Derek hates Erica. He hates his best friend, because she abandoned him. He also hates Boyd, because Boyd is probably the reason Erica is missing. So Derek hates both of his best friends.
They were supposed to help him find someone to hook up with so he could forget about Stiles. Pretty, smart, asshole, unattainable Stiles who lives across the hall from him. And if finding a hook up failed, they were going to get him drunk. It’s still a no for the hook up, and he’s barely past half-way drunk. They have failed him.
More booze, is all his brain can come up with to do. It’s pointless to look for his friend. They’re probably having sex in the bathroom.
Derek slumps down on one of the barstools. It feels a bit funny to his butt, so he wiggles down. A shout in his ear and a poke in his side makes him stand up again, knocking his arm against the bar.
‘Fuck,’ he mutters, rubbing the sore spot.
‘You okay, big guy?’
The voice makes Derek spin around too fast, and he stumbles again, but this time he’s saved by strong hands wrapping around his arms.
‘How did you get in my seat?’ he asks.
‘I was here first. You sat in my lap,’ the guy explains, his voice amused.
That’s weird. Derek doesn’t remember anyone sitting there when he sat down. He doesn’t mind though, because the voice belongs to a very pretty person. He looks familiar, and Derek squints to try and focus his vision, but it remains hazy. He grabs the pretty face, turning it from side to side, hoping his alcohol fuelled brain will supply a name.
‘You’re pretty,’ he shouts over the music.
‘Thanks,’ the pretty person laughs. ‘How drunk are you?’
‘Not drunk enough.’ Derek stumbles again when he tries to locate the bartender.
‘I think you are. Come on, I’ll take you home?’
‘Friends!’ Derek shouts, remembering Erica and Boyd.
‘You’re here with friends?’ the pretty person asks. ‘Where are they?’
‘Having sex in the bathroom,’ Derek pouts. ‘I want to have sex in a bathroom.’
‘Trust me, you don’t,’ the pretty person snorts. ‘Give me your phone. I’ll text them. What are their names?’
‘Er’ca and Boyd.’
Derek hands over his phone to the pretty person and then watches in fascination as long fingers start typing a text. When he gets his phone back he stares at it for a moment, hoping his phone realizes how lucky it is.
‘Alright, let’s get you home.’ The pretty person slings an arm around Derek’s waist and leads him out of the club.
The next morning, when Derek opens his eyes he squeezes them shut again immediately. Because one: his hangover doesn’t appreciate the soft light in the room he’s in, and two: the room he’s in is not located in his apartment.
Derek groans when he tries to remember what happened after he left the club last night. He remembers sharing a cab with the pretty guy from the club, and he remembers the guy allowing him to cuddle into him. He doesn’t remember who the guy is or if anything happened after they got to the guy’s place.
Slowly Derek opens his eyes again and looks around the room he’s in. It’s a bedroom. Oh, fuck. It’s a bedroom and he has no clue what happened in it last night. Derek rolls out of the bed and sees that he’s still wearing most of his clothes, so it can’t have been that much.
There are noises in the apartment that sound like kitchen noises. Derek shuffles out the bedroom and towards them. To his surprise, the layout of the apartment is a mirror of his own, and when he looks out the window he sees the little park that’s on the other side of the building he lives in.
‘Hey, you’re still alive,’ Stiles greets him cheerfully, a skillet in his hand.
That’s Stiles. With a skillet. This is Stiles’ apartment. Oh, shit. Fuck. No. Last night he- And then Stiles saw- And then he woke in- Oh, motherf-
At this point Derek’s brain short circuits. He remains frozen in the middle of the living room, staring at Stiles with wide, scared eyes.
‘You okay, Derek?’
‘Did we have sex?’ he blurts out.
‘No, we didn’t. Relax,’ Stiles assures him and directs him to sit at the kitchen counter.
Derek’s entire being is flooded with relief. ‘Thank god.’
‘Jeez, thanks,’ Stiles says wryly.
‘No, I didn’t mean- I just wanted there to be dates, and flowers, and kisses first,’ Derek amends.
When Stiles doesn’t say anything back, Derek realizes he just confessed his very unrequited feelings to him, and drops his head on the counter. He winces when his hangover punishes him for the ungentle use of his head.
‘Fuck,’ he whispers.
The soft clatter of a plate and mug being set on the counter, and the smells of eggs and coffee make him look up. Stiles is leaning close, an amused smile on his lips.
‘How about you eat this delicious breakfast I made you, then go home to nurse your hangover.’ Derek slumps in his chair with the rejection. ‘And then, when your head is no longer punishing you for getting drunk off your ass, you can knock on my door and ask me on a date.’
Derek perks up at that. He smiles and then starts eating the eggs Stiles made him. Maybe he doesn’t really hate his friends.
(Derek revises that statement when he checks his messages and sees that Erica has send him three congratulatory texts and ten texts asking him for details and suggestions of things he could do with Stiles.)