Stiles is fine.
It's called layers, okay. Derek might be hilariously unconcerned by the cold down in Beacon Hills, but up in the mountains it snows, okay. It's snowing right now. Copious piles of snow are wont to occur here. It is different from the climate in Beacon Hills.
Stiles would be mocking Derek more, except it dawned on him pretty quickly that Derek didn't blow off bundling up based on ignorance or pride; he literally owns nothing but henleys and a leather jacket. Also a couple worn tank tops and a pair of mittens Stiles made for him in home ec two years ago. So Stiles is quiet, and Scott is mocking Derek, and Derek is shivering and looking angry, and all three of them are trekking through the snow. Stiles tosses his scarf up around Derek's neck, and Derek looks like he'd burn down a village before he'd wear Stiles' scarf. But then he winds it around his neck and jaw, and his eyelids lower a little in relief.
It's not like Stiles thinks it's precious or anything.
They continue walking and eventually make it to the cabin. "Je—finally," Stiles bursts out when he sees it. He points angrily at Scott. "Okay, next time we are taking my Jeep and not your mom's shitty Honda to the mountains."
"There will be no next time," Derek says definitively, like Stiles won't wear him down in time for next year.
"I looked up the forecast online," Scott says for the billionth time. "There wasn't supposed to be a blizzard."
"I maintain you looked up the weather for the wrong state," Stiles sniffs, and they push their way into the cabin. It's small, but there are two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a living room slash kitchen combo, with a formica bar separating the two. Scott moans in relief when he sees the giant stone fireplace. This is before they realise there is no dry wood. They're in for a long night.
Scott, as it turns out, is by no means in for a long night. He quips, "G'night!" and shuts the door to one of the bedrooms, leaving Stiles and Derek to roll their eyes and rock-paper-scissors for the remaining bed. Stiles wins.
Derek is quiet while he slowly freezes to death. Stiles waits patiently for several hours, waiting for Derek to cave and ask to switch, or share, or at least have an extra blanket. He does none of these things. Just lays on the floor under a blanket, fully dressed and shaking surreptitiously. Stiles finally sits upright and shouts at him. "Derek Glenn Hale, get your ass into this bed before I shave your stylish hair right off your head."
Derek blinks owlishly at him. "What a weird threat," he says.
"I'll shave your legs, too," Stiles snaps. "Get your clothes off, hypothermia one-oh-one."
Derek does all of the above with minimal fussing, silently dropping his jeans and jacket on the floor, but presents his attitude like a cornucopia of eyerolls and irritated facial expressions. Crawls gingerly into bed beside Stiles.
Stiles immediately flops onto him like an octopus.
"What are you doing," Derek manages halfheartedly after sighing with palpable relief.
Stiles doesn't even bother with sarcasm. It's nice sharing a bed, okay. "I am warming you up," he tells him happily. "We are going to cuddle platonically." Derek's eye twitches. "Share body heat. Foster a deepseated trust that will outlast a million winters."
"I already trust you," Derek mumbles gratifyingly.
"Do you, Derek? Do you really? Because you flinch whenever I move my hand near you. I reached up to scratch my ear earlier and you jerked away like I was gonna smack you upside the head."
Derek shrugs under Stiles.
Stiles asks lowly, "Do you really trust me?"
He watches Derek's face, watches the flipbook of emotions. The last page is this soft openness, and he nods carefully.
"Oh," Stiles says, flattered. The more he warms up, the more Derek sort of melts into Stiles, until they're wrapped around each other, perfectly content. They're still not very sleepy, though, and Stiles hums, pleased. "Der," he says eventually, "remember when I said we were going to cuddle platonically?"
Derek bristles. "Are you gonna make me get back on the floor?" he asks warily.
"What!" Stiles jumps up onto his elbow to direct his offended face at Derek. "No, what? What the fuck kind of person do you think I am? I do care about your comfort, you know." Derek visibly relaxes, albeit looks a little guilty for suggesting Stiles was Jackson or something. "No," Stiles goes on, settling back down against Derek. "We're going to continue cuddling. I'm just taking 'platonic' off the shelf and putting it on the table for revision."
"Can we vote on it?" Derek deadpans.
"Absolutely," says Stiles, "all in favour of shy first kisses, say aye."
"I," Derek begins, but Stiles claps a hand over his mouth. They let what happened sink in, and then Stiles bursts into laughter. "Guess I just won't add anything to that," Derek says muzzily once Stiles calms down and looks at him.
"Cool, same," Stiles says. Scoots a little closer to him. "Well," he amends, "there is something you could add to that."
Derek kisses him tentatively, soft and slow, and while Stiles is ready to knock it out of the park and charge around the bases (he'd like to reenact The 3 Ninjas and backflip to home plate from third base), he lets Derek warm up for a bit first, lets him convince himself to slide his palms onto Stiles on his own time.
Derek's fingers are cold, still, clammy, when they slip lightly up under Stiles' t-shirt, and he makes a small noise in his throat when Stiles puts his tongue in his mouth. They break apart a few minutes later, breathing heavily. "God," Stiles says breathlessly, "I've been wanting to do that to you since I was six-fucking-teen years old."
"Yeah?" Derek asks with the air of someone who is pretending not to swoon.
"Yeah." Stiles kisses Derek again, face cupped in his hands, leaving no room for disbelief or questioning or anything of the like. None of that Derek shit tonight. Stiles rolls them so Derek is on top. "This okay?" he asks, hooking his thumbs into Derek's boxers.
Derek flushes. Then, "Yeah, yes," he nods, and Stiles pulls them down.
He has a faint flashback to high school, trying to hide an erection because Derek was furiously stripping a shirt over his head and Danny was looking studious and generally confused and irritated and Stiles was so rarely surrounded by such pure and unadulterated hotness that he had to cross his legs casually, stretch his arms, direct Danny's attention here and there like a flight attendant. High school Stiles (Stigh school? Think about that later) would have a fucking conniption if he knew what would happen to him later, his dick and Derek's dick in one location, mingling. Like a cocktail party, emphasis on the cock.
High school Stiles (Hiles?) never got kissed by anyone, let alone fervent, frantic kissing with Derek Hale while they wrapped their hands around their dicks and fucked together, the dark room filling up with the susurrus of their touches and their attempts to muffle gasping moans, etc. Stiles digs the fingernails of his left hand into Derek's shoulder and, panting, growls, "Come on, Derek," and Derek comes on. Comes on Stiles. That's the joke.
Derek comes first, and then with a whine, Stiles follows suit, and they ride out their orgasms ungracefully and then Derek collapses to Stiles' right and they press up together again and catch their breath.
"Window fogged up," Derek says a while later, like he's surprised, or amused.
"I clawed the shit out of your shoulder," Stiles replies. He's pleased. "How come you're not healing?" He's abruptly disturbed.
"I can decide not to heal it," Derek says sheepishly, irritated that he has to discuss this.
Stiles doesn't push it. He's still pleased. He pushes Derek onto his back, leans up over him, and kisses him until his jaw aches, kisses him until Derek is so sleepy he can't run his fingers through Stiles' hair anymore. Kisses him until Stiles can't really keep his eyes open any longer. He settles down onto Derek's ridiculously broad werewolf chest, feels Derek's arms coil around him.
"You warm now?" Stiles slurs as he drifts off.
Derek hums affirmatively, the sound a rumble that resonates through his chest, straight into Stiles' core being. Stiles' toes curl with the emotional pleasure of it. "Next time we're bringing lube," Derek says, and Stiles falls asleep beaming like a motherfucker.