, “But I don’t know if she meant it romantically or not. Allison doesn’t know either.”
“Well, aren’t they cute?” Stiles mutters - a little serious but also accidentally bitter - “Next thing you know, we’ll be at the wedding.”
“Don’t be jealous. Allison deserves Lydia.”
“You say it like I don’t.”
“Because you don’t.”
The warmth in Stiles’ face drains until it’s cold and he shifts in the chair, planting his shoes against the carpet, firm and hard.
“Gee, thanks a lot.”
“I meant,” Scott breathes in and is back to ceiling watching, thumbing the bed sheet without much thought, “You and Lydia won’t work out. You can’t.”
“Hold on, you’re telling me after all this time - you support your ex girlfriend over your best friend? That’s pretty crappy of you, Scott.”
“It’s because you’re my best friend,” Scott tells him softly. He doesn’t sound like the usual Scott. The careful Scott who isn’t nearly as open with Stiles as he could be. The one who twists words around so that they’re not nearly as harsh as they could be. Scott could have said and done a lot of things that Stiles deserved by now. But he hasn’t. And he won’t. He’s Scott.
“What does that mean?” Stiles asks, dropping his arms off the chair, mouth ajared, seriously racking his brain over it. The alcohol is definitely in his system, making his judgement a little bit off - but Scott’s words somehow sober him.
“Nothing, Stiles, forget it.”
“No, tell me,” Stiles urges, pushing his shoes forward so that the chair slides straight up to the bed and he can directly look down at Scott’s dreamlike state. “I can sit here all night. Until you spill out whatever’s bottled up in that freaking head of yours.”
“You stay all night anyways,” Scott reminds sweetly, saying it as if it were a compliment - or a request. He meets Stiles eyes and shit, that’s not good for his heart - not at all.
It’s not everyday Scott is so honest. Stiles knows that much. The ADHD is Stiles’ excuse for having no filter but Scott does have one. Also, a moral conscious. Maybe that’s a tiny bit of it.
“Remember in fourth grade when I gave you that ring pop?” Scott brings up suddenly, shutting his eyes, “And Theo thought I was proposing?”
Stiles gets off the chair and sits on the floor, puts his elbows on the mattress and ducks his chin into the crook, never tearing his gaze away from Scott.
“Theo? I almost forgot about him. Let me go throw up now.”
“He wasn’t all that bad, Stiles.”
“Yeah, he was,” Stiles defends quickly, sitting up, wishing Scott wasn’t still such an angel in his buzzed state, “He was with Lydia all the time.”
“No, he wasn’t. Lydia barely spoke to him.”
It’s quiet and Stiles wiggles again, trying to get comfortable on the floor but it’s difficult.
“Yeah, well - He wouldn’t stop annoying you.”
“So? Neither would you.”
“But I’m allowed to annoy you.”
“Mmm.”
Scott rolls over so that Stiles can’t see his face anymore and a small panic kindles within Stiles’ soul.
“I kinda miss it,” Scott mutters, hard to hear because his voice is muffled, “Not worrying about much. Not worrying about paying the bills on time. About getting into college someday. About the future. We didn’t really understand a lot of the crap happening around us back then. It was pretty good.”
“It’s still good,” Stiles shuts down, determination bubbling up, “Why don’t you ever talk about this when you’re sober? Am I always going to need alcohol to drag it out?”
The last part he tries to come off as comical but he’s dead serious and it kills him. He doesn’t even realize how emotional he’s starting to get for no reason at all. Just listening to Scott’s breathing and being with him and thinking about college and the future and marriage and -
“I wonder what it’s gonna be like, years from now,” Scott thinks out loud, ignoring Stiles’ concern. “Maybe you will marry Lydia. You guys might have a cute little dog or something. A nice house too. Allison will probably find another girl - or guy - I don’t know. I hope my mom is happy though, she deserves the best.”
And his future vision doesn’t even include himself. Stiles drops the bottle of alcohol on the ground.
“You'll probably be a deputy and then the Sheriff. Like you’re dad.”
Stiles says nothing, he just stares, each word out of Scott’s mouth wearing him down. The light of Scott’s lamp glows a pretty shade of orange over the room, over the walls, casting their shadows. Scott inhales and his voice is clear this time.
“I gotta tell you something.”
He turns over and when he does he goes farther than he means and ends up only a few inches from Stiles’ own face, so close that Stiles can see the shine of liquor still on his lips. They look at each other and Scott’s totally dazed, blinking at Stiles, searching for whatever he was about to tell him.
“What, Scotty?”
Stiles barely recognizes his own voice, it’s breathy - raspy.
“Do you love Lydia?”
He’s soft spoken and even in the silence barely audible. Stiles isn’t sure how to answer the question. He honestly doesn’t know.
“Did you love Erica?” Scott follows up, as if he doesn’t expect anything anyways but needs to ask. Something about the sound, the way he whispers - it’s agonizing.
“No,” Stiles hears himself say. It’s easy. Not some horrible thing he had to keep a secret. He said it and nothing bad happened.
“You kissed her,” Scott presses calmly, “And you want to kiss Lydia.”
“No, I didn’t,” Stiles enforces, surprised at how natural it is - not lying. “And no, I - with Lydia - I don’t. I don’t really need to kiss her.”
“But you told me. . .”
Clockwork turns in Scott’s mind, like he’s piecing something together. It doesn’t take too long for him to return to gazing at Stiles.
“You didn’t kiss her.”
“Nope. I lied.”
“Then why’d you kiss me?”
Well that wasn’t expected. Stiles lowers his head and curses, chooses to just clambers up onto the bed - much to Scott’s shock. He climbs over him, very aware of all the accidental brushing up against each other as he does. Then he lays back next to Scott, hand over his stomach, wishing he could come up with answers to everything Scott wanted but he can’t.
“Here’s what I see in my magic crystal ball, Scott - I have a perfectly clear picture of the future, the best vision in the freaking world. Wanna hear it?”
Scott angles his face again so that he can peer at the other. Stiles takes in a deep breath and releases, bumping a knee to Scott’s own, looking in his direction with a smile - a sad one that helps him dream and hope, let’s him imagine the impossible.
“You and me. That’s it. That’s all I see. It’s all I ever see.”
It doesn’t matter how Scott takes that. If he takes it the right way, the wrong way, good or bad - Stiles doesn’t care. He doesn’t need to explain and Scott doesn’t need to hear an explanation. It’s how it is.
“Stiles,” Scott answers after a long time, after decades maybe - but that’s all he can get out. He swallows and his lips part a second time, eyelids falling, cheeks flushed.
“Scotty,” Stiles says back, hushed, the name like a treasure - meant for nobody else.
The world takes a back seat for a minute. No other sound, no other person, no other worry to cloud the moment. Nothing.
Nothing stops Scott from brushing a thumb at the corner of Stiles’ mouth and not even a second later he kisses him - applies the best and worst kind of pressure. The kind that’s safe and caring and needy and fearful. The kind that’s longing for something but never actually taking it.
The explosion in Stiles’ chest ripples through him when Scott doesn’t stop or pull back - because he expected a peck but no - Scott is kissing him. Really kissing him.
“You’re drunk,” Stiles lets out painfully - but makes no move to push him away. His willpower is only so good. Even if technically there was none in the first place.
“You’re my best friend,” Scott counters - like that makes up for anything. It makes no sense actually. His fingers curl into the crook of Stiles’ neck, gently rubbing, eyes shut, lips still cautious.
Before Stiles can dare say anything - he seriously doesn’t want to talk anymore if he’s being truthful - the door downstairs slams and wakes them both up, snaps them back to reality. Out of the two of them, Scott is the one who flies up and grabs the glass bottle on the floor so he can hide it under all the trash in the bin. It happens so fast, Stiles forgets how to move, even when there’s a knock on the door, he remains where he is.
“Come in,” Scott calls evenly, like it’s a normal Friday night - like they weren’t just drowning themselves in booze, on the verge of making out.
Melissa peeks a head in.
“Stiles,” she notices first, disturbed but not surprised, but that’s because Scott is sort of hidden behind the bed still. He stands up in a hurry.
“Hey, mom,” he greets, any alcohol induction swept away by the I ’m a perfect son charm. Stiles is pretty impressed yet incredibly envious.
“Sorry, I forgot to leave you dinner, honey. I picked up a pizza after my shift and left it downstairs. Stiles can get a slice too.”
“It’s midnight,” Scott informs slowly, watching as she checks her watch in disbelief. The sheer fact he can tell time right now is Oscar worthy.
“Oh, wow. Okay. Did you get something to eat earlier then?”
“Yeah, a burger with Allison on the way home from school.”
“Great. Sorry, I hope I didn’t wake you two up.” She looks between them, suspicions rising - which has to be due to Stiles keeping his normally loud mouth shut. Mostly because if this were his dad - they wouldn’t have lasted a second. Good thing Melissa trusts Scott to the end of the Earth. Well, mostly. “Not that you two ever sleep at a reasonable hour.”
“We’re about to,” Scott chuckles, going to the doorway, “I’m gonna grab some extra blankets.”
“Get some rest,” Melissa orders Stiles when Scott’s gone. He grins and nods, internally cringing. It sucks because he can’t even blame the liquor for his dumb actions. She hesitates but leaves it alone, even if she knows they’ve been up to something. The Gods have given them pity tonight.
Melissa leaves at the same time Scott brings fresh sheets back to the room. When he shuts the door behind him and throws everything on the bed, right on top of Stiles without warning, he goes to the closet.
“Dude-”
“I’m tired,” Scott discloses, which has to be true because he sounds like he just ran a marathon. The red on his face proves he’s still pretty out of it, pretty buzzed, it’s a miracle Melissa didn’t catch on. Normally, they slept together in the bed - they’ve done it since childhood so nothing was unusual about it really. Although it was always weird getting caught by Melissa whether she commented on it or not.
“I think I’m gonna take the couch,” Scott mumbles, unable to look at Stiles as he grabs an extra pillow from the closet, tucking it under his arm. “See you in the morning.”
“Are you kidding me?”
Stiles finds his energy again and flings himself off the bed, blocking the way before Scott can touch the door handle.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Scott.”
“Get out of the way, alright? I don’t feel like arguing right now.”
“Then don’t ,” Stiles challenges, uneasy under Scott’s hazy stare, “You’re not really going to pretend that didn’t just happen, are you? Can we not be that cliche.”
Scott is unresponsive, must have decided not to fight, and plops face down on the bed with a groan. Possibly from the liquor. Or embarrassment. Or neither.
“Will you just turn the lights off and shut up, Stiles?”
“Happy to do it as soon as we talk about this.”
“I don’t want - “ he grabs the pillow and stuffs it under his head, closing his eyes, “You said it yourself that I’m drunk. Forget it.”
Ouch.
Stiles has to mentally weave a bunch of excuses for that, has to think of ways it can be interpreted so it’s not what he assumes. Unless Scott really is implying he only kissed Stiles because he was drunk. Which is stupid. And childish.
“You’re not that drunk. You held a conversation with Melissa.”
Scott doesn’t have much to respond with and he probably won’t. Stubborn. Stiles flicks the lamp off and crosses the space to him. He jumps on the bed, crawls next to Scott and flips him over without warning so he’s forced to look up.
“Did you kiss me because you’re not totally sober, Scott? Is that what you want me to think?”
Even in the dark he absorbs the pretty brown of Scott’s eyes. His heart hammers in his chest because while he’s acting brave - he’s terrified Scott will agree and that will be the end of it forever. Scott believes he’s meant to be with Lydia anyways. So, there’s a high chance he’ll make something up and ignore all of this together. Maybe run away.
"That's not it," Scott urges, emotion returning to his voice. Nerves twisting together, Stiles speaks again.
"So, why, what is - do you not. . ?"
Do you not - ?
Do you not what?
Stiles swallows the rest of that down, courage dying with it.
“You said it didn’t mean anything before, at summer camp,” Scott exhales, crestfallen, “So, we can pretend it didn’t happen again, like before. If that’s what you want. I don’t want you to feel like - “
Stop.
Stiles has never acted so fast in his life.
Sure, he’s an impulsive brat - greedy and irresponsible to top it off - but when he leans down and closes the space between them, when he presses his lips to Scott’s own, he doesn’t think about how undeserving he is or how messed up it is or anything. He feels everything instead.
Feels like he wants to make sure Scott knows how much he’s always cherished him. Empties out every promise into Scott’s mouth by melting into it, dragging his nails into his best friend’s jacket without a second thought.
“It always means something, Scotty,” he whispers, pecking his lips over and over, “You should know that.”
Always when I’m with you.
At first, he’s afraid that maybe Scott doesn't return the sentiment until he feels him responding. Scott trailing his hand to Stiles’ back, tentatively - like they haven’t touched each other before or something. Scott not quite pushing back but easing into it, probably wondering if this is real or not, and when Stiles opens his eyes ever so slightly, he finds that Scott’s are closed - peace on his face.
He touches Scott’s cheek, roams a hand over his ear and temple and against his hair but it’s short lived because Scott breaks away, out of breath, lust and confusion misting his vision. There's a pause before Stiles complies, doesn’t try to kiss him again, just waits for anything - unable to grasp the idea that Scott has more willpower somehow. Even with a harder buzz.
“I don’t know,” Scott tries to say in one breath, “I’m still kinda - with the drinking. I just don’t want to and. . . I want to remember.”
The embarrassment is obvious from a mile away even as he’s steadying himself, gaze lingering on Stiles’ lips, regret piling up the longer Stiles doesn’t respond. There's so much Stiles wants to say. So much he needs to pour out while they're here, in this moment. But he doesn't, he has to wait. Wait for Scott to be more mentally and emotionally aware.
Besides, he's sure this isn't even close to their last moment.
“I’ve waited my whole freaking life, I think I’ll survive,” Stiles jokes, smiling in all earnest, meaning every word. He drops next to Scott, into the other pillow with a yawn, feigning like he’s tired too which he’s not. “You can still go sleep on the couch if you want, by the way.”
Scott glances at him, like he’s unsure if he made the right decision. After a beat, he smiles too.
“Shut up, Stiles.”
Stiles yawns again, turning over so that his back is to him. It’s quiet and it takes every ounce of self control he’s ever built up not to turn right back around. Weirdly enough, Stiles has never felt more comfortable and happy in his life. He should feel strange about it, right? Kissing his best friend.
But he doesn’t. Not at all.
It's overwhelmingly nice.
“Yeah, you too, buddy,” Stiles hums, insides warming, conveying his feelings without saying the actual words. It’s okay though.
They both know what he means.