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In a back corner of the library by the biographies, where nobody goes, Stiles sits sideways in an armchair, his legs flung over the arm and The Great Gatsby propped against his knees as he writes snarky, judgmental remarks in the margins and makes other marks with a pen - pink today. The pen cap is almost completely destroyed from how much he’s been chewing on it as he reads. He’s just getting to the part where Daisy goes over to Gatsby’s house when a voice speaks up from behind him.
“I hope that’s not a library book you’re defacing,” the light male voice says in a mock-serious tone.
Snorting as he comments on how (rightfully) awkward the whole situation is, Stiles replies, “No. Sadly I own this book.” Tipping his head back as he talks around the pen cap, it falls from his mouth and onto the floor when he sets eyes on possibly the most stunning person he’s ever met - and he grew up with Lydia and Danny as two of his closest friends.
The man raises his thick, black eyebrows, a smirk playing over his lips. “When is owning a book ever sad?”
“When it’s probably one of the worst books ever written and this is the fifth time now you’ve been forced to read it,” Stiles sighs, shifting to more easily pick up his pen cap and then face the man so Stiles can stare at his sharp cheekbones and jaw, covered in black scruff, and his amazing, indescribable eyes.
When Stiles shifted the book closed over his finger, so when the man glances down he sees the cover. His face scrunches and he makes a weird noise in the back of his throat. “Oh god, Gatsby? You poor man. I’ve only had to read it twice and both times I wondered how it ever became known as ‘the great American novel’.” He sneers the phrase, using air quotes.
“Yes!” Stiles exclaims - as loudly as he reasonably can in a library - and gestures at the man. “Thank you!”
“The writing isn’t that good, the plot makes no sense…” the man says and that sparks a long, heated discussion about how Nick must have been insane for sticking around for all of the shit. (”It’s the only explanation,” Stiles says and Derek - the man kindly provides after Stiles repeatedly calls him ‘dude’ - nods in agreement.) Then they move on to Jay, Daisy, and Tom and how the supposed love triangle was one of the worst written.
“Seriously,” Stiles snorts, “if having a creepy, unhealthy attachment to a woman that led to you changing your name and identity and doing all this terrible stuff so you could get rich and throw parties in hopes of her coming is considered romantic and the perfect relationship, I’ve clearly been doing it wrong. Must be why I’m perpetually single.”
“I don’t know about that,” Derek says with an easy grin. “It’s probably more because you gesture kind of wildly when you talk - especially when you’re really into what you’re saying - use a ridiculous amount of sarcasm, and tend to chew on whatever is closest to your mouth. And probably some other things.”
Stiles narrows his eyes. “You got all that from one conversation about the suckage that is Gatsby?”
Derek shrugs. “I’m good with details,” he smirks, “especially when the person I’m talking to is interesting. And attractive.” He adds the last almost as an afterthought while his eyes examine Stiles’ body - what he can see of it the way they’re both sitting sideways in their chairs to face each other.
“Is that right…” Stiles mutters, leaning in closer. “How would you like to notice more details?”
Laughing, Derek gets up and offers Stiles his hand. “That was pretty smooth.”
Grabbing Derek’s hand as he stands up and stashes his pen and The Great Gatsby in his messenger bag, Stiles winks. “You haven’t seen smooth yet, big guy.”
This time Derek snorts and rolls his eyes. “Shut up or I might change my mind.”
“You would never,” Stiles says confidently, backing away toward the front door.