Sometimes, over lunch, Danny stares at Scott. He forks salad into his mouth, barely tasting the tomato and the spinach and the crunch of the garlic crouton dashed with dried up parsley, and he thinks, why don’t you trust me, Scott. Don’t you remember, that one day after school hours, that one day you watched me play lacrosse and I took off my shirt, and we grabbed an ice cold coke and you told me, I don’t mind sharing a straw with you because I trust you don’t have cooties—remember, Scott?
Perhaps it is unfair though, Danny thinks, because cooties and werewolves probably don’t even rank the same, probably aren’t even in the same league.
What if Danny invited Scott to the lacrosse field, what if they passed balls to each other, what if, gasping and out of breath, limbs splayed wide on the field and getting rashes from the grass, Danny asked, You know you can trust me, Scott.
And Scott would tell him about the werewolves and he would ask for Danny’s help and Danny would do whatever was necessary to make sure that Scott didn’t have that furtive look in his eyes, that he didn’t look over at Allison like she was Juliet and he was Romeo and they were forever doomed to be star-crossed lovers with unhappy endings for everyone.
Stiles shoves up out of his seat, hand in his pocket, pulling out his phone, eventually leaving Scott to himself. Allison isn’t even in the cafeteria, and Scott sits alone, poking at his mac n cheese, pushing it around his plate with his fork, head drooping lower and lower until it’s resting almost on the table, shoulders bowed and sagging even though he’s wearing the brightly striped turquoise shirt that makes his eyes pop.
Usually Matt would be here, snapping photos with his camera. But he is gone and Danny wants to ask Scott if he’s seen him because Danny’s noticed, Danny’s noticed the way he’s looked at Allison, and he saw Scott gaze at Matt with a look in his eye he didn’t know the name of--and he also does not want to ask Scott but he does want to because Scott probably knows the answer even if Danny doesn’t want to know the answer to it and, despite the way his insides are twisting and coiling in on themselves, he’s pushing up from the table, he’s putting his plate away, he’s going to the vending machine and getting a can of coke, he’s threading his way through the crowded cafeteria to Scott’s table where he sits all alone, and slides quiet into Stiles’ vacated chair, scraping the metal back to make room for his long legs.
And Scott looks up at him with his soft brown eyes, and Danny opens his mouth, takes a breath. What about Matt what about Jackson do you know where they are, Scott, because they’re not answering their phones. What comes out is, “Hey.”
“Hey,” Scott says back.
Danny wants to ask why Scot smelled him so deep when he already knew he wore Armani, had, in fact, borrowed some of his back in the day when they sprawled naked on the bed in the hot summer heat, watching Deep Space Nine with their heads cradled in each other’s shoulders. You smell good, Scott had said with the sweetest, fondest smile. It's Armani, Danny had said back.
Danny bites his lip, notices the way that Scott tenses up, the way his eyes widen, like he can see the questions already forming, like he’s already pleading for Danny to not to ask, to please not ask.
So Danny shakes his head, pushes the can of coke over to Scott. “I got you this,” he says. Wonders if it’ll spark memories of the one they shared together so long ago at the lacrosse field, if Scott will pop it open with a hiss, gulp it down, cringing at the sting of the carbonation, and say, Danny, I need to tell you something.
Danny’s still waiting when Scott finishes the coke, says that he has to go, and then squeezes his shoulder in passing.
Danny crushes the empty can of coke in his hand, throws it away. “What the hell,” he says, looking at his unanswered calls, unanswered texts on his phone. “What the hell.”