Summer hits harder than Scott remembers.
It pushes at him, keeps him stripped down to basketball shorts while he's splayed across Stiles' bed, the fan oscillating sluggishly. It makes it hard to breathe, after everything, lazing in the vaguely cooler air, listening to Stiles scroll through Wikipedia on his phone like it holds some sort of answer.
Stiles' only concessions to the heat are a t-shirt, bare feet, one fourth of an exposed calf hanging off the bed, and the fan spitting lukewarm air around the room. His jeans are loose at the waist and thighs, his shirt pulls across his shoulders but has so much give everywhere else, and Scott worries, because Scott's always worried, because Stiles never had the weight to lose anyway.
"We should get ice cream," Scott says, every bit as sluggish as he feels. He doesn't move to get up from his graceless sprawl. "Maybe go wild and find lunch."
Stiles pats at Scott's face absently, long fingers chilly against his cheek, his ear. Unsympathetic as always. "You know where the door is."
After everything, it's nice to know some things don't change.
"Jerk," Scott huffs anyway, turns to curl against Stiles. To push his face back into Stiles' hand, just a little. Scott's got sweat pooling at the small of his back, sticking to even Stiles' softest sheets, and Stiles still feels at least 10 degrees cooler, wearing more clothes than Scott can look at without fear of melting.
There are occasionally whole blocks of time where Scott can forget why his body runs hotter now, but not a single second where he doesn't think about why Stiles still has problems getting warm. "What are you reading that's more fascinating than ice cream?" he asks, because someone in their friendship has to have a brain to mouth filter.
Stiles freezes, bitten off nails sharp in Scott's scalp, right behind his ear. "Sword swallowing?"
Scott laughs, a little, not enough to disturb Stiles' hand or work up more of a sweat. There are a lot of jokes Scott wants to make, but Stiles sounds unsure in ways he never used to. Instead, he asks, "Thinking about trying it?" with what's probably an appropriate amount of concern. He's glad that Kira isn't in town for the summer with a fierceness he never saw coming.
They've been friends long enough that Scott knows the sound of Stiles thinking something over. It's a familiar kind of rarity. "Not," he says finally, quickly, like he used to pull off Scott's band-aids. "Not literally."
It takes a second too long, maybe, where Stiles doesn't even breathe, before Scott understands. Where his own breath catches, freshly hot all over. He pushes his face against Stiles' sharp hip, can't stop from wondering. Trying to force his mind to take the leaps that Stiles' always does. "Been reading about it a lot?"
"I've been thinking about it a lot." Stiles shrugs, knocks his shoulder against the wall with the force of it. "Kind of beats the other stuff."
Scott's thought about a lot of things, mostly Allison, her smile, the way she laughed the first time she put her mouth on him--not teasing but happy--how she whimpered when he pushed into her. He never thought about Stiles.
He's seen Stiles destroy straws, shove his cheeks full of whatever is in front of him, try to eat a popsicle in two bites and succeed. There was a time, when they were 14 and home alone that they crowded in front of Stiles' laptop, watching videos they shouldn't, and Stiles had looked at him, mouth bitten red and open and asked--
"Wanna try?" Scott says, words just tripping out. He hears Stiles' phone clatter to the floor, and he'd try to tease, or smile, but his blood is pounding now, sweat already beading up along his hairline. Stiles knows him better than anyone, but the reverse is true, too, and maybe that's the best thing about it. He pushes Stiles' shirt up with his nose, puts his mouth against skin to say, "I can teach you."
Stiles gasps, wraps his hand around the back of Scott's neck hard. He shudders once, full-bodied and vicious. "Do my math homework, get my lunch, suck my dick," he jokes, always uncomfortable with facing something he could need. But his voice is rough, a bad imitation of flippant. He's half-hard in his jeans already, and Scott is close enough his enhanced senses aren't even necessary to know, even before he flops over to get himself cradled up between Stiles' thighs.
He doesn't know what makes him do it, probably whatever is making his blood edge closer to boiling. He slides a hand up the outside of Stiles' leg, soothing, holds on to his hip as tight as he dares. Says, "I never have, but I can start," with his mouth wetter; hot and wanting. He's never thought about it, but he does now, chubbing up in his shorts while Stiles tries to catch his breath above him. They've ran for their lives and still breathed easier than this.
It's a rush, panting against Stiles' belly, sweating under the hand Stiles still has on him. He wants to taste, so he does. Kisses open-mouthed across Stiles' lowered waistband, shivering when Stiles does, dragging his tongue across skin no one else has tasted.
Stiles says his name, and it takes long seconds, catches and drags out of him. His hand goes so tight Scott shudders and sinks his teeth into Stiles, just tests the give of skin and rides out the buck of Stiles' hips.
He can control himself so much better now, but he doesn't want to. Wants to let his teeth go and see how red and worked up Stiles would get then. How hot he could get Stiles. He holds it in, holds tight to every instinct, the urge to mark that he's never had before.
The denim of Stiles' stupid jeans is rough against Scott's sides, sticks to him when Stiles tries to move, restless, desperate, his thighs holding Scott steady, and Scott wants them off more than he's wanted anything in a long time.
Stiles' heart is pounding so loud it could be Scott's own, his breathing is heavy and unsteady, and Scott hasn't even started yet. He looks up to check, his thumb heavy on the brass button of Stiles' jeans, and everything stills, stretches out until they're both frozen, nothing moving but the whir of the useless fan and the air wheezing out of Stiles' lungs.
Stiles' hands go soft, and he brushes a thumb over Scott's eyebrow, and Stiles has always been the brave one of them, since the very first day they met. He's always been able to pull it together to get things done, and Scott's grateful for every single save, and he's grateful for this, the tremble of Stiles' fingers on him as he says, "I thought I was the one with bad ideas."
It makes Scott laugh, makes him expend the effort to get up on his knees. It takes so little strength to get Stiles worked where he wants him, sitting across Scott's lap, all long legs and broad shoulders, flushed and stunning. Where Scott can grind up against him just once, just filthy enough to ease his own ache, to let them both know relief is coming, as he eases Stiles' shirt up and off.
His seen so much of Stiles, knows his body so well. He could map the way Stiles goes red with his eyes closed, but it's always been so pretty. There's always been a part of him with an urge to chase, so he does. Follows the line of Stiles' flush up, over puffy nipples, and across the thin skin of his neck, his ears, his cheeks.
He kisses Stiles' mouth softly, just once, then harder, as hot as every long summer they've spent in each other's pockets, slick and dirty. He gets at Stiles' mouth like a promise, one hand on the wall behind Stiles, hitching him further into his lap with the other, with all the strength he has now. All the things he never dreamed of having before.
Scott kisses Stiles' chin and grins, teeth maybe sharper than they should be. It's so hot between them Scott could die, gasping into the damp heat, still trying to push closer. Scott's never had a secret Stiles didn't know, so he doesn't hold it back, says with his mouth to Stiles' swollen lip, with all the certainty he's always had in Stiles, "This is the best plan ever."