Stiles holds up the soft cashmere sweater with the thumb holes between his index and thumb and says, “You’re not mine.”
He looks down at his—or what he thought was his—laundry basket and admits that it is most definitely not his laundry basket.
1. There’s no living la vida Yoda sticker on the side with Yoda dressed in a Hawaiian shirt, coconut and bendy straw included. Stiles thinks it’s funny. Scott doesn’t get it because he’s a heathen.
2. It’s a totally different colour, which yes, Stiles could understand, because he was very much inebriated last night when he went to do his laundry. He needs to be. Stiles is a T.A. for a 101 class, and if he isn’t, he won’t be able to look at papers without laughing his ass off.
3. There is no plaid. Like not a single piece, not even plaid boxers. Stiles is scandalized. How could this person live, survive even, without the wonders that is wearing variations of the same plaid shirt on khakis every single day of their life.
Stiles shakes his head, and shrugs, pulling the cashmere sweater over his undershirt. Oh well, finders keepers. He wonders for a second what the person who ended up with all his plaid did with it, before the swaddling goodness of the cashmere consumes him again, making him think of nothing but fluff clouds and rainbows. Mmmm, soft.
He bikes to class, feeling warmer than he’s ever been before while wearing only two layers. Maybe he should invest in more sweaters like this? Stiles lives on a grad student budget, which means he eats ramen and bok-choi most days, and if he’s lucky, finds himself an egg to crack on top. If he’s lucky.
But then again, how much could a cashmere sweater cost, really? Ten bucks?
He skids his bike to a stop, quickly locking it (He learned his lesson after the second stolen bike), before running through the school and crashing through the classroom doors, right on time. He looks to the front row, and is surprised to see Mr. stoic-never-ever-going-to-be-late-for-class-as-long-as-I-live-or-at-least-until-the-earth-freezes-over-Hale, is surprisingly not in his seat.
Stiles bites his lip in worry. He means it when he says Derek’s never been late, Stiles has known him for just over six months now and he’s always at least ten minutes early for class. Stiles hopes nothing is wrong with him. He may say Derek’s punctuality pisses him off, but that doesn’t mean he wants anything bad to happen to the guy.
Stiles admires Derek. He’s good to the baby undergrads, teaches them like he cares, and not like it’s just a job to him, unlike a few unmentionables… (Jackson Whittemore, ehem.)
Also, Stiles may or may not have a huge honking crush on Derek, but that has nothing to do with anything.. Seriously. Nothing.
Just as the prof steps up to the podium, Stiles looks over his shoulder one last time, only to see Derek Hale himself slide into the classroom, shutting the door behind him quietly.
He freezes when he sees Stiles looking at him, before blood rushes to his cute, little ears faster than Stiles could double-take at what Derek’s wearing.
Because now Stiles knows why Derek’s late, and it has everything to do with the sweater Stiles is currently wearing, and the too small plaid shirt Derek’s got pulled on, looking like it’s in danger of popping its buttons at any moment. And that Stiles recognizes as one of his.
Derek’s eyes wander over Stiles’ arms, from his bony wrists revealed when he pulled the sweater’s sleeves to his elbows, to his collarbone, where the sweater’s neck is so stretched it dips far enough to see the healthy spattering of hairs on his chest.
Derek turns redder than a tomato and nearly falls down the classroom steps.
Stiles grins like a hyena. Best mistake ever.