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Quiet and Tranquility

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Stiles wakes up to movement in his room, his bed dipping for a second before only he is in his bed. It's still dark and the numbers on his alarm clock tell him that he still has two full hours until he has to be awake for real. He sits up, looks around his room, and pauses in his search when he sees the tall, lanky body standing next to the window.

“Isaac?” Stiles asks, voice still laden with sleep. “What're you doing? Come back to bed.”

“Your dad is home,” is the response he gets.

“And he should be. He also knows that you're spending the night and is most likely going to check in on us when he comes upstairs. Come back to bed, I'm cold.” Stiles drags his blankets up to his chin and gives Isaac a puppy-dog look despite the blond not even looking his way. Isaac doesn't move, keeps staring out the window. He doesn't move when Dad enters the house, doesn't move when he checks up on them and sees him standing at the window. By now, though, Stiles has figured out that something happened while they were sleeping and told his dad that everything was okay, they're fine, go to bed and Stiles will see him later.

After Dad leaves Stiles climbs out of the bed and walks up to Isaac, standing beside the slightly taller boy and stares out the window with him. Stiles knows that Isaac had looked at him oddly when he first came up to the window but now he's just staring outside again.

“Are you going to tell me what's wrong?” Stiles says eventually. He's getting tired of staring out the window, shifting his weight from one leg to the other, and Stiles suspects that Isaac knows this too. Stiles turns his gaze from the window and looks at Isaac, raising his hand to touch Isaac's shoulder. Unfortunately Isaac flinches away from his touch and turns his body away from Stiles, hunching up his shoulders and ducking his head.

Isaac hasn't flinched from Stiles since they first started getting serious.

Stiles retracts his hand, clenching his hand into a fist, and lets it drop to the side. He sighs and turns to his bed, parallel to the window and in the middle of the room, and stares at the mess of bed sheets and blankets before climbing back into it. He rolls right oer to his side of the bed, farthest from the window, and faces the wall. “When you feel like talking about it let me know, okay? I'll always listen,” he sighs out, trying to get comfortable in his bed.

But he can't.

See, the thing is that Isaac has been sleeping over a lot. And Stiles knows that his father knows because Isaac always leaves his shoes at the door, always does the dishes after they eat, cleans up after him and Stiles, whereas Stiles doesn't. He leaves his dirty dishes in the sink, wears his dirty, sandy shoes in the house and always seems to leave a trail of something that seems to only be unique to Stiles.

Anyway, Isaac has been spending the night at Stiles' for about a month and a half. For the first week and a half, Stiles had to get used to sleeping with someone else in his otherwise usually only-occupied-by-him bed. And he did. He got used to not wrapping his limbs in the blankets, got used to only kicking his side of the blankets off if he got too hot and knew to not try and steal the blankets from Isaac when he got too cold (but he does anyway because after doing this two nights in a row, he learns that Isaac would press up behind him and share their body heat and Stiles just screams with joy in his head whenever he does this). He doesn't starfish as much as he used to or kick and flail his arms and legs.

He's relatively calmed down since Isaac began to sleep over and now that Isaac isn't in his bed, he doesn't know what to do. He doesn't know where to rest his arms, he doesn't know if he should lie on his stomach or his back, or maybe his side again so it looks like he's ignoring Isaac? But Stiles doesn't want that so he rolls to his other side and, damn it, now he looks too 'open', whatever the hell that means.

He rolls around, punches his pillow, tries laying at the foot of his bed with his feet up by his pillows. Then he tries laying diagonally and when that doesn't work he goes back up to the head of the bed and just groans.

Loudly.

Which causes his dad, who happened to walk by the room at that point too probably get his glass of water before bed – he never remembers to grab it when he first comes upstairs and usually snug in bed when he finally remembers that he forgot it again --, to bang on the door and yell, “No sex when I'm here! You two know the rules!” before walking away. This time Stiles grabs Isaac's pillow – yes, he has a pillow. He also has a drawer, a place in the closet, a shelf on Stiles' book shelf, a toothbrush holder, his own towel, a favourite cup and even a favourite spoon that no one but him ever seems to use – and smothers his face and groans again, but this time in embarrassment. He grumbling to himself under the pillow when he feels the bed dip beside him. Stiles quits muttering to himself abruptly and slowly moves the pillow, peeking his eye out to look over at Isaac, who is still not looking directly at Stiles.

“It was a nightmare,” Isaac whispers.

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

“No. But- but can I lay down with you?”

“Can you-? Isaac, of course you can! C'mere, let's get our cuddle on,” Stiles says with enthusiasm. Stiles puts Isaac's pillow back down, opens his arms wide for Isaac to enter them, then wraps them around his back once Isaac is lying down with his head on Stiles' chest. They link their fingers together and rest them on Stiles' chest. Stiles tries to think of something to talk about to get Isaac's mind off of the nightmare he had and smiles when he comes up with it.

“Remember the first night we slept together? We started off on opposite sides of the bed, completely ignoring each other because we both thought it was awkward even though it wasn't but we made it so just because we weren't talking about it,” Stiles starts off. Isaac huffs out the tiniest laugh.

“Yeah, and then you just said, 'To hell with this' and rolled over, draping yourself over my side,” Isaac contributes. Stiles nods, raising their linked hands to the ceiling. The flatten out their hands, spread out their fingers, and watch them as they weave their fingers in and out between the spaces.

“That was the first time I shared a bed with someone that wasn't Scott, did you know that?” Stiles says quietly, entranced by their fingers. Isaac nods his head and grips Stiles' hand to give it a quick squeeze before letting go completely. Their hands drop to Stiles' stomach.

“He wrinkled his nose at me the next day because I smelled like you,” Stiles continues. “Told me I reeked. I told him to shove it because I like the way you smell. It's like Old Spice and something else that's completely you and I love it.”

“You smell nice, too,” Isaac admits. “It's the Adidas you wear, a hint of your dad, sometimes your semen if you've gotten off that day-” Stiles sputters at this and Isaac grins, “-but yeah, like you said, there's something else there that's unique to you and even though it doesn't really have a scent, it's so completely calming and welcoming and homey that I just can't help but rub my face all over you.” And for effect, Isaac rubs his face in Stiles' neck, earning a laugh from the brunet. They go quiet for a minute, just basking in everything they've said to each other.

Stiles and Isaac have been dating for about five months. The first two months were a little rocky, Isaac getting used to someone touching him constantly and without causing harm and Stiles getting used to someone actually having a romantic interest in him. The third month was when they finally got totally and completely comfortable with each other and the past two months have just been their honeymoon phase. They haven't said that looming L-word to each other and honestly, they don't need to. It's said in the way they hold each other, the way they look at each other, the way they laugh together. It's whispered in the way they hold each other at night and in the way they comfort each other after a nightmare.

“You know,” Stiles whispers eventually, looking over at his clock, “it's four-thirty-three in the morning and my alarm goes off at six.”

“Of course I know that, I'm here every night and every morning. I'm usually the one that turns off the bloody thing until seven,” Isaac replies. Stiles huffs out a soft laugh and tightens his grip on Isaac before letting go. Stiles rolls onto his side so he's facing the wall and when Isaac doesn't press himself against his back, Stiles gives a resigned sigh and grabs Isaac's arm, pulling it over himself so Isaac's hand is resting against his stomach. Stiles links their fingers together and lets out a breath through his nose, snuggling down into his bed and smiles when he feels Isaac bury his nose in his neck, rubbing it a little before stilling.

Stiles shuts his eyes, smiles when he feels one of Isaac's legs slip between his own, and falls asleep.