As with many things, the situation is all Scott's fault.
"My fault? How is this my fault?"
"You forced me to go to Rachel's house party, which was stolen directly from an 80s teen movie."
Scott rolls his eyes. "I asked you if you wanted to go to it."
"Forced," Stiles says dramatically. "And didn't you force me to play I Never?"
"I didn't force you,” Scott tries. Stiles stops him by pointedly clearing his throat. "I didn't! And it's not even a big deal--" Scott says next, but Stiles cuts him off for great justice.
"And now! Now I'll never have another first kiss."
Scott sighs and gives in. "I'm sorry," he says.
"You should be!"
"It's not a big deal, though, I mean it," Scott says earnestly. Scott's earnestness is well-honed. Luckily, Stiles has a black belt in ignoring it.
"You only get one first kiss," Stiles says. "And my first kiss was with Raelyn Wangner. That isn't even a name!"
Scott looks a little bemused. "But it is her name."
"Anything that has a synonym for a dick in it is not a real name," Stiles says. "Wang. I could work with Wong, obviously. And Wagner, that would be perfectly serviceable. But Wangner? It’s a cruel joke, that's what it is. God hates her. And me. And it's your fault!" He pauses for a second, and adds, "Plus, 'Raelyn'? It sounds like a country star."
"I said I was sorry!" Scott says.
"And I haven't forgiven you," Stiles says. "Forgiveness is an important part of the apologizing process. Your apologizing isn't complete." He makes the turn onto Scott's street, and manfully ignores Scott's relieved sigh. "Don't think this is over," he adds, before Scott can get his hand on the door handle.
Scott turns toward Stiles in his seat, though he keeps his hand on the door. "Look," he says, trying the earnest eyes again. "My first kiss was with Marla Stevens. But Allison is the first kiss that mattered, you know?" He turns his eyes toward the front window, but Stiles can hear him swallow.
"Uh, yeah," Stiles says awkwardly. Fucking Scott. "Uh. I'm sorry, dude."
"It's okay," Scott says, because he's way better at forgiving than Stiles. He opens the door and slides out. "You'll see, though, I promise. There'll be a kiss that matters, and that will be your real first kiss." He slams the door and manages a crooked grin when Stiles gives him the finger.
The real problem, Stiles decides during the pack meeting, isn't really that his first kiss will forever be with a Wangner. Don't get him wrong, that's a problem, okay, that is a problem that will haunt him to his dying day. The real, top-flight problem is that it didn't even give him an opportunity to practice. A four-second disaster of a kiss will only start a vicious cycle of disappointing kisses. He'll be such a terrible kisser that his second kissee will reject him, and then he'll be forty-five and living with his father still, eating Lean Hot Pockets in his room with the same posters and the same bedspread on his twin bed--
"Stiles," Derek says.
"This is pack business," Stiles insists. "This is incredibly important pack business."
"Did you take your Adderall?" Scott asks.
"Yes. Not really. Sort of," Stiles says. "I remembered that I was supposed to take it. Four times. Shut your face, okay? The point is--"
"The point is training this week," Derek says. He growls it, mostly, but that doesn't mean anything. Stiles subsides anyway, but he makes sure to huff while he's doing it.
The meeting is long, and mostly doesn't apply to Stiles, barring developments in the superhero direction. Stiles spends most of it thinking about how he can fix his problem. There has to be some sort of practice dummy, right? He should really get a smartphone. He has to google things all the time, and what if he forgets how to phrase his search query? Like now, he’s thinking "kissing practice dummy," right, but what if he forgets that later? He might, he probably will even forget to google it later, probably because he'll be attacked by creatures of the goddamn night on his way home. It's been two weeks, he's way overdue. He should really put a recurring reminder in his Outlook. Every two weeks, scheduled appointment, "be attacked by monster."
"Stiles," Scott says. Stiles looks up, and then around. Nearly everyone's left.
"Shit, sorry," he says, and holds his hands out for Scott to pull him up. "You need a ride home, right?"
"It's okay," Scott says. "Isaac and me are going to go for a run."
"Gross," Stiles says. "We get enough running at lacrosse. And from monsters."
"You don’t have to join us," Scott says, but he's smiling. "I'll see you later."
"Yeah," Stiles says, already distracted. He's not sure where Derek went, but he figures he can just wander around the house. Derek let them in and didn't physically throw Stiles out the front door. That’s practically a request that Stiles come and find him.
Derek turns out to be in the bathroom, although the door is open. He's shaving, using a mirror smudged with soot, which once again demonstrates that he's a masochistic idiot. Stiles doesn't bring that up, since he himself is not a masochistic idiot; instead he says, "So you do shave. Scott owes me twenty bucks."
Derek, holding true to type, ignores him.
Stiles doesn't really have anything to do right now. Or, he has homework, which means he has negative things to do. He should just wait Derek out, or at least hover here until Derek is forced to entertain him. Stiles leans against the doorjamb to wait, and sticks his hands in his pockets, but that gets irritating. He takes his hands out of his pocket. He picks at the paint on the doorway, instead, flaking more of it off, until a particularly stubborn piece cuts him under his nail, which is going to hurt for, like, three days, wonderful. Stiles sticks his finger in his mouth, and then remembers that this house is a festering cesspool for bacteria and takes it out again, and then figures that he's already contaminated himself and sticks it back in his mouth. He starts drumming the fingers of his other hand against the doorjamb, and looks up. Derek is staring at him with that stupid pop-eyed expression he gets. The razor is frozen in mid-air, hovering over his throat. "What?" Stiles asks, around his finger. Derek just pop-eyes at him for a while longer, then goes back to shaving. Stiles starts drumming his fingers again.
When Derek finishes shaving, he rinses everything off and wipes his face clean with a threadbare towel. "You could ask the pack," he says.
Stiles yanks his finger out of his mouth. "What?" he says, and then, "No, I heard you," when Derek opens his mouth to repeat himself. Derek's more literal-minded than Scott sometimes, Jesus. "What do you mean?"
"Kissing," Derek says, with exaggerated patience.
"What? No," Stiles says. "No. One of them? They would gut me. I would be gutted. Not figuratively, either, I mean literally. My guts would be on the floor. Not to mention that they're all practically my siblings. I mean, not real siblings, I don't have any siblings, obviously, and I like to think that I wouldn't put up with siblings who regularly threatened my life." Stiles stops, and shakes his head. "Which is not to mention that they are all incredibly out of my league. They are major leaguers, okay, and I am still working at t-ball. My dad keeps saying I'm going to grow into my looks, and that people in college will appreciate a keen mind and razor wit, but as of yet--"
"Okay," Derek says.
"Okay," Stiles says. After a second, he adds, "I mean, I could maybe get Scott to do it? But ew. Ew. I'd rather suck at kissing."
Derek finally looks over at him. "You could ask me," he says. His voice is incredibly level, for someone who has gone out of his actual gourd. Stiles boggles at him for a second, but Derek doesn't do anything else to indicate that this is the Twilight Zone.
"You," Stiles says. Under pressure, he might admit that his voice is, possibly, perhaps, an octave higher than it normally is.
"Me," Derek agrees.
Stiles can recognize that this is a terrible plan. This is a ten on a scale of one to 'let's go look for a body in the woods.' He can't help himself, though. "But-- see previous statements about leagues."
Derek shrugs. He turns back to the sink and starts packing up his shaving stuff.
"Do you-- would you say yes?" Stiles asks.
Derek almost smiles. He looks at Stiles in the mirror and shrugs again. "I don't know. You haven't asked."
It only takes Stiles another three minutes or so of panicked mental white-out before his brain comes back online. He's pretty proud of himself. "Well, would you, um. Do you want to help me?"
"Sure," Derek says easily, which--
Stiles never completes the thought. Derek moves too fast; one moment Stiles is leaning on the doorjamb, and the next his back is braced against it, and Derek's hands are on his hips. Derek's hands are on his hips. Jesus.
"Uh," Stiles says. "I don't know. Where do I put my hands?"
"Wherever," Derek says. This is so brilliantly unhelpful it causes Stiles physical pain, but before he can say that, Derek is kissing him. Stiles ends up clutching at Derek's biceps, which is somewhat damaging to his masculinity, but-- well, Derek's arms are pretty excellent for clutching at. Anyway, Stiles is perfectly secure in his masculinity, it can handle a little damage.
But then Derek pulls back. "What?" Stiles says, "Wait, what? Why did you stop?"
"Focus," Derek says. "And less tongue."
"Oh," Stiles says. He'd spare a thought to being embarrassed, but this is why he needed the practice in the first place, right? "Okay. Less tongue, more focus." He leans back in, hopefully, and catches something like a smile curving Derek's lips before they're kissing again.
It’s actually not too hard to focus, once he tries. Derek keeps it kind of shallow, just sort of rubbing his tongue against Stiles', but before that can get too boring he'll kiss a little bit deeper, sliding their tongues together. It's not like had Raelyn kissed, it's not Derek stretching his tongue all the way into Stiles' mouth, just sort of more. Deeper. Stiles can't really do anything but go along with it, which is weirdly nice. The whole thing is weirdly nice. His hands have moved up to Derek's neck, and he's practically hanging off of Derek. If he's honest, a hundred percent honest, it feels more than nice. It feels fucking fantastic, actually. It's making him roll his hips up, over and over, even though he doesn't really have anything to push against. He's just, he's just finally really kissing someone.
Not just someone, either, but Derek. Fuck, he's making out with Derek fucking Hale. Who is, admittedly, a creepy stalker slash monster, but who also has a truly magnificent body. Stiles moans a little when he thinks that, and it's a stupid thready sound but it makes Derek push him harder back against the jamb, hard enough that Stiles is up on his toes a little, and if he just-- he realizes that if he hitches one leg up, they'll press together in what Stiles senses will be an utterly fantastic way, and--
Derek pulls away. Derek yanks away, actually, and has his back against the far wall of the bathroom before Stiles can blink. "What?" Stiles says. He feels like he's been saying that a lot today. "Why did you stop?"
Derek is panting a little. "I," he starts, and then stops to drag his hand down his face and across his mouth. "That's enough," he says.
"Oh," Stiles says. "Um. Okay. I guess."
"For now," Derek says, like it's being dragged out of him.
"Oh, right. Well, I guess we do have training later, right?" Stiles says, half-joking. He feels woozy and giddy, like someone's punched him in the head. Derek isn’t looking at him. "So, yeah. I'm gonna go. For now."
Stiles trips going down the front steps and nearly faceplants on the grass. His lips are numb, and his dick is chafing against his underwear, but he can't fucking stop smiling.
ok fine you were right, he texts Scott, before he starts up his car.