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No Homo

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(Week 0 - Freshman Orientation week)

 

“He needs your love, Stiles. You have to love him.” 

Stiles redirects his frowny face from Scott to the stripey brown-grey cat in Scott's arms. 

“I got you some food for him and a litterbox,” Scott says, holding out the cat to him. “All you have to do is welcome him into your heart.”

Reluctantly, Stiles takes the cat and holds it up in front of his face. “This thing is supposed to be a substitute for fifteen years of glorious friendship?” 

“I’ve told you, dude. It’s just a few months. I’ll be back before you know it.”

“It’s the land down under, and not even the fun one,” Stiles says, winking. “You know they have spiders as big as your face, right? You’re going to die. Or come back with an accent, God.”

“I stocked the fridge with watermelon Fours, dude. You’re going to be fine. We’ll Skype every day, and before you know it, I’ll be back with stories about, like, wrestling kangaroos and shit.”

Stiles gives him a look. “Yeah right, more like nursing them back to health. But seriously, what am I going to do? You’re my only real friend, dude. Everyone else sucks.”

“You’ve always got the other brothers,” Scott reminds him.

“Yeah, but I don’t know any of them. Why would I talk to them when I could talk to you? Only you’re leaving me. So. Maybe I should replace you with this ugly cat. Best friend status officially revoked.” 

Scott gives him a smile, then looks at the clock on the microwave. “Shoot, I’ve gotta head to the airport. But I’ll see you on Skype as soon as I get on the ground, okay?” Stiles basically drops the cat and gives Scott probably the most intense hug of their lives. 

“I’m going to miss you so much, dude,” Stiles says into his shoulder. He’s not crying. Definitely not crying. Not even a little. He’s just allergic to the fucking cat. 

“I love you, man,” Scott says, and Stiles is suddenly really thankful for that one time they granted a no homo blanket over their whole friendship.

“I love you too.”

They pat it out and separate, Stiles wiping his evil-cat-allergy eyes. Scott sniffs a bit, too. 

Stupid fucking cat.

“See you in December, bro,” Scott says, giving him a watery smile. “And name the cat. Bond with it. It’ll be good for both of you.”

“I’ll just name it Cat, you know.”

“Okay, Holly Golightly, you do that,” Scott tells him.

Stiles makes a face. “Come on, don’t make that reference at me. We agreed we weren’t going to reference Audrey Hepburn after high school. That’s lame, dude.”

“Give him a real name,” Scott just says.

And then he leaves.

 

It goes like this:

For the first three hours, Stiles plays CoD furiously. 

He’s just wasting time until Scott comes back from the gym or the animal clinic or whatever. No big. He makes some nachos in the microwave, sprawls across the couch, contemplates jerking off in the living room because he has full run of the apartment for the moment. The good life.

But then it gets a little harder to pretend Scott is coming back. He’s not stupid. He can only delude himself for so long. So he sets up the damn cat’s litter box, puts out some food and water for the thing. 

By the time he hits the five hour mark, it’s harder to pretend, so he pops open one of the Four Lokos and starts making a My best friend in the whole world left me for a giant-pest-infested wasteland and all I got was this shitty playlist playlist. 

It turns out to be three and a half hours of Stay, Somebody I Used To Know, and Wrecking Ball. 

At the six hour mark, he starts singing along.

By the time the playlist ends, he’s almost done with his second Four and his throat is scratchy from belting along. The neighbors have banged on the walls a couple times, but he just ignored it.

He’s not coping well.

But really, how is he supposed to be doing okay?

He’s known Scott since pre-school. They convinced Jackson Whittemore that crayon paper was an essential nutrient together. They broke their arms trying to do barrel rolls off the monkey bars together. They jerked off for the first time together. And they may have done it a few more times after that, but that’s the thing — it was never weird because they’re such close bros. That’s a perfect friendship right there. Two dudes who can jerk it without wanting to mack on each other. 

And he’s not going to have that for four months

Not that they jerk off together anymore.

Maybe they should. To cement the bonds of friendship. 

But Scott’s somewhere over the Pacific freaking Ocean and he’s going to be eaten by a koala or Hugh Jackman or something and it’s not fair. Stiles is alone, trying to fill the impossible void, and there’s nothing for it. 

He adds Wake Me Up to his newly retitled los hella sad tiempos playlist, sings along like a broken man. The fucking cat hops up onto the computer desk and sits there watching him. Judging him.

“You can’t judge me,” he tells the cat, bumping his forehead as he tries to get the last couple drops out of his Four, “You poop in a box. A box of sand. That’s like pooping on the beach. Who even does that? Cats, that’s who.”

The cat’s head tilts. 

“I can’t believe the Egyptians thought you were gods. I bet you pooped all over that desert.” He skritches the top of the little guy’s head and wow, that’s soft. “I would name you Scott, but then I would cry all the time. So. Not gonna do that.”

Stiles sighs heavily, and it turns into a burp.

“What am I gonna do, little buddy?” 

The cat gets up, steps on his laptop keyboard, and plops itself down on it. His laptop screen comes to life, the cat’s paws or obnoxious furry body hits a key or two, triggering the autofill of the search bar of Chrome. With the apartment complex’s shitty wifi, it takes a moment for the browser to pull up Craigslist. 

Stiles huffs. “You’re shitty at advice, you know that? I thought cats were supposed to be good at advice.” The cat says nothing. “Well, I’m going to interpret that as you telling me to get another drank, so maybe you are good at advice.” 

When he stands up, though, he realizes that his bladder is struggling, so he goes ahead and breaks the seal. The litterbox is next to the toilet, and he vows once and for all to never poop at the same time as the goddamn cat. That’s just too weird. No one should be that close. 

Instead of getting another drink, he moves the cat and adds Mr. Brightside and Lonely to the playlist. The cat decides to relocate to his lap, so he’s kind of stuck sitting there, petting the cat, basking in his melancholy. 

If only Scott were here to distract him.

Cause I just can’t look, it’s killing meeee,” he croaks in existential despair. 

The cat makes a distressed noise, and he sighs. 

Scott would sing along with me. You’re a terrible replacement friend.”

He and this cat are never going to have the deep, enduring bro-love he and Scott have. It’s a beautiful thing this cat is never going to experience. 

Because it’s a cat. 

It would be really pathetic if he went and cried on Scott’s bed.

He can do that when he’s finished another Four. He’s giving himself executive permission to be a total wreck after another drink. 

How’s he supposed to deal with not having Scott for four whole months? How’s he supposed to deal with not having a friend like that for four months? Someone to talk to, someone to play CoD with, someone to talk about girls with, someone to bitch about classes at, someone to just hang out with. 

Stiles hasn’t had to make a new friend since Scott. He doesn’t really know how. All he knows is that Scott is all he needs. Cheesy as that is. 

They don’t even have problems

And now he has to find someone else to be that for him? Impossible. He doesn’t have that history with anyone else, doesn’t have that total, comforting awesome dudebro love. How’s he supposed to find that? For fuck’s sake, they used to jerk off together without it getting weird. That’s special. That’s, like, proof. That’s how you know you’re tighter than tight. That's the test.

“Why can’t I spank the monkey with anyone?” Stiles asks the cat, holding it up to his face. The cat isn’t really pleased by the change in altitude and twists out of his grip, lands on his laptop before slinking away. “I hate you,” Stiles tells it, then sighs, turning back to his computer. The cat had hit the trackpad, clicked on the window for Chrome. The page for Craigslist is still up. 

He just about closes the browser window, but ends up clicking on the personals section for shits and gigs. 

It’s something he does occasionally. Usually, it’s thirsty gay dudes looking for a dick to hop on, and sometimes he gets a laugh from the wording, and sometimes it’s weird fetishy shit, and a lot of dick pics. It’s entertainment enough when he’s gotten bored of trawling through reddit. 

Tonight is the usual, someone looking for a blowie, someone looking for a “spicy latina to macarena”, whatever that means, he’s no expert but that sounds a little racist. But he’s sitting there and he gets a really fucking weird idea that might be the most brilliant thing he’s ever thought of.

What if he put up an ad for a friend? A test friend. And he’s pretty sure he knows the ultimate friendship test. 

He does it before he can worry about it, puts it up and sits back to admire his genius.

 

str8 dude - m4m - strictly platonic

str8 dude looking for another str8 dude to JO with. i can host. no pics. i don’t give a fuck what u look like and u shouldn’t care what i look like either. STR8 PLS. do not want gay hookup. no weird touching. just 2 dudes jerking it. thx

It’s brilliant, is what it is. And he’s kind of horny, too, like he always is because he’s pretty sure it’s just an aspect of his personality at this point. 

But this is really the perfect solution to everything. Busting a nut? Check. Companionship? Check. Not having to worry about whether some dude’s trying to get all up on him? Check.

Except it’s, like, half an hour and a bit of a Four later before he gets an email about it.

The email is a dick pic. Just a dick pic. 

No thanks

It’s not even a nice dick. Seriously. Dick game weak. Dick pic game even weaker. Not a flattering angle. 

Out of boredom, he turns the cat into Superman, which it really fucking hates, so he eventually gives up and flops onto the couch. The cat decides to sit on his face. Right on his fucking face. Cats are the worst

When he gets really fucking tired of breathing fur, he lifts the cat off his face and checks his email again. There’s another response. No pictures this time, thank God. Just a message. 

you better not have shitty porn. i don’t want to get all the way to your place just to watch fucking xtube buffer. what’s in it for me anyway?

Stiles stares at that for a moment before replying:

i’m a porn connoseuour ahole. 

and ur not getting any sexual favors bucko. wrong kind of rodeo

(but if ur not gay i have some four loko and maybe jack if u promise not to make any weird eye contact for the duration)

A minute later, there’s a phone number and the message better not be any of that shitty fruit punch or watermelon crap

Stiles grins and puts the number in his phone, texts xcuse u watermelon is the king of all four loko flavors. 

The reply is almost immediate: you have horrible taste. what’s your address?

He types it in, sends it, then adds a couple songs to his playlist before crashing onto the couch, one leg haphazardly thrown over the back, and the position makes the carbonation and alcohol in his stomach spin, but whatever. The cat joins him, starts kneading his belly, which is not actually the greatest sensation, what with the upside-downness and the spinning. The little guy has claws

“I’m going to give you the worst name in the whole world,” Stiles tells him. “What if I name you Jackson?”

The cat’s not impressed. 

Stiles rubs under his little chin. “Yeah, I know. Too real, huh? We don’t need any more reminders, do we? No, it’s bad enough he followed us to college and joined the frat we found first, isn’t it? Yeah, it is.”

It’s probably a bad thing that basically everyone he knows is someone he went to high school with. Kind of the curse of going to the nearest state school. But they had a good program for Scott, and Stiles slacked off too much junior year to get into any of the good schools for his major, so it was a natural choice. Something like a fifth of his senior class is here, though, so it’s maybe a little unfortunate sometimes. 

Especially because that fifth doesn’t include Scott anymore. Not until December. 

Stiles makes an anguished noise and grabs his laptop remote, puts his playlist on shuffle. To entertain himself, he holds the cat’s little paws and makes him dance to the excessively long intro to Somebody I Used to Know. 

By the last chorus, he thinks he hears a noise, but he’s yelling about how Scott didn’t have to cut him off, and fuck Australians, dude, the song was a terrible choice for los hella sad tiempos. But then there’s a definite banging coming from the general direction of the door, so he gets up, hoping the neighbors haven’t called the cops because they thought he was getting murdered. 

Again. 

Last time had been karaoke night and very scary for all. He’s never hid booze so fast in his life.

Stiles puts on his sober face and yanks open the door because it sticks a little. 

And that is someone he really had no interest in seeing tonight or ever: Derek “stick in the mud that I shoved up my ass because I’m such a fun-sucker” Hale. In the unfairly muscular flesh. 

“Are you here to kick me out of Kappa Phi because I listened to Miley Cyrus?” Stiles asks; that seems like a reason to be de-lettered. “Because you should know that Jackson Whittemore knows every word to Adele’s albums. Both of them.”

“No, are you—” Derek looks down at his phone, then at the number on the door and makes a very pinched face. “Nevermind. I think I’ve got the wrong place.”

Could he…?

No. No possible way.

“Wait!” Stiles calls after him, grabbing his phone out of his pocket. “Is this your number?” he asks, then rattles it off. Derek’s head tilts and he turns around, that pinched look still there. Dude needs some x-lax or something because that is not healthy. 

“Do you have shitty taste in alcohol?”

Stiles nods quickly, then shakes his head. “No, I obviously have the best taste because watermelon is the best artificial flavor of all time. But I guess that’s not really the point, do you want to— goddamnit,” Stiles hisses when the fucking cat streaks past him into the hallway, rubs itself against Derek’s legs. Derek rubs its head then picks it up.

“What’s its name?” he asks, holding the cat out to Stiles. Stiles takes it, and it tries to climb up his shoulder. With claws

“I have no idea yet. Probably Satan or something. Anyway, I don’t think he likes me holding him much.” The cat’s trying to climb up his head, so that’s a pretty fair assumption. “So come in or don’t, but I can’t keep the door open.” 

Derek follows him in, shuts the door so Stiles can spare his scalp from kitty claws. “You getting over a break-up?” he asks. 

“What?” Stiles heads to the kitchen, grabs a Four. There’s only two left after this, which is not going to properly fuel his Scott-free bender, so that sucks. 

“This music sucks,” Derek tells him. “Gotye and 3 Doors Down? The only excuse for having those two on the same playlist is a shitty break-up.”

“It’s not— My best friend is probably somewhere over Hawaii right now. He’s ditching me for marsupials. I’m allowed to mourn.”

Derek pops the top of the drink open, wiggling the tab a little. “Scott?”

“Yep. The one and only.”

“Pretty sure there’s a fuckton of dudes names Scott, FYI.” He smirks when Stiles rolls his eyes. “Nah, it’s weird seeing you two separately. I figured you’d grown into conjoined twins.”

“We actually did dress as conjoined twins for Halloween one year. And kind of kept it going for, like, a week after.”

Derek snorts. “I remember that. I was there when the principal forcibly separated you.” 

That’s part of the weirdness of Derek, really, that he’s part of the twenty percent of the Beacon Hills class of 2011 that came here. They didn’t interact with each other or anything because they were a year apart, played different sports, moved in different circles, but everyone knows the Hale family and, he supposes, everyone probably knows him as the Sheriff’s kid. Got called a narc until junior year, when he walked into Lydia Martin’s birthday party and lit a blunt on the patio. But he always knew people who knew people in Derek’s crowd, knew general gossip, enough to be surprised that he’d pledged, more that he got in. But a bit less that he’d kicked him and Scott out of their first real Kappa Phi Alpha party. Well, sent them to bed in the guest room, technically, like a total buzz kill.

So maybe it’s a little weird that Derek’s in his apartment, drinking his admittedly horrible-tasting malt beverages, all because he’s answered Stiles’ totally awesome Craigslist ad. 

(Maybe more weird than awesome from the outside.)

“Why are you even here, dude?” Stiles asks, then, as an afterthought, “No offense.”

“Everyone who’s back for the new semester is crashing some senior Beta Pi party, except, unfortunately, myself and Jackson. And his girlfriend. Because it’s date night and that apparently means they have to watch The Notebook in our room. I tried to drink enough cake-flavored vodka to drown out the sound of a grown man crying, but Lydia cut me off, so here I am.”

“Wait, Jackson’s your roommate?”

Derek nods. 

“Have you ever seen Lydia naked?”

The look he gets is painfully dry. 

“I can guarantee you that if I had, I wouldn’t be alive to tell the tale," Derek says.

“Yeah, I feel that.” Stiles swigs his Four in the can, figures he’s got about a third left. He can chug that pretty easily, so he does, smacks the empty down on the counter to Derek’s raised eyebrows. “So. We gonna do this thing or what?”

Derek looks at his drink, sizes it up, and nods. “Yeah. If you try to touch my dick, I’m gonna bitch-slap you.” He starts drinking and Stiles grins because this might actually work.

“Dude, I don’t even wanna see it.” He moves into the living room, turns on the TV. Scott had said it was tacky to keep porn on their data card, but he obviously doesn’t appreciate a good open-air jerk. “You picky at all?” Stiles asks as he hears Derek’s can hit the counter.

“Not really, as long as the resolution isn’t shitty,” Derek says. He sits down on the couch next to Stiles, an appropriate distance away. No chance of bumping elbows or stray knees or anything. Good. 

It’s not weird, Stiles tells himself as he hovers over a random video. “This cool? Everyone likes James Deen.”

“True that,” Derek says, slouching into the couch a little more. Stiles hits play and does the same, gets comfy. He doesn’t do anything during the set up, not like he usually does, doesn’t do anything until tits are out. Derek doesn’t either, doesn’t move for a moment or two until Stiles slips a hand into his sweats. He’s actually mostly hard, which is kind of surprising, but he also hasn’t jerked off since his shower this morning, so it’s not that surprising. 

The couple on screen is making out pretty heavily, her underwear coming off, and Stiles is very, very focused on the screen when Deen starts to finger her. Stiles isn't really jerking it, just kind of holding his dick, thumb rubbing up the side. Holding off. 

It’s a good video, not one of his most-watched, but good. He knows that later, the girl gets kind of squeaky, but her ass is fucking phenomenal, especially in— there, that shot, from behind, with her on her knees and her ass and pussy in the air. Stiles spits in his hand, rubs his wet palm over the head of his dick just as Deen slides his into her. 

The video’s fifteen minutes long and there’s two more positions after this. Stiles goes slow instead of going fast, like he usually does to come twice before it’s over. It’s more about mess than trying to impress Derek. There’s no reason to impress him, anyway. 

Thinking about him makes Stiles aware of him, of the total stillness of the couch, because Derek’s going slow, too. Not that he’s watching, but out of the corner of his eye, he can make out the movement of Derek’s hand in his shorts. 

But he’s not paying attention; he’s watching the porn, the naked woman on-screen getting pounded. 

It’s not like it’s hard to pay attention to pornography. And he’s not having a problem with it or anything. But truth be told, this was maybe a weird idea. And he’ll blame the fucking cat for it. 

Really, he and Scott haven’t done this since they were, like, sixteen. Maybe fifteen. And they'd been facing opposite directions. But Stiles always gets weird ideas when he’s drunk, and the cat was egging him on, and here he is, in close proximity to a dude he knows-but-doesn’t, mutually getting off. 

It’s not that weird. It’s not a gay thing, at least.

(He knows, from trial and error, that he could, theoretically, jizz on Derek from this distance.)

Not that he’s going to do anything remotely like that, not in a million years. Everything’s hidden away, anyway. The dicks are not coming out. This isn’t that kind of sausage fest. It’s not any kind of sausage fest. It might be a fest, but the sausages are tucked safely away in the cupboard.  

Jesus fucking Christ, now he’s thinking about hors d'oeuvres instead of the naked people in front of him. Maybe he’s too drunk to be jerking off. 

(He’s not too drunk; he knows where that particular line of drunk is, and he’s been drinking too slowly to reach it.)

Nah, he’s fine. He just needs to focus better. 

There’s a sharp inhale next to him, quiet, but audible over the sounds of smacking flesh and squeaky moans, and Stiles’ grip tightens, stroke picking up. That’s right. Sexy things are happening. On-screen. Lots of them. He focuses on the bounce of the woman’s tits, tugging on his dick with a little more intent because they’re getting to the home stretch now. 

James Deen is sweating a little, his face kind of pink. No wonder because he’s definitely getting a workout, going by the snap of his hips and the sounds the girl’s making. Fuck, Stiles needs to get laid, needs someone other than himself to touch his dick, needs to stick it somewhere hot and wet and tight

He bites his lip when he comes, holding back a noise. He gets jizz all over the inside of his sweatpants, all over his hand, which, really, is mostly gross because he’s not alone and he feels like he should probably care about it with someone else here. 

Derek doesn’t make a sound, but Stiles sees his body clench up as he makes a one-handed grab for the tissues. He sets the box down in the middle of his couch before snatching one and cleaning himself up as best he can with his pants on all the way. The video ends, going back to the main screen, and he takes a satisfied breath before making himself get up to throw the tissue away. 

If only Scott could see him now, cleaning up for himself and everything. (Scott’s complained before about why there’s sometimes tissues lying around when I sleep in the same room as you, Stiles, I know when you’re congested.)

For a second, he wonders if it’s, like, courtesy to throw Derek’s tissue away but nope. No, he makes it really clear where the trash is and washes his hands. Derek does the same, anyway, and then they’re standing there in the kitchen, both a little loose-limbed and slow, and it’s weird

“Do you play Call of Duty?” Stiles asks to break the silence. 

“Sometimes,” Derek says, and like that, it’s not weird anymore. They settle back on the couch, and he gets the game running, and they play. 

They end up playing for a while, actually. 

Stiles has to get up in the morning for Scott’s Skype call, so he’d hoped to fall into a drunken slumber around eleven, which completely didn’t happen. 

A bit after three, he calls it. He’s tired, anyway, and Derek looks a little bleary-eyed, rubbing his face. 

“I should head out,” he says, looking like he’s trying to will himself to his feet. 

“You can have the couch if you want,” Stiles says. They’ve got a blanket and everything. “Just a warning, though, I’ve gotta get up around eight-thirty, so I’ll be making noise.”

“You would be one of those if-I’m-up-everybody’s-up types,” Derek tells him, but there’s nothing harsh about it. 

Stiles rolls his eyes anyway, jerks his thumb in the direction of the hallway. “Bathroom’s thataway if you need it. I’m out, bro.” 

“Yeah, night.” 

Stiles turns out the lights, makes sure everything’s off, and hits the sack. 

 

In the morning, Derek’s gone. 

That’s probably for the best. It might’ve been awkward otherwise. Probably.

Stiles microwaves a couple poptarts for a few seconds, gets out the milk, and ends up on the couch for breakfast. The cat stares at him like it wants to eat his face off while he sleeps, so he breaks off the corner of one of his poptarts for it. He’s going to have to feed the thing, isn’t he?

When he’s done eating, he does put some food out for the little guy and cleans up the cans. Staring at them in the trash, he takes a moment to wonder if last night really happened. It would be a pretty fucking weird dream, but he always has weird drunk dreams, so it’s kind of possible. And Derek Hale seems like the kind of person he’d dream about. Because Stiles doesn’t really know him. People always dream about people they know-but-don’t. So it could’ve been a weird dream. At least it wasn’t a sex dream. That would’ve been fucking weird. 

He checks his phone, though, and there’s texts, so not a dream. He really Craigslisted a not-hookup. Successfully, too. Derek wasn’t a bad dude to hang out with, in all fairness. It’s not like he’s nice, but Stiles instinctively distrusts nice people, so. 

Scott’s skype call comes in right on time. He looks pretty much wiped, but he still looks like Stiles’ best bro, so it’s great

“What up, dude? Did you ride a dingo to your dorm?” Stiles asks. 

“Might as well have. It’s late.” Stiles can tell it’s dark, going by the window in the background. “Anyway, how’re you doing?”

Stiles shrugs, the cat rubbing against his ankle. “I’m good. Great. Missing you terribly. Whatever.” The cat hops up onto his lap and Scott grins, reaching towards the screen.

“Hey there, little man,” Scott says. “Guess Big Bad Stiles didn’t kick you out, did he? Sounds like he’s warming up to you, huh?” Stiles rolls his eyes, and Scott turns his attention back to him. “Did you give him a name yet?”

“I think I’m going to call him Jar Jar Binks,” Stiles says after a moment, “because he’s the worst thing to ever happen to me.”

“You like him. That, or you’re just mysteriously not hungover.”

“I’m not, actually,” Stiles tells him.

Scott rolls his eyes. “What did you do last night, anyway?”

“Booze and CoD, dude. Like a man.” Stiles waves it off, not entirely sure why he feels weird telling Scott about Derek. “Anyway. How was your flight? How’s Crocodile Dundee?”

He pets the cat while Scott talks, and he can do this, he realizes. It’s going to suck, but as long as they can talk like this, he can handle long-distance. He’s going to be okay. And that’s pretty sweet. 

 

What better way to celebrate his newfound peace of mind than by packing a bowl?

At least this way, when he inevitably realizes that he’s not okay, he’ll mellow out instead of freaking out. Really, Stiles is an amazing problem solver.

He’s conservative — not stingy — with his weed, so he’s got a bit right now. But he’s not going to smoke it all because usually Scott’s the one who does the talking when they buy from their guy because Stiles is still the sheriff’s son at heart and still thinks he’s going to get knifed over a little pot in California. He’s heard a lot of horror stories in his time.

Binks watches him carefully nudge some weed into his pipe, and that’s enough to get Stiles’ narc senses tingling, really.

When someone knocks at the door half a second later, he almost jumps.

But he goes to answer it. He’s not going to let them in, anyway, so he just leaves everything on the coffee table. 

He’s expecting the neighbors, maybe, or possibly the landlord. Not Derek. Definitely not Derek. 

“I think I left my phone here this morning? I would’ve texted you, but, you know…”

“Oh.” 

Stiles just stands there, not letting him in even though he’s clearly expecting to be let in, and really, Stiles probably would, but Derek has an official position in their frat, and while they’re cool about drinking, he’s not sure if it extends to marijuana.

Derek squints at him. “Can I look? I kind of need it.” 

“I’ll look,” Stiles says quickly. “Just wait...right there. Yeah.” Stiles kind of shuts the door in his face, which is a little rude, but politeness isn’t worth getting kicked out of the only potential source of friends he has. 

But before he can go back into the other room, Derek knocks again, clearly kind of pissed. Stiles hesitates a little but answers anyway.

“Look, I don’t care if you’ve got a bunch of prostitutes and a kilo of coke in there, I need my phone. I have a call scheduled with my mother in an hour and I’m gonna get my ass kicked if I’m not there to take it.”

Stiles sighs, but lets him in, sending out a silent prayer that Derek’s not going to fuck his life over anyway. 

Derek goes to the couch, sees the coffee table, and throws Stiles a dry look over his shoulder. “Wow, let me get the cops in here,” he drawls, then snorts and starts rifling through the couch cushions. 

“Hey, better to be safe than lose your scholarship, huh?”

“Fair enough.” Derek gets down on his hands and knees to look under the couch, and Stiles swallows, throat a little dry. 

“You want something to drink?” he asks, heading to the kitchen. 

“Sure,” Derek says, then, “Found it.” 

Stiles hears him follow into the kitchen, sees him when he looks over the open fridge door. “We’ve got mostly milk and juice and alcohol. Got a preference?”

“Juice, I guess. Whatever you have is fine.”

They’ve only got orange, but pretty much everyone likes orange juice. 

It’s not until he’s poured Derek a glass and helped himself to a bottle of water that he realizes that now Derek’s kind of stuck here until he finishes his juice. It would be kind of rude and awkward if they just stand here in the kitchen.

“Do you, uh, partake?” Stiles asks, nodding at the living room. It’s bro code or something, to offer, at least. 

Derek shrugs. “Not in a while, but I could.”

So they go into the other room. Stiles finds the living room lighter next to the Kleenex, takes the first hit and passes to Derek.

“So, your mom’s a real ball-buster?” 

It’s not the best smalltalk, but it’s better than hey, remember how we jerked off on this very couch last night? Stiles isn't embarrassed, or anything, because it wasn’t even a gay thing, but he’s not really sure what the protocol is. 

Derek shakes his head, then exhales a lungful of smoke. “My sister. I’ve been putting off talking to my mom for a couple weeks and she’ll start interrogating my sister if I don’t give it up. Cora plays rugby, and she could give me a run for my money.”

Stiles just nods because they don’t know each other well enough for him to ask why he hasn’t spoken to his mother. It’s a little weird, maybe.

While he takes another hit, Binks jumps onto Derek’s lap and starts climbing up onto his shoulder. Stiles watches his fingers stroke through the cat’s fur. Must be really fucking soft. 

He passes the pipe and lighter, and totally tries to telepathically tell the cat to pay attention to him instead. 

Derek has this ridiculous look, what with his stubble and general face area, that makes him look hella good with milky smoke coming out of his mouth, which is totally unfair, and Stiles is getting some pretty intense cotton mouth.

They smoke until the bowl’s cashed, and Stiles is feeling pretty fucking solid, so he’s not really motivated to pack another. The couch feels awesome, though, and he’s managed to coax the cat between them, and that fur is damn soft. It slicks over the webs of his fingers so nice.

“I’m so high right now,” Derek says.

It’s the third time he’s said it since they’ve started smoking. In his defense, it’s been a while.

“This is great,” he says, resting his head against the back of the couch in a way that makes his adam’s apple stand out against his throat. He’s rubbing his fingers together and Stiles mirrors it cause it probably feels cool. (It totally does.)

“I wish you could get paid for just getting stoned and jerking off all day,” Stiles says, fingers still sliding against each other. 

“Fuck, that probably feels awesome. Shit.” He adjusts a little on the couch, and Stiles gets that. He gets horny like nothing else when he’s been smoking. It takes pretty much nothing to get him hot, and just thinking about the concept of jerking off is making him want to. Too bad he’s not alone.

But.

But last night. 

They’ve done it before.

Stiles presses his lips together, looking at the splay of Derek’s thighs for a second before asking, “Do you want to?” 

It takes him a second to comprehend the fact that Derek’s nodding, that they’re going to do this again. 

His dick is totally onboard with that. 

Stiles grabs the remote and a controller to find some kind of porn, makes himself not pay attention to the way Derek’s hand is on his own crotch, just kind of rubbing. He’s trying to pull something up, but he can’t stop thinking about how good that probably feels, so he presses his palm against his dick through his jeans, working one-handed on the game controller to hit a video at random because shit, he doesn’t have the attention span to actually pick something out.

He gets the video going, and a second later, he’s sunken back into the couch with a hand inside of his jeans. The warm buzz of pleasure when wraps it around his dick is a sweet, sweet reward. 

Really, he’s not paying attention to the screen. The porn’s just playing so they’re not sitting around jerking off and avoiding eye contact. Stiles doesn’t need the extra stimulation right now, not a bit. His hand is doing him right. 

Pretty much.

He’d pulled jeans on earlier because they’d been the first thing on his floor when he’d gone to talk to Scott, but they’re not good for this. There’s basically no space to move around, and it had been fine at the very start, but he’s commando and it’s kind of hurting his hand. A lot, actually. 

“Dude, my zipper’s grating my knuckles into parmesan,” he tells Derek without looking at them. “Is it going to seriously offend you if I whip it out?”

“Go for it,” Derek says, and his voice is tight, and Stiles doesn’t mean to, but he looks. Gets an eyeful of Derek’s thick, muscular forearm as he jacks himself before he rips his eyes away and pops his button, unzips, gets his dick out into the air. Which feels really good, actually. 

There’s precome smeared all over the head, and he rubs his thumb over it, sticky. Licks his palm pretty good and gets a good stroke going. 

It’s a normal thing, a locker room kind of thing, that he kind of wants to see Derek’s dick. Just for a size comparison. Stiles definitely doesn’t have any insecurities in that department, he knows he’s good, but he’s just curious. It’s not fair, really, that Derek gets to see his and doesn’t return the favor. 

Luckily, he’s too high for thinking about another dude’s junk to kill his boner. Hooray for the small miracles.

There’s probably a part of him that gets off on risk or being seen or something, because it’s good, it’s definitely an above-average jerk. The worst part, really, is that he can feel the end approaching pretty fucking fast. 

He’d have to take his hand off his dick to get the Kleenex and he really doesn’t want to. It’s maybe a little shameless, but the only thing he has time to think of is pulling his t-shirt up to his armpits so when he gets hit by that toe-curling rush, his dick shoots white stripes over his stomach.

For a moment, he just sort of sinks deeper into the cushions, grinning because he can’t help it. Derek makes a muffled noise next to him, possibly coming, who knows, he’s not paying that much attention, and alright, it’s feeling a little too gay. 

He grabs the whole box of Kleenex, puts it between them, and wipes himself up before his jizz gets a chance to dry. Tucks himself back into his jeans, zips up, goes to throw away his tissue. 

Maybe he should move a trash can in here.

Well, it’s not like this is going to be a thing that happens a lot.

It could be, though. It’s not like it’s hard. Well, alright, technically, it is, but it’s not putting him out. And Derek seems to be cool with it. Sure, a couple of mutual jerks does not a new best friend make, but it’s definitely a step in the right direction. 

“I should probably head out,” Derek says a couple minutes later. “Gotta figure out how to act normal and wait for my mom to call.”

“Totally. Yeah.”

Derek twitches towards the door, watching him. The way his voice trailed off promises a follow up, but Stiles has no idea what he’d been about to say. He can feel the pressure of it, though, the expectation. 

“We could do this again sometime,” he says, not entirely on purpose. Then, quickly, “Play some video games or something. Whatever.”

He sounds pathetic

Never did he think he’d come so low as to practically beg someone to spend time with him. To be his friend. But these are desperate, Scott-less times. He’s not responsible for the lengths he’s been driven to. 

“Cool. I’ll text you.” 

Stiles watches him go, feeling a little better. 

At least he said yes. Basically. (It could be a I’ll text you...never kind of thing, but time will tell.)

 

Time does tell. 

A day later, Saturday, the weekend before classes start up, Derek shoots him a text asking if he wants to hang out. 

It’s a little soon, actually, but it’s not like a date kind of thing where they have to wait three days before talking to each other to seem cool and unaffected. It’s just two dudes, hanging out. Maybe they’ll get off. Who knows. 

Derek flops on his couch, sighs a heavy sigh. 

“I fucking hate Jackson,” he says while Stiles comes back from the kitchen with a couple sodas.

Stiles plops down, hands Derek a soda, says, “What has His Douchetastic Majesty done now?”

“He’s just…” Derek scrubs a hand over his face. “I don’t know. He just thinks everyone wants to hear him talk as much as he does. Thank God for Danny, or he’d never shut up.”

“Why are you rooming with him, then?”

“Because only the president gets a single. We had a drawing for who rooms with who, and I lost. If he’s not talking about the future of our fraternity, he’s bitching about how I dress. He complains about my underwear. But if I punch him, he’ll tattle, so.”

Stiles snorts. “He’s just prissy as fuck.” He bites back something about how Jackson puts a fuckton of effort into his whole look and Derek doesn’t need to do shit to be hella hot, but the way he means it wouldn’t come across. There’s no not-gay way to tell someone they’re attractive, really.

“True that,” Derek’s saying, “He’s alright sometimes, though.”

“Nah, Lydia’s alright. She’s more than alright.”

Derek hums, shaking his head. “You’re gonna get yourself killed, you know that?”

“What a great way to die.”