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Stiles blinks his eyes open as the door slams shut downstairs. The sound of keys hitting the ceramic bowl they have by the door is followed by the heavy thump of Scott’s backpack as it finds its resting place for the night, heavy with books.

“Stiles?” Scott calls into the house.

It’s almost 10pm and he’s barely seen Scott all day.

“Up here,” he yells back, stretching and yawning into the room. His neck is stiff from where it’s lolled onto his shoulder, his shoulders sore where they’re digging into the headboard’s lattices.

It’s gotten stupidly cold since he crawled into bed to read. He closes his laptop and sets it on the nightstand before pulling the blanket up around his shoulders and stuffing his hands under his thighs.

A minute later, Scott bounds up the steps and into the bedroom. He grins at Stiles and strips out of his sweater. Predictably, he gets caught with it halfway over his head, and Stiles laughs unabashedly at the muffled sounds of frustration Scott makes as he tries to free himself, but doesn’t offer any help.

Finally, Scott untangles himself and throws the pullover at the hamper in the corner of the room. It misses by about four feet, but he still takes a second to act as though he’s just scored a hoop from midline. Stiles rolls his eyes, but doesn’t comment on Scott’s acting.

“How were classes?” he asks instead, stifling another yawn that tenses his jaw and makes his eyes water.

Scott smiles sheepishly at him, flicking the bathroom lights on and ducking into the small room.

“They were alright,” comes his muffled voice a second later. “McAllister’s grinding me hard, but you know.”

Stiles does know. Scott likes to complain about his senior thesis advisor every chance he can get. Apparently he has no sense of humour. Or appreciation for Scott’s penchant for free thinking when it differs from his institutionalized, procedure-rigid views.

He can hear the sink turn on in the bathroom and the sound of the water splashing.

Stiles closes his eyes lazily, listening to Scott in the bathroom as he brushes his teeth and gets ready for bed. He shifts slightly, rearranging his shoulder blades against the headboard and piling his hands in his lap, making fists and bumping them together to keep from falling asleep.

“We have that thing on Saturday at Lydia’s,” he says to the empty room when he hears the faucet shut off. Scott emerges from the bathroom, pressing a towel to his face.

“Yeah, I remember. If I swing by the university in the morning, we should be able to make it in time,” Scott replies, also tossing the towel at the hamper. Then, he stands there and eyes Stiles in bed, a small, teasing smile on his face. “Decided to get started without me?”

Stiles follows Scott’s gaze to his lap, where his hands still. It looks crude, and very conspicuous.

Slowly, he slides his eyes back up to Scott, and smirks playfully.

“I’m either extremely happy to see you, or there’s a leek under my blanket,” he says facetiously, then has the audacity to wink. “I’ll leave it up to you to figure out which.”

There’re probably five feet between them and the lights are low, but Stiles can Scott’s muscles twitch, can see the interest on his face.

God, I hope it’s not a leek,” he breathes out, sliding closer and crawling up the bed so he’s hovering over Stiles.

Stiles has about two seconds to laugh before Scott’s swallowing the sound. The kiss devolves into the hungry press of their mouths, tongues licking at each other.

The blanket has fallen into his lap at some point, and the chill permeates Stiles’ skin, creeping into his fingers and making his chest and arms pebble with goosebumps.

“Fuck, it’s cold.” Stiles shivers and pulls away from the kiss, pressing his palm against Scott’s chest and pushing. Scott hisses, but moves away, thumbing open the button on his jeans in a way that winds Stiles up even more.

“You’re not touching my dick with those hands,” Scott warns, removing his jeans and boxers together. Stiles scrambles to get his shirt and pajama pants off at the same time.

“Good thing I won’t be giving you a handjob, then,” he grins back.

Scott shoots him a look at that, but he’s quickly lifting the cover while Stiles slides down the bed, meeting him halfway.

Now at a more natural angle, Stiles runs his icy fingers from the base of Scott’s spine upwards, delighting in the whimper against his lips and gripping the back of his neck. Scott rolls them so he’s on top again, breaking the kiss to grin down at him, hand warm on Stiles’ hip where it rests.

“Definitely not a leek,” he says charmingly, and it takes Stiles a second, and Scott grinding his pelvis into Stiles’ to realize what the hell he’s talking about.

Stiles huffs out a laugh, gripping Scott’s neck and back tightly under the cover as Scott’s stubble grazes over the skin at the junction of his throat tantalizingly. Open-mouthed kisses are pressed to the underside of his jaw, down his chest.

There is definitely no leek. In fact, there are no vegetables present at all, but he’ll keep encouraging Scott to explore, just to be sure.