Work Text:
Dropping the Ball
“No,” Stiles says, as emphatically as he can. “Nooooooooo.”
“C’mon, buddy,” Scott whines. “It’ll be fun.”
“No it won’t. It’ll suck. New Year’s Eve always sucks when you’re single.”
The whole point is to have someone to kiss when the ball drops, during the Auld Lang Syne of it all. Otherwise you’re just the awkward dude standing off to the side, your eyes fixed on the ball on the screen or the countdown clock because if you’re not looking at that you’re watching your friends make out, and it’s not like there’s anything new or exciting to see there. Scott and Kira have been making out since their junior year of high school.
“You promised.”
Right. He had. Because five weeks ago – when Scott and Kira told him about the party – he’d been all over that. Five weeks ago he’d had someone to kiss when the ball dropped.
Five weeks ago he didn’t know that Corey was already cheating on him with 5B.
It’s truly awesome to find out Thanksgiving morning – when you’re supposed to be getting ready to introduce your boyfriend to your dad for the first time – that said boyfriend has been cheating on you for months with a fitness model, right?
Scott must see the determination in his eyes because he backs off with a pout, shrugs at his wife who decides to take over.
Stiles is dead in the water already, he knows it. He can resist Scott’s puppy eyes for days – he’s developed and immunity – but Kira? Nope. She’s a tiger. And she knows exactly how to terrify him.
“Stiles,” she says as she leans over the couch, voice intense. “I need this. Do you know how difficult it is to get a sitter on New Year’s Eve?”
Stiles opens his mouth to respond but shuts it when she leans into him, eyes wide.
“Scott thinks Ella is an angel because when he’s home from work, she sleeps. Do you know what happens when I’m at home and Scott’s at work? Do you?”
Stiles knows enough not to respond when he hears the manic tone to her voice, when her eyes widen and start looking crazed. Even agreeing with her at this point would make it worse.
“She doesn’t sleep. At all.”
“Oh honey, come on,” Scott says and takes a step forward then immediately takes a step back with widening eyes when he sees the look on Kira’s face.
“At. All,” Kira says tersely to him, then turns back to Stiles.
Scott grimaces to Stiles over Kira’s shoulder.
“Stiles,” she says now, breathing in through her nose, the picture of forced calm. “Corey is an asshole, and I hate that he’s ruined the season for all of us, okay?”
Stiles knows he’s missed a lot with them over the past month – Friendsgiving, Christmas Eve, the whole of their traditions for the entire season, cultivated and honed over years and years of friendship – but he just hasn’t felt up to celebrating anything. It was all he could do to spend Christmas with his dad, to show up to Thanksgiving with his dad alone when he should have been bringing a plus one. It was all he could do to withstand his dad’s kindhearted sympathy. God that had sucked.
“I’m sorry, Kira.”
He means it. The Three Amigos have always spent the season together and this year Stiles was MIA. He’s been a sucky friend in his depression. And he wants to say yes, he does. For her. But…
“I know. And it’s probably terrible of me to do this under the circumstances, but I’m calling in my best friend card. I need this. I need you. I need this one night with all of us, like normal. Nothing has been the same since Ella was born and I feel like I’m losing my mind, Stiles. Please. I need one thing to not change. I need one thing to be the same. And I need that thing to be us.”
He almost caves. Almost. Instead, he says, “I was going to stay in and-”
“Feel sorry for yourself?” she asks.
Harsh. Way harsh, Kira.
“Write. Erica’s going to kill me; I’m way behind on my pages.”
Corey’s infidelity had not only robbed him of all holiday spirit, it had blocked him too. All he’s done the last month is watch his deadline fly by as he’s written crap and deleted it, written crap and deleted it. Like he’s fucking Sisyphus.
“And one more day will make a difference?”
No, probably not.
“You’ve been holed up in your apartment for the last month. Maybe getting out will help.”
Yeah, maybe.
“It’ll certainly help you,” he says with a smile that she returns.
This last month has sucked, but he can do this for her. He can totally do this for her. He’s not the only one who’s been struggling lately and she’s asking him for help. The least he can do is be her best bro. Especially since she’s always been his.
He finally nods and she leans forward and gives him an excited kiss on the forehead.
“And you never know, Stiles. Maybe you’ll see something that’ll inspire you.”
Can’t hurt to try something new for one night, even if it is New Year’s. And even if he doesn’t have anyone to kiss at midnight. Again.
He sighs.
Happy fucking New Year to him.
“I’m gonna grab us some drinks.”
Scott and Kira wave him a thanks as they head out to the dance floor and Stiles heads over to the bar and orders their usuals minus Kira’s typical margarita on the rocks – ever since they found out about Ella, she’s been strictly cranberry juice and club soda.
He turns away from the bartender, leans back on the bar and watches Scott and Kira dance it up, smiling when they laugh, big and full-bodied.
The party is a little more upscale than they’re used to – it’s being thrown by some friend of a friend (of a friend?) of Kira’s in this gorgeous old hotel called The Anderson with massively tall ceilings and incredible custom woodwork that looks hand carved. Stiles is terrified to touch anything.
“The ceiling was painted by the Art Nouveau painter Nathaniel Cummings as a favor to the Andersons.”
Stiles looks over at the man standing next to him and almost takes a step. Holy shit, this guy is gorgeous. A work of art is talking to him about art. It’s like if Michelangelo’s David got down off his pedestal and started leading tours in Florence.
“The Andersons?” he says, his voice a little thick.
The man gives him a quizzical little half smile. “The hotel we’re standing in?”
Right. The Anderson Hotel. Jesus, Stiles feels like an idiot. But he’s never been any good talking to hot guys. He’s all thumbs. And this guy? God.
Stiles has no chance to act normal here. None.
“It took him months to finish. He wanted every detail to be perfect. He always said it was his best work, his most inspired.”
“Why’s that?”
The man looks back up at the ceiling. “You see the woman in the center?” Stiles nods. “That’s Daisy Anderson, the youngest daughter of the Andersons. He was in love with her.”
“Ah,” Stiles says.
“Yeah.”
Love can make you do that.
“So tell me they got together after all that. Tell me they had some long, amazing love story.”
The man considers that a moment. “They did get together with the support of her family, which was pretty incredible since he was a poor artist and she was a wealthy socialite. Completely different social classes. They got married. But he died about a year into their marriage from Scarlet Fever.”
Stiles lets out a low breath, shakes his head. That sucks.
“That’s part of why his work is so valuable. He didn’t make very much of it and Daisy guarded what there was jealously. Almost none of it ever came to market, not until she died and a nephew sold it off.”
“Wow…” Stiles says, shakes his head again. “Yeah, that is…depressing.” The man grants him a soft laugh, ducks his head, and Stiles grins. “I’m glad you didn’t lead with that. So how do you know all that? Do you just have a thing for old buildings?”
“Sort of,” he says. “I’m an art history professor at NYU. I teach a class on New York City architecture. I’m Derek.”
“Stiles,” he says, and nods at the bartender as his three drinks are set in front of him, as Derek’s drinks – three too, Stiles notices – are set in front of him.
“And what do you do Stiles?”
Stiles likes the way Derek says his name, soft and low, body angled in.
“I’m a writer.”
Derek’s eyebrows quirk up. “Anything I might have read?”
“Maybe,” Stiles says evasively.
Stiles writes YA novels. And he’s not ashamed of that, but he’s learned over the years to be careful how he describes what he does and to whom. He’s been on the receiving end of a few too many rolled eyes or polite smiles, as if what he writes is less worthy somehow than someone who writes literary fiction.
Those people can suck it.
“Unfortunately…right now I’m mostly a blocked writer,” he says, and almost immediately regrets it. He meant to evade the question but he didn’t mean to be depressing about it. He doesn’t need to bring someone else down just because he’s having a rough time.
“You can’t write?” Derek asks, eyebrows furrowed together. He cants his head. He looks genuinely concerned, which is nice, Stiles has to admit.
“Oh, I’m writing,” Stiles says, shaking his head. “And then immediately deleting it because it’s really, really bad.”
“I’m sure it’s not.”
“No, it is. It’s epically, monstrously bad.” That gets him a ghost of a smile. “Which sucks, because I’m already behind. My editor wants to kill me.”
And then, because Derek asked and because Stiles is tired of only having Kira and Scott and his dad to unload on, he launches into the real story of why he can’t write, of what Corey did, how his whole season has been a bust, how this is usually the time of year he’s most inspired – and how he’s only out tonight because Kira’s a good friend – the best, actually – and she needed him.
He unloads on this guy which isn’t even a little bit fair, but Derek does his part and nods sympathetically and listens and pays attention even though he’s got to be overwhelmed by the sheer force of the words coming his direction, if nothing else.
“Sorry,” Stiles finally says, ducking his head and looking away. “I did not mean to unload all that on you. Here you come out for a good time tonight, and I practically verbally assault you.”
Stiles really shouldn’t be allowed out in polite company.
He’s staring at the drinks on the bar top, practically feeling Derek’s non-response hovering around them and wondering how quickly he can make an exit to save what little face he has left when Derek asks, “This Corey guy…was he supposed to come to this party with you tonight?”
“We’d planned to go together, yeah.”
Derek nods, as if that was the answer he was expecting. “I’m sorry.”
Stiles looks up, gives a rueful smile. “Yeah, thanks.”
“No, not for that.” When Stiles lifts his eyebrows Derek backtracks, says, “Well, a little for that. But mostly for this.”
And before Stiles can speak, can ask what the hell he means, his mouth is covered by Derek’s and his eyes are slamming shut as he leans into the gentle, insistent pressure of Derek’s lips against his.
One of Derek’s hands is on Stiles’ hip and the other is against Stiles’ face and Stiles leans into the touch, matches Derek stroke for stroke as his stomach flips and rolls, as the tip of his fingers sing, as his hands reach out and grasp for Derek, holding on tightly when Derek finally pulls away.
Stiles blinks at him and Derek gives him a soft, intimate smile that’s mostly eyes and presses a final, tiny kiss to Stiles’ lips, watching Stiles the whole time.
“Stiles!” he hears someone say next to him but he can’t look away from Derek. He doesn’t want to look away from Derek.
“Oh, sorry,” Derek says. “Didn’t see you standing there. You’re…Cody, right? I think Stiles mentioned you once.”
“Corey,” he spits out, and Stiles keeps watching Derek, watches the detached pleasure light up his eyes at Corey’s response, feels Derek’s and tighten on his waist.
“Right,” Derek says, all wolfish smile and bared teeth, and Stiles wants to push his face up against Derek’s neck, he wants to rub his cheek along Derek’s beard.
Stiles doesn’t even hear it the minute Corey leaves. But he feels it because Derek immediately backs away, puts more space between them than they’ve had since they met minutes ago. Stiles’ hands feel strange now without Derek’s shirt to hold onto, and he searches for something else to occupy them, eyes landing on the drinks he should’ve brought back to his friends ten minutes ago.
He grabs them, clenches the glasses with his fingers, gestures with his head toward the tables on the other side of the room.
“I should…uh…get these to my friends. They’re probably wondering where I am,” he says, following that up with an awkward laugh. He likes to call that a Stiles Special.
Jesus, Stiles. Get it together.
“Right,” Derek says, holding his own three glasses up, refusing to look at Stiles, to meet his eye. That stings more than Stiles would like to admit. “I should get these to my sisters.”
They each make a couple of awkward, partially aborted nods then head off in opposite directions, Stiles to his friends, Derek to his sisters. When Stiles looks back over his shoulder it’s to see Derek putting the drinks down on a table in front of two dark haired women, both of whom look his way in unison, as if prompted. Stiles looks away immediately.
“Drinks! I have drinks! Drinks for my buddies, drinks for my pals!”
Scott eyes him as he takes a sip from his beer. “You okay, buddy?”
“Yep! Absolutely!” he says, and takes a massive gulp of his drink and immediately starts coughing, thumping his own chest as tears spring to his eyes.
Not his best choice.
“You sure?” Scott asks warily.
“Yep,” Stiles says once the hacking is under control. “Totally good. Everything is el positivo over here, buddy.”
“Liar,” Kira says, all penetrating gaze, and Stiles just hates sometimes that she isn’t as easy to fool as Scott, that she’s known him too well and for too long.
“I ran into Corey,” he says with a sigh because that’s the easiest thing to start with, considering everything else. He appreciates her sympathetic wince, Scott’s growl of outrage. His friends are good people. “While I was busy kissing another guy.”
Kira gasps appreciatively, slides closer. “Who?”
“His name is Derek. He’s an art history professor at NYU. And he’s gorgeous. And before you ask, yes…the kiss was amazing.”
“And?”
“And the second it was over, he backed away and wouldn’t look at me.”
“Oh,” Kira says as she sits back, eyebrows drawing together, all her enthusiasm gone.
“Yeah.”
Nothing like kissing a guy only to find out he can’t stand the sight of you. Either that or Stiles is just a spectacularly bad kisser.
“Hmm. Maybe it’s not what you think?”
“What else could it be?”
She takes a sip of her drink, eyes him. “Describe him.”
“Are you going to look around for him?”
“Yes. Obviously.”
“What is that going to tell you?”
“I’m not sure yet. I’ll know it when I see it. So please…describe him.”
Stiles sighs. “Fine. My height, dark hair, beard, chiseled. Happy?”
“With that description I can see why you were.”
He watches Kira as her eyes scan the room, looking for Derek. He knows the moment she finds him, sees the way her eyes light up and a smile grows on her face.
“Stiles, maybe-”
Kira cuts off Scott with one held up finger, eyes dancing. “Nope, honey. I’ve got this.”
Stiles appreciates that. Scott, bless him, should be no one’s romantic sensei.
“Corey was not the love of your life.”
“Uh…okay?”
“Stop acting like he was when he was just some asshole with great hair who didn’t get how amazing you are.”
He did have great hair. Stiles has to give him that.
“Because you are: totally amazing.”
“You really are, buddy,” Scott says, and gives him a lopsided grin.
“Thanks, guys. And you’re right.”
Of course she’s right. She’s always right about things like this. That’s why she’s Stiles’ emotional sensei.
“I know.”
Not particularly modest about it, though.
“Which is how I know I’m right about something else too: you need to go talk to Derek and ask him why he backed away.”
“I know why.”
“No. You’re guessing why. You’re filling in the blanks without having all the information. Don’t you want to know why? For sure? Just trust me, Stiles. Go talk to him.”
You know what? What the hell. Why not? The worst that can happen is she’s wrong and he ends up slightly more humiliated, and then he at least he can guilt trip Kira into making his favorite cookies for the next month. And if she’s right…hopefully that means kissing. A lot more kissing.
He takes a deep breath, stands, and takes one more sip of his drink before following the direction of Kira’s pointed finger to Derek on the other side of the room, her claps and cheers of Go get ‘em, Tiger! chasing after him.
Stiles sucks in another breath, stops in front of Derek. Swallows.
“Hey.”
Derek swallows too. “Hey.”
World class conversationalists, the both of them.
“Hey, so…thanks for stepping in there with my ex, letting him think you were totally into me, that I could get someone like you. It was nice to stick it to him.”
“You can, by the way,” says a voice next to him and Stiles turns and looks at a shorter brunette woman that bears a striking family resemblance to Derek. One of his sisters. Obviously. “Get someone like him. Or him. Specifically, actually. Not that hard at all.”
“Cora,” Derek says through gritted teeth and another brunette woman – Derek’s other sister, clearly – wraps a hand around Cora’s arm, pulls her back.
“Cora, let’s leave them alone, okay?” She turns to Stiles and says, “It’s Stiles, right?”
“Yes?” he says like an idiot, as if he’s not sure of his own name.
She just smiles at him. “It’s really nice to meet you. I’m Laura, Derek’s other sister. We’re going to go over there-” she gestures to some vague area on the other side of the room “-and leave you two to it. Hope to see you again soon, Stiles.”
It takes Stiles a moment but he finally responds, calls out to her when she’s halfway across the room.
“You too!”
Stiles turns back to Derek. “You told your sisters about me.”
“Should I not have?” He shakes his head, looks down at the ground. “They can be a lot. Sorry.”
It’s fine. Stiles can be a lot too. Maybe that makes them kindred spirits.
“So…you’re a really good kisser.”
Derek looks up. “So are you.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he says, voice deep, eyes intent.
That’s good to know.
“Then why did you back away?”
In a flash the heat in Derek’s eyes disappears and regret enters them instead. It’s not a good look on him.
“Because I didn’t ask for your consent first. I took something from you. It wasn’t freely given. And when you didn’t respond, I realized how what I’d done must have felt to you. I’m sorry.”
Oh God…he’s a good guy. Thoughtful and smart and hot and Jesus…Stiles is fighting way out of his weight class here.
“I didn’t respond right away because I was trying to process it. It’s not every day a super hot guy wants to get all up in this,” he says, gesturing to himself.
Never, actually. It’s never happened before today.
He looks back up at the ceiling, at that incredible painting with Daisy Anderson in the center and asks, “Did he ever paint Daisy again?”
“Over and over again, actually. He put her in every painting he did after this one.”
“Every one, huh?”
“Every one.”
No wonder Daisy guarded his work so jealously. You marry a guy, the love of your life, think you’re going to have your whole life with him and then just like that he’s gone and all you’re left with are some paintings, some pictures of yourself of the way he saw you when you weren't looking. That’s as close as you’ll ever be to him again.
Stiles would’ve hung on to all those paintings too.
“So…I was thinking.”
“Yeah?”
“I really want you to kiss me again. And I thought I’d put that out there, so there are no possible doubts as to my consent.”
The fire is back in Derek’s eyes and he takes a step closer to Stiles.
“Do you want to kiss me again?”
Another step closer. “Yes.”
“Awesome,” Stiles breathes out. “Do you want to get out of here?”
“Yes,” he says, and Stiles grins. “Your place or mine?”
Stiles feels a pleasant zing of anticipation run up his spine. “Do you have roommates?”
“My sister Cora,” he says with a wrinkle of the nose. “You?”
Stiles’ grin grows. “Nope.”
Derek is all over him in the back of the cab and Stiles loves it but he’s pretty sure their cabbie hates it because he keeps hearing little throat clearing noises from the front.
The theme continues in the elevator up to Stiles apartment, at Stiles’ front door and – when Stiles can finally manage to get the door open – into Stiles’ living room where Derek finally pulls away and asks Stiles how to turn on his TV.
“If I’d known you wanted to get me back here just to watch TV, we could’ve been home in our jammies ages ago.”
Derek huffs a laugh, rolls his eyes. “Just turn on the TV.”
Stiles turns it on and hands him the remote and Derek turns it to a local channel, one with a camera pointed at the ball in Times Square. Stiles is glad he isn’t down there with all the tourists and suckers right now, but he’s equally glad he listened to Kira, let himself get dragged out tonight.
“There’s only a minute to midnight. And when you were talking you said that kissing-”
“That kissing someone at midnight is the best part?”
“Yeah,” he says, all soft smiles. “That and looking forward to what’s ahead of you in the new year. A clean, blank slate. So many possibilities.”
Jesus. He listens too.
“So many,” Stiles repeats, moving closer to Derek as the countdown begins on TV. Voices shout out as Derek comes in close, as he breathes out, “Happy New Year, Stiles.”
The voices keep shouting as Stiles echoes Derek’s words back to him, mouths so close he’s breathing the words into Derek’s lips.
And then they’re kissing again – those knee-shaking kisses – as Auld Lang Syne plays in the background, as some people cheer onscreen, as others welcome the new year with kisses and hugs.
Stiles takes the lead and pushes Derek backward toward the bedroom, shedding jackets and shoes and socks, stripping off shirts and pushing down pants with hurried hands in between kisses that grow in hunger and desperation. Stiles pushes Derek back onto the bed and Derek falls with a bounce and a laugh, cock already hard and pointing up to his belly. Stiles eyes him hungrily then crawls up onto the bed after him, straddling Derek’s thighs and rolling his hips. Derek sucks in a breath at the contact, pulls Stiles down against him and into a kiss, deep and searching with plenty of tongue as a hand finds Stiles’ ass, kneading the flesh.
Stiles rolls his hips against Derek’s, friction just this side of not enough and he reaches into the drawer of his side table, pulls out the bottle of lube. He pours some into his hand then reaches down, sucks on Derek’s lip as he takes Derek’s cock in his hand and starts to stroke.
Derek pulls out of the kiss with a gasp, pants as Stiles twists his wrist, as he sweeps his palm over the head.
Derek blinks his eyes open then surges up and claims Stiles’ mouth again, fucking into him with his tongue.
Shit, can Derek kiss.
Stiles hears the snick of a cap and then it’s his turn to gasp and pull back when one of Derek’s fingers circles around his hole, teasing but not penetrating.
“This okay?” Derek asks, and yes, it is. It is supremely fucking okay.
But all Stiles can manage is a nod before Derek has claimed his mouth again, one finger dangerously close to breaching Stiles.
Stiles drops down to rest on one forearm, takes both their cocks in his hand and starts stroking, rubbing, pulling, gasping and grunting as Derek’s finger breaches him finally, as he curls and hooks it inside Stiles. Stiles breaks away from the kiss as his hand speeds up, as Derek adds another finger in Stiles’ ass, and Stiles begins chanting Derek’s name along with every basic obscenity he knows until he shouts and comes, breathing into Derek’s skin in short, rapid breaths as he comes down, cum painting their bellies. Derek comes seconds later, hand pulling away from Stiles as he pants, grins up at the ceiling.
Stiles collapses on the bed next to Derek, arm thrown across Derek’s chest and Derek pats and strokes it with his hand, lets his hand rest there when he’s done. Stiles will get up in a minute and grab them a washcloth but for right now all he wants to do is lie here, partially on top of Derek, and breathe.
Happy fucking New Year indeed.
Stiles has been up writing for two hours when Derek finally stirs, blinking sleepily up at him as Stiles types away.
Derek gives him a little smile that Stiles mirrors, something hesitant and hopeful.
It is a new year now, after all.
“I didn’t wake you up, did I?”
Derek looks over at the clock on the bedside table. “No. This is the time I normally get up, actually.”
Stiles scoffs, but he does it with a smile. “Of course it is. And then you probably go for a ten mile run while you compose lesson plans in your head or something.”
Derek shrugs but doesn’t deny it and Stiles groans, follows that with a little kiss. “Overachiever.”
He gets back to typing, writes a sentence then considers it, shakes his head and narrows his eyes, deletes the last half and rephrases it.
“What are you working on?”
“My next book,” he says and doesn’t look away, hitting enter and starting a new paragraph.
“I thought you were blocked.”
“I was,” he says and finally looks away and over to Derek to find Derek watching him, eyes lit up, smile tipping up the corners of his mouth.
“I’m not anymore.”
Derek nods and Stiles leans forward, kisses his smile. That only makes Derek’s smile widen.
“How do you feel about coffee?”
“God, yes. That’d be awesome. Let me get it going.”
He starts to stand but stops when Derek puts a hand on his arm.
“Stay. Keep writing. I’ll figure it out.”
Derek rises out of the bed and man, Stiles could watch him do that every morning and not get tired of the view. What shoulders. What a back. What thighs. What an ass.
Stiles clears his throat. “There’s um…sweats in the bottom drawer if you want to borrow some.”
Derek shoots him a smile and a thanks over his shoulder and bends down, pulls a pair of black ones out of the dresser.
“So these art history classes you teach…are any of them on sculpture?” Derek lifts an eyebrow at him in question as he slips his thumbs inside the borrowed pants, adjusts the waistband. God, that shouldn’t be that sexy. “Because if so, your entire lesson plan could just be you standing there in front of your students in your underwear with the words ‘Michelangelo could’ve carved this’ written on the white board behind you.”
Derek rolls his eyes but his cheeks pink and he points to Stiles’ laptop, lifts both eyebrows pointedly. “Write. I’ll be back with coffee.”
“Yes sir,” he says, watching as Derek walks away and out of the bedroom. The pants are the right length but definitely too tight, not that Stiles is complaining.
He dives back into his work, losing himself in the plot, in the beginnings of his characters as he starts bringing them to life, giving them voices, telling their stories, erasing a sentence here and there as he goes, filling in a better one to replace it.
Incredible. Yesterday morning he couldn’t find two words to slap together but today? He’s a fucking unstoppable force. Fingers of fury. He can’t get the words out fast enough.
Someone bring him an immovable object.
He doesn’t even look up from his computer again until he feels movement on the bed and finds Derek next to him, a couple of cups of coffee in one hand, two plates balanced on the opposite arm.
He made breakfast.
“You made breakfast.”
He shrugs bashfully as he hands over the plate. “Just eggs and toast.”
And fruit and yogurt. And a pretty perfect cup of coffee, actually.
“I thought you might need a little something more than coffee to keep you going.”
Jesus. Clearly Stiles won the hot guy lottery last night.
Stiles pushes the laptop off his lap and they sit close and eat, sharing glances as Stiles nudges the bone of Derek’s bare ankle with his toes.
“How many pages do you owe your editor?”
“Fifty,” Stiles says, and pops the last remaining corner of his toast into his mouth.
Derek takes Stiles’ empty plate, stacks it on top of his own. “And what page are you on now?”
Stiles peers over at the corner of his laptop screen. “Twenty-two?”
Derek nods, rises from the bed with plates in hand, his mug stacked on top. “I should get going then, I think. I don’t want to distract you from your work.”
Right.
“Yeah, sure.”
Derek nods at him then picks up his phone, reads something on the screen and shakes his head at it, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
“Something wrong?”
Derek looks up, shakes his head. “It’s Cora. She sent me a text about an hour ago telling me not to come home for a while.”
Ah, the 21st century equivalent of a sock on the doorknob.
“Let me guess…she met somebody?”
He nods, eyes Stiles. “On her morning run.”
Stiles laughs. “Of course she runs too. I bet you all do. You’re from a family of overachieving, athletically toned morning people, aren’t you?”
Derek doesn’t even bother trying to deny it.
“I guess I’ll just go hang out in a bookstore for a while,” he says, looking around him at the floor for the clothes he discarded last night.
“Or you could hang out here.”
It’s a kneejerk thing to say but Stiles means it, regardless. He doesn’t want to break the sacred little weekend bubble they’ve made for themselves. He doesn’t want this moment, this morning, to end.
“I mean, I won’t be great company because I need to keep working and there’s almost nothing in the fridge, but we can order in when we get hungry, I have plenty of coffee that I won’t charge you four bucks a cup for and tons of books for you to read. Plus you can stay in your pajamas all day if you want.”
Derek lifts an eyebrow. “Since I didn’t wear any pajamas, wouldn’t that mean I’d be walking around naked?”
“You won’t hear any complaints from me,” Stiles says, waggling his eyebrows as he eyes Derek.
Derek laughs and it’s a little too self-conscious and a little too guarded but it thrills Stiles anyway, makes his grin widen.
“Are you sure you’re okay with that? I don’t want to get in the way of your work.”
Unless he pulls a Corey and interrupts Stiles every five minutes with something “important”, he won’t. And Derek doesn’t exactly seem the type.
“You won’t. But if I get in the zone I might kinda…forget you’re here?” he says a little sheepishly.
He wants Derek to stay, he wants whatever this is they’ve got going to keep going, but he also knows it’s a much better deal for him than it is for Derek who’s out of his element in an apartment that (basically) belongs to a stranger, wearing borrowed clothes that don’t fit. Stiles wouldn’t blame him if he decided to leave.
“Are the books you’ve written on your bookshelves?”
“They are.”
Derek nods, sets his phone back down on the side table. “Okay,” he says, and walks out of the bedroom.
Stiles pulls the laptop back onto his lap but listens to Derek instead, listens to the sounds he makes as he moves around Stiles’ apartment, as he does the dishes, as he opens and closes cabinets.
Stiles shakes his head, focuses back on his screen.
He doesn’t look up again until he hears his name being called. It has that slightly impatient sound to it, the way someone always sounds when they’ve said your name more than once with no answer.
Derek is standing at the end of the bed, holding one of Stiles’ books in his hands.
“You’re M. Stilinski.”
“I am.”
“New York Times bestselling author M. Stilinski.”
Yep, that’s Stiles.
“Uh huh.”
“You said your name was Stiles.”
“It is. It’s a nickname. My real first name is Polish, comprised almost entirely of consonants, and basically unpronounceable to everybody but me and my dad. So I’ve gone by Stiles ever since I was a little kid. Figured I’d spare the world the hassle.”
Well…spare himself, mostly. No way he wants to hear the world butcher his name.
Derek lifts his eyebrows as if waiting for Stiles to continue, waiting for him to fill in the blanks, to tell him what his birth name actually is. Stiles shakes his head.
“Nope. Sorry, buddy. You’ve got to earn that knowledge.”
Stiles figures the only other person who’ll get to know that is the person he marries. Even Scott and Kira don’t know it.
In the meantime, something else is more important here.
“You’ve read my book?”
“All of them. The Fractured series is Cora’s favorite, and she wouldn’t shut up about how great they were so the rest of the family read them too.”
“The whole family?” Stiles says, eyebrows rising.
“Even my dad, and he usually only likes non-fiction.”
“And he…” Stiles hesitates. “…he liked them?”
“Yeah,” Derek says, smiles softly and takes a step closer as he looks down at the book in his hands. “We all did. It’s been killing Cora waiting for the next book to come out.”
“Well it’s gonna kill her a little longer, I guess.”
He nods toward the computer. “That’s not the next book in the series then.”
Stiles shakes his head, looks at the screen. “No, it’s something new about two teenage boys – Rowan and Rafe – who meet under super rough circumstances and become each other’s lifeline.” He looks up, finds Derek watching him. “Not sure if it’s a standalone yet or the start of a series but…last night really inspired me.”
Derek nods down at the book in his hands, mouth tipping up into a smile. He takes a moment then skirts around the edge of the bed and climbs back in next to Stiles, leaning back against the headboard as he cracks the book open. Stiles watches him the whole way, watches the way his thighs flex in the too-tight borrowed sweats, watches the easy way he leans back in Stiles’ bed even while Stiles feels his heart thumping against his ribcage.
“Is it going to bother you if I sit here and read while you work?”
“No,” Stiles says, because it never has before when someone quiet and respectful of his work sits next to him while he works, someone like his dad, or Kira. But he has a feeling Derek might be an entirely different animal. “But it’s a little weird to be sitting next to someone while they read one of my novels. Even if it’s for the second time.”
“Fifth,” Derek says as he opens the book, flips the first page, and Stiles feels his heart speed up. “I told you I liked your books.”
He did. He did say that.
“Actually, the book I really want to read is that one,” he says, nodding toward Stiles’ laptop. “Rowan and Rafe’s. But it’s not done yet.”
Stiles meets his gaze, holds it. “Guess I should get on that.”
Derek smiles at him, lazy and slow, before returning his attention to the book in his hands. “Guess you should.”
Stiles thinks it’s going to be difficult writing, focusing, with a half naked Derek in the bed next to him but after a few tense minutes in the beginning, Stiles gets lost in his work again and forgets to be anxious about it. Derek holds up his end of the bargain by being almost totally silent and still except for the times he gets up to switch a book or use the bathroom or refill their coffee. He stops Stiles once to eat lunch too – Thai – before sending him back to work with a hand placed in Stiles’ lower back that Stiles feels for a good solid five minutes after.
It’s about dinnertimes when Stiles finally reaches a stopping point. He sends sixty pages through to Erica, saves his work, and finally looks up from his laptop.
It’s not great, not even really good yet, but Stiles knows it’s the beginning of something that could be, and he knows that Erica will see that too.
“Done?”
Stiles nods.
“Good,” Derek says, tossing his book off to the side and crawling up over Stiles as Stiles slides down his pillows with a grin. His phone rings. He ignores it. It’s Erica, calling to yell at him for sending the wrong pages. He’ll call her back tomorrow after he knows she’s had a chance to read these, to tell him what she actually thinks. And when she does, he’ll send through his outline for the last book in the Fractured series. He thinks he’s ready to write that now too, to close out one thing as he starts another.
Derek strips Stiles of his boxer briefs and his t-shirt, kissing the jut of his hip as he crawls up Stiles’ body.
When his face is level with Stiles’ he braces himself above him on his forearms and says, “Can I read it?”
“Not yet. Not until their story’s complete. I want you to have their whole story.”
Derek nods, accepts that.
“Thanks for today. For yesterday too,” he hastens to add. “But thanks for today.”
“Thanks for asking me to stay,” he says, eyes warm and soft, and he leans down, takes Stiles’ mouth with his own.
364 Days Later
“No,” Stiles says, as emphatically as he can. “Nooooooooo.”
Derek rolls his eyes. “You can’t say no.”
“Why not?”
“Because we’re the hosts – and the hosts don’t get to say no to going to the party.”
“And why are we the hosts again?” Stiles asks pointedly, as if he’s prompting a class full of first graders.
“Because we’re good friends?” Derek says as he arranges a tray full of hors d’oeuvres.
“Nope. Noooooo,” Stiles says, wagging a finger at him. “Let’s call it what it is. It’s because you still haven’t developed an immunity to Scott’s puppy eyes and you foolishly let him corner you when I wasn’t in the room.”
“He’s wilier than I thought he was,” Derek says, with no small measure of grudging respect.
He is at that.
“I can’t believe you let him talk you into this.”
“Stiles-”
Stiles waves him off, picks up a tray in each hand. “Look, it’s not like I don’t love our family and our friends – they’re awesome. And I’m happy to spend time with them on all the other holidays…Memorial Day, Easter, Dia de los Muertos, all the Australian bank holidays. But New Year’s…it’s ours, you know? Yours and mine. It was the start of us. New Year’s used to really suck for me and then you came along last year and made it not suck anymore. And I was kinda hoping to spend it alone with you again this year, keep our tradition going.”
“Stiles, you need help?” John calls out from across the apartment and Stiles shakes his head, weaves his way into the crowd of their friends and family, holding out the food.
He talks to some of Derek’s friends from the History department, laughs with his dad and Derek’s dad, talks with Cora and her new girlfriend, and dances with Ella for more than a few songs, since she’s turned into a determined leech this year, and Stiles is her new favorite person. He doesn’t get much time with Derek at all over the course of the night which sucks – just a few glances here and there and a couple shared sips of the same glass of champagne when they got to stand next to each other for a whole two minutes – but he finds his irritation fading over the course of the night. Stiles really does love their family and friends, even if they’re all unknowing cockblockers. And Derek was just being a good guy. Stiles can hardly fault him that, especially when it was one of the reasons he fell for him in the first place.
It’s a good night. Not exactly what he wanted, but good all the same.
As it edges close to midnight nearly everyone congregates near the TV, standing as they watch the people onscreen getting ready to start the final countdown. But Stiles stands behind them all and off to the side and watches them instead, leaning against the pillar near his and Derek’s closed bedroom door, just outside where Ella is sleeping in the middle of their bed, way too tired to stay awake.
One and a half year olds, man. They just can’t hold their juice.
“I’m sorry I messed up our night.”
Stiles turns, smiles at him, and leans back against the brick pillar. “Nah, you didn’t. This was nice too.”
Derek braces his hand on the pillar above Stiles’ head, leans in close. “You think if I told everyone they had to leave just after midnight they’d get the hint?”
Stiles laughs as Derek grins at him. “Probably not.”
On the TV the hosts have started their countdown and so have Stiles and Derek’s friends and family, but Stiles and Derek are looking at each other, only each other, as they let the sounds of them all become their background noise.
It’s been a good year, a really good year. And Stiles can’t wait to see what’s coming next.
Derek brings up a hand, strokes the backs of his fingers along Stiles’ jaw, light catching and bouncing off his wedding band.
“Happy New Year, Mieczysław.”
Stiles smiles at him and Derek gives him a smile back, loving and light.
“Happy New Year, Derek,” he says, leans in and kisses him as their friends and family explode in a chorus of cheers, of kisses and hugs and well wishes of their own.
Stiles curls his hand in Derek’s shirt and pulls him closer as he feels Derek smile into his mouth.
Happy fucking New Year.