Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/3292658.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski, Allison_Argent/Scott_McCall, Lydia_Martin/
      Jackson_Whittemore
  Character:
      Stiles_Stilinski, Derek_Hale, Allison_Argent, Scott_McCall, Lydia_Martin,
      Isaac_Lahey, Jackson_Whittemore, Erica_Reyes
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_No_Hale_Fire, Alternate_Universe-_No_Supernatural
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-02-05 Words: 15506
****** Bobby Finstock's Merry Bunch ******
by OLTRX
Summary
     Scott and Stiles have been going to band camp together for as long as
     they can remember. Derek is their new cabin mate. Antics ensue.
Notes
     Stiles and Derek are both around 17 years old in this fic. The other
     couples listed are generally background couples; the fic is Stiles's
     POV and the main focus is on his relationship with Derek.
Scott made a grabby motion, and Allison tossed the pink Eos lip balm his way.
Scott, who, shall we say, did not have a natural propensity for sports,
immediately dropped it, picked it up, dropped it again, and then finally,
pulled off the cap and smeared it across his lips.

“Thanks,” he said with an earnest smile, and gently tossed it back over.
Allison, the saint and goddess that she was, managed to catch it despite the
fact that it was several feet to the left of her. She smiled, and giggled.

She walked over to him and initiated another round of soulful eye-gazing
between them. Stiles cleared his throat, and Scott made a quiet noise of
acknowledgment but didn’t do anything.

“Did you even need chap stick?” Stiles asked. He squinted over at them
suspiciously.

“Yeah,” Scott said. “My lip hurts.”

“I swear to god– if you say anything about kissing it better–”

Scott gave Stiles a wounded look.
“How did you hurt your lip?” Stiles asked. “It’s not actually chapped. You have
the least chapped lips I have ever seen.”
“...Uh,” Scott said. He looked panicked.
“What did you do, Scott?” Stiles deadpanned.
“...I, uh, splintered it?” Scott asked. Stiles lowered his eyebrows further.
“On what?” Stiles asked. “How did you splinter your lip, Scott?”
Scott looked at him with his biggest puppy dog eyes and quivering injured lip.
“Oh, no, Scott,” Stiles said. Scott sniffled. “You wouldn’t do that. You
wouldn’t do that to me, would you? Your best pal?”
“I was going to serenade Allison,” Scott said, and turned to smile dopily at
her.
“What, you couldn’t do that on the trombone?” Stiles asked. Scott gave him a
look, as if this was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. Stiles sighed.
Behind him, he heard a twig snap. In his mind, the Jaws theme was playing.
“Have any of you, perhaps, seen somebody fucking around with my saxophone?”
“Shit,” Stiles said. Run, he mouthed to Scott. Fly, you fool. He and Allison
disappeared, sprinting into the redwood forest. Stiles could feel Erica’s
signature red stick-on nails digging into his shoulder, like the claws of
death, and closed his eyes. Scott was a shitty friend. A total piece of crap.
The worst.
Stiles turned.
“It was Scott, wasn’t it?” Erica asked. She was twirling a piece of her golden-
blonde hair around an elegant finger, lips smacking around a piece of baby-pink
bubblegum.
“Is that gum sugar–free?” Stiles asked. Erica squinted. “Because I think I
recall Finstock saying that such contraband is bad for your instrument.”
“What are you playing at, Stilinski?” Erica asked.
“I think it’s called blackmail?” Stiles said. Erica rolled her eyes.
“Like I don’t know about your and Scott’s junk-food trunk that you store under
the double-bed in your cabin every year,” Erica said. Stiles cursed. “Listen, I
know what I was like last year, but I’ve changed. I’m turning over a new leaf.
I promise not to put snails in Scott’s trombone again–”
“Or deliver his mouthpiece to Finstock inside of a condom, or put snakes under
his covers, or put hair-dye in his shampoo, or push him into the lake?” Stiles
asked. Erica nodded.
“Listen, as much fun as it’s been, I’m calling off the prank war,” Erica said.
“Give me a box of skittles and scold Scott as much as you can stand to, for
ruining my reed and getting his trombonist-slobber all over my mouthpiece, and
we’ll call it even.”
“Oh,” Stiles said, actually a little disappointed. “Really?”
“Unlike some people here, I’m serious about my instrument,” Erica said. Stiles
rolled his eyes.
“Hey! I’m serious about drums!” Stiles said.
“–and I don’t want too many distractions from performing at my best this year,”
Erica said. “Did you know that some scouts from the Conservatory are coming out
to watch the competition?”
“I did not,” Stiles said. He rocked back onto his heels. He was serious about
timpani. Really. Maybe just not that serious. “Is Jackson’s cabin off limits?”
“No,” Erica said with a smile. “Go wild with that one.”
Stiles pumped his fist.
***
The Stilinski-Reyes Prank War had been legendary. Of course, Scott had been
just as much a part of it as Stiles had been, but Stiles was the brains of the
operation. He was truly driven. He thrived on it. Similarly, Erica’s cabin
mates, Cora and Allison, were slightly less into it than she was. One week into
camp, Scott had betrayed Stiles by canoodling with the enemy and the both of
them had essentially been taken out of the fight. Begrudgingly respectful,
Stiles and Erica had agreed to a hiatus and for the next seven days had
competed against one another by seeing who could piss off Jackson more, and by
association, Danny (who really didn’t deserve it) and Isaac (who was kind of a
dick until he eventually wasn’t and they had to stop). It wouldn’t be the same
without Erica; in fact, Stiles had a sinking feeling that the pranking this
year would be sub-par at best, and totally one-sided.
Almost everyone who showed up each year was a regular, creating bonds that
spanned years; before, they were all together in the middle school level band,
and before that, the few early starters had partaken in the K-6 level one. This
was Scott and Stiles’s third year operating under the direction of high-school
level band leader Finstock (nobody knew if he actually played any instruments),
and sectional tutors Deaton (who gave incredibly cryptic advice to the
woodwinds), Laura (who had way too much fun blowing trumpets into her
students’s ears), and Peter (whose familial relationship with Laura was never
explicitly explained, and who was the most cynical, critical person ever and
loved the tears of the poor percussionists he bullied).
Scott and Stiles had arrived at the camp literally twenty minutes ago. They’d
dropped their stuff on the porch of Finstock’s cabin, as usual, and hung around
by the trees while they waited for cabin assignments to be announced. Somehow,
in that brief period of time, Scott had managed to find Erica’s saxophone and
decided to help himself to it. Stiles looked around at the faces of the people
shuffling in, hoping that somebody there would save him from his best friend’s
poor decision making. Unfortunately, he recognized most of those bastards, and
didn’t hold out a lot of hope.
With a sigh, he wove between the trees along the border of the forest. He heard
distant giggling.
“Scott?” he called out helplessly. Scott poked his head out from behind a tree,
and then skipped over, looking over his shoulder. “What happened to Allison?”
“She went to go see if Lydia’s arrived yet,” Scott said with a sigh. Suddenly,
Finstock’s door behind them slammed open.
“Get your bags off of here,” Finstock said.
“Aren’t we waiting for cabin assignments?” Scott asked.
“Apparently you missed them,” Finstock said. “You’re both in F with Hale.”
“Hale?” Stiles asked. Finstock ignored him slammed the door shut again. Stiles
winced at the harsh noise, and then dashed forward to grab his bag off the
porch.
The two of them wandered between the cabins, looking for the letter F anywhere.
It was warm, and Stiles could feel his thin t-shirt beginning to cling to his
chest from the sweat.
“F, F. Where is F?” Stiles asked.
“Who’s Hale?” Scott asked. Stiles shrugged.
“I don’t know,” Stiles said. In all of the years he and Scott had been going to
this camp, which was many, they’d never been separated, and they were never put
with anyone else. Well, that wasn’t entirely true– a few times, in the early
years, they’d had a third cabin mate. They didn’t really mind the company, but
sometimes Stiles and Scott’s antics were a little bit difficult to put up with,
especially for someone who’s a stickler for the rules. The band leader hadn’t
roomed them with anyone else after that.
But now, Finstock– well. Finstock was known for making questionable decisions.
He had a reputation. So now, they were being put with this Hale–
“Wait,” Stiles said as they came upon their cabin. He turned to Scott. “I’ve
heard that name before. Peter? Laura?”
Scott’s eyes went wide and he opened the door. Stiles winced at the slam.
A dark-haired, dark-eyed boy turned to glare at them. He was sitting, legs
crossed, on the double bed.
“Shit,” Stiles hissed. Scott didn’t seem to hear him. He dropped his stuff in
the middle of the floor and stretched his hand out.
“Hi, I’m Scott and this is Stiles!” he said. ‘Hale’ continued to glare.
“You know, usually this is when you’d introduce yourself,” Stiles said. The
glare shifted, and Stiles could feel his shoulders tensing up. Man. What angry
eyebrows. Seriously, if eyebrows could by independently murderous, these were.
“Derek,” he said. Stiles looked at Scott, who– Scott seemed totally nonplussed.
Of course. Because he was Scott, and he had no survival instinct.
“Stiles usually takes that bed, we kind of have a tradition,” Scott said. And,
seriously Scott? Pissing off this guy probably ranked somewhere around number
three on the list of worst ideas ever. However, Derek barely reacted.
“Traditions change,” he said. Stiles didn’t know how to feel about that.
“Yeah, no, it’s cool,” Stiles said. “Scott, I’m taking the top bunk.”
“Okay, sure,” Scott said. Stiles hoisted himself up onto his mattress and
sprawled across the bedspread. He could barely sit up all the way without his
head bumping into the ceiling, and right by the foot of the bed there was a
small window. He crawled over and pressed his face up against it until he could
feel his skin smearing across the glass.
Several yards away, Jackson was leaning against a cabin, talking to a rather
unimpressed Lydia. She twirled her perfect strawberry-blonde hair around her
perfect finger and gazed straight over his shoulder. Unaware that his efforts
were failing, Jackson continued on. Jesus Christ, that guy needed to learn to
take a hint. Finally, Lydia seemingly decided to remove herself from the
situation. She flipped her hair over her shoulder and walked away. Stiles
sighed.
“Lydia?” Scott asked. Stiles made a noise of agreement.
“I don’t get why she’s even with him,” Stiles said. “He’s not stimulating her
intellectually, and she’s just so smart– it’s really just such a waste.”
“He’s probably stimulating her in tons of other ways,” Scott said. Stiles made
a face at him.
“I don’t need that negativity around me right now, Scott,” Stiles said.
“Remember when Allison seemed like a hopeless case? But you two got together
anyway, and now you’re the most disgustingly adorable couple on planet earth.”
Scott got a far off look in his eyes, and a goofy grin.
“Maybe this will be your year,” Scott suggested.
“Thanks, buddy,” Stiles said. “That’s the optimism I’m looking for. Keep up the
good work.”
He couldn’t help but turning at the tail end of his sentence to glance back
over at their new cabin mate. Derek’s legs were in front of him on the bed,
crossed at the ankles, and he was reading from a book propped up on his chest.
And oh, what a chest it was. His grey cotton shirt perfectly contoured the
outline of his body, sleeves gripping tightly around his bulging arms and
shoulders, nipples almost visible through the thinnish fabric. There was a spot
across the plane of inhumanly flat abs where his waistline had ridden up, just
a little bit, to show a peek of hipbone.
Stiles could feel his mouth watering, and tried to get it to stop. No. Bad.
These were not the kind of appropriate, neighborly thoughts one was supposed to
think about the person they were living with for the next few weeks.
He jerked his gaze away, and returned to the window, blushing. Jackson had
cleared out of view as well; now it was just an empty patch of grass and the
wall of the cabin. But then the window opened, and Jackson poked his head
through. Was it possible that they were right across from Jackson’s cabin? That
was really poor foresight on Deaton’s part, but Stiles sighed to think that
there probably wouldn’t be too much going on in the name of pranks this year.
Jackson didn’t know how to do retaliation in a smart way, and without Erica to
protect him, it was likely that Stiles was going to get pummeled into the
ground this year.
“Want some?” Scott asked, and Stiles turned. Derek was looking at the package
of twinkies with a mixed expression of disgust and disbelief. Scott unwrapped
one and shoved it into his mouth.
“Practice starts in a few minutes,” Derek said.
“Like, a half an hour,” Scott said. Derek glared at him until he withered and
turned away. Scott looked back up at Stiles. “Want anything?”
“Gimme me my devices,” Stiles said, opening his hand.
Stiles checked the 4G connection on his iPod; passable. He’d survive the next
two weeks.
Not soon after, he felt Scott tapping at his foot and climbed off the bunk.
Time for band practice.
***
Stiles and Scott lugged their instruments down to the clearing in front of
Finstock’s cabin. Instrument cases were strewn across a garish blue tarp, and
one by one students were making their way to the arrangement of chairs set up
on an slight incline. Stiles grabbed a stand, and propped his timpani up. He
grabbed his sticks. He was ready. Malia stood next to him, impatiently jiggling
her knee. Her hands were hovering over an elevated set of marimbas.
Derek was already there when he arrived; sitting with perfect posture, back
straight, in the chair of the first trumpet. By their seating methods, that put
him exactly in the middle of everything, dead center.
Lydia and Erica were the next to sit down, then Jackson, then Allison. Danny,
with his bass clarinet, was sitting right next to Lydia, who whispered
something in his ear that made him smile. It looked like that really ruffled
Jackson’s feathers, probably because he was assuming everything was about him,
like always, but before he could react, Finstock made his way up to the podium.
He leaned over and passed a pile of papers down to Allison, who began sorting
through them and moving them around.
“This is your first piece. It’s called Go West,” Finstock said. “By Ralph Ford.
It’s a medley of western themes, and now, it’s your life. You will live and
breathe this music. When you dream, you’re going to dream of majestic horses
running into a beautiful sunset, and saloons. Gunfights; honorable shoot-downs.
Become the sheriff whose story you tell!”
Finstock was shouting, flailing his baton around, flecks of spit flying from
his lips. Somewhere off to the side, Stiles could see that Deaton looked rather
perturbed, and watched as Laura rolled her eyes to Peter and said something.
Laura was pretty hilarious– brutal and successful, but if Stiles was her peer,
he was sure they’d get along great. Peter was an ultimate creep, and evil
mastermind, but on the exterior, he had a fairly pleasant demeanor.
And then there was Derek. In all of his band career, Stiles had never seen
someone who held rest position so perfectly. Finstock and his school band
directors had different ideas of what rest position really meant, really should
be, and their ideas were strong ideas. He’d seen quite a few kids get reamed
over their incorrect posturing. But Derek– Stiles couldn’t even describe it.
Jackson, second trumpet, was looking over at Derek and trying to fix himself.
Even he recognized Derek was perfect, somehow, at rest position.
“Are you okay?” Malia asked.
“What?” Stiles asked.
“You look... I don’t know, frustrated?” Malia said. “Aggravated? Stupefied?”
“Have you met the new kid?” Stiles asked.
“Which one?” Malia asked. “There are a few this year.”
“Derek,” Stiles said softly. “Derek Hale.”
“Hale like Hale; Peter and Hale; Laura?” Malia asked. Stiles nodded. Malia
raised her eyebrows, impressed. “Which one is he?”
“First trumpet,” Stiles said.
“I was wondering who’d one-upped Jackson,” Malia said. She considered him
thoughtfully for a moment. “Looks like he’s got a lot of back muscles.”
“I know,” Stiles said, and it came out sounding like a lofty sigh. Derek turned
to pass some sheet music back to the first trombone. Muscles were everywhere.
Forearm. Shoulder. His hair was lightly tousled. Liam, one of the new child
prodigies, accepted the papers easily, maybe even smiled a little. It didn’t
look like Derek was glaring so hard anymore.
As soon as Derek twisted back around, Malia spoke again.
“You’re totally into him,” she said in a low voice.
“What? No! False!” Stiles hissed.
“How’ve you already met him? Before day one band practice?” she asked. “You’re
rooming together, aren’t you?”
“Yep,” Stiles said. She laughed softly. “What?”
“You’re so fucked,” she said. Stiles leaned his head gently forward onto his
drum and groaned. She laughed harder.
“STILINSKI!” Finstock shouted, and he jumped. “Upright! We do not disrespect
our instruments like that!”
A few curious faces turned to see his shame; Malia was absolutely losing her
shit. The section leader frowned at them, and she stiffened up, stifling her
laughter under her fist. Stiles was blushing hard.
The sheet music finally wormed its way back to them, and it was distributed
quickly. Finstock gave them a few minutes to try to work out their parts, and
Stiles quickly skimmed over his part. Nothing too complicated.
When they finally started playing, Lydia led them in with her clarinet. He
could hear her tripping up over the notes a little bit, but overall she was
doing pretty well for what was basically a sight-reading. The rest of the
clarinets were a mess with their parts, though, and the trombones were really
fucking up more than usual. Around halfway through, Stiles saw Derek stand up,
lifting the trumpet to his mouth. So, there was going to be a trumpet solo.
Stiles wasn’t a woodwind person, but he knew Lydia was good. Similarly, though
he wasn’t a brass person either, he knew that Scott was just moderately okay.
(Scott didn’t care that he was fourth trombone. He was just happy to be there.)
Derek, though. Damn near perfect sight reading, amazing tone, volume swelling
into a beautiful double-forte and then gliding down the crescendo back into a
gentle mezzo-piano.
As soon as his solo ended, around halfway through the piece, Finstock threw his
baton. It landed in the dirt with a strange twanging noise. He raised his hands
above his head and waited as the music fizzled out with a few aggravated honks
and a squeal.
Finally, Finstock leaned forward onto the podium. He put his hands on his eyes
and waited for a long moment. It was uncomfortably silent.
Eventually, he stood back up.
“Did you hear that, kids?” he said. “That is the most beautiful goddamn trumpet
playing I’ve heard from a camper in my life.”
Laura looked a little bit offended at that; she’d been a camper there only a
few years before; but she didn’t seem to take it too hard.
“It’s too beautiful,” Finstock said. “Beautiful. The tone. The dynamics. The
sight reading, dear Jesus.”
There was another moment of appreciative silence.
“Peter, hand me my baton,” Finstock said. Peter rolled his eyes and sneered,
but did it anyway. Finstock took a steadying breath. There may have been tears
in his eyes.
“One, two, three, four...”
***
Stiles was poking his hot dog with a plastic fork when Lydia, Allison, and
Erica slid up next to him and Scott at their table. Stiles scooted inward to
accommodate them, and found himself pressed up next to Malia and Isaac.
“So, day one of band camp nearly complete,” Lydia said.
“We’ve been here for like, four hours, maybe,” Stiles said.
“And yet so much has happened,” Lydia said.
“Has it?” Stiles asked. “I mean, what’s really happened so far? There was that
solo, I guess, but there’s a prodigy every year. Remember the first time
Finstock heard you play?”
Lydia hummed in pleased acknowledgement.
“I know, but it wasn’t quite like this. This was different. Derek is really
talented.”
“You’re really talented!” Stiles said.
“Stiles is totally in love with him,” Malia said.
“I thought we sorted through that earlier?” Stiles asked. “False. Untrue.
Baseless accusation.”
“They’re rooming together and he’s totally fucked,” Malia said. Isaac chuckled.
“So the new star got stuck with you two goonies for cabinmates?” Isaac asked.
“More like we got stuck with him,” Stiles said. “He’s probably really full of
himself. When we were unpacking earlier he looked like he wanted to kill me.
He’s kind of terrifying.”
“Really?” Lydia asked. She looked to Scott, who made a so-so gesture. “He
doesn’t look that scary right now.”
Stiles followed her gaze to a spot at the back of the food line, where Laura
had Derek’s head tucked securely under her arm and was screwing with his hair
mercilessly. He kicked and broke free with a scowl; she laughed. When he
straightened out, they were about the same height, but Laura didn’t seem to
care.
“Let’s talk about something else,” Stiles said, only moderately flustered, and
Allison giggled.
“Malia, Kira’s totally into you,” Isaac said.
“Whaaat?” Malia asked. “That... can’t be true.”
“You’re all hopeless,” Lydia said, just as Jackson came and squeezed himself
between her and Erica, who looked rather unimpressed.
“What’s hopeless?” Jackson asked. He leaned over and swiped a fry off of
Scott’s plate.
“You and Lydia, if you keep up those manners,” Stiles said.
“Allison and Scott,” Lydia said, ignoring him. “Hopelessly in love. Painfully
adorable.”
Derek seemed to be finished gathering his food, and before he even had time to
look at all the seating arrangements Jackson raised his arm up and shouted,
“Derek! Over here!”
“Wow, look at my wrist, it’s time to go,” Stiles said.
“Really? You’re playing it that way?” Malia asked.
“You haven’t even eaten,” Isaac said. Stiles looked briefly at his hot dog, and
then shoved the entire thing into his mouth.
“If only I had my phone to take a picture with...” Malia sighed.
“You actually follow those rules?” Erica asked.
After fleeing towards his cabin, Stiles looked back for just a second, and
found his gaze locked briefly with Derek’s. He flushed, and jogged on forwards.
***
That night, Stiles could feel the force of Derek’s disapproval burning into his
side while he tried to discreetly watch youtube videos under the covers. He
turned to peek, and– yep, bathed in the soft electronic glow of his iPod ,
there was Derek, glaring up at him. Then he made eye contact and– shit, now
he’d have to actually acknowledge him.
Stiles paused the video and pulled out an earbud.
“Is it too bright?” Stiles whispered. Derek just kept on glaring. “Is the
volume up too loud? Can you hear it?”
“You shouldn’t even have that,” Derek said, and he sounded almost exasperated.
“I haven’t gone more than 36 hours without technology since I was nine and got
my first Pokémon game,” Stiles said. “Multiple weeks would be torture. I might
actually die of deprivation.”
Derek looked unamused.
“Just– try and keep the sheets clean,” Derek said quietly. “I don’t want to be
the cabin that fails inspection and lands all the clean-up duties.”
“Keep the sheets clean...” Stiles mused to himself for a second, before he
caught on. “What, you think I’m watching porn over here?”
Derek raised his eyebrows.
“Well I’m not, okay,” Stiles said.
“Sure,” Derek said.
Stiles heard Scott mumbling and shifting beneath him. Fuck. He clicked off his
device and rolled over, facing the wall. It was probably time for him to sleep.
***
“Today, we’re going to split up and do sectionals,” Finstock said. Almost the
entire band hissed a soft ‘yes’ in unison. There were a few small fist pumps.
All the wind sections grabbed their chairs and dashed over to wherever their
section leader pointed; a little clear spot between cabins, by the parking lot,
over by some trees.
The flutes went one way, the clarinets went the other, the saxophones found
somewhere impossibly far off, and Deaton was stuck sprinting between the groups
to check up on everybody’s process. It was strategic, really. They ended up
spending little to no time supervised.
Stiles, of course, being percussion, had no such privilege. They weren’t all
about to haul their giant drums and complicated set-ups somewhere just to have
to reel it all back in an hour later. And, because there weren’t really
multiple groups within the section, that meant that they were like sitting
ducks for Peter, who wove easily between them as they played, watching not
their hands but their faces with excruciating attention.
Stiles could feel beads of sweat forming on his temple. He got nervous. He
tripped up.
“Do it again,” Peter said. “Start over.”
“You know, Peter, I might be play better if you weren’t staring holes into the
side of my head,” Stiles said.
“There’ll be people looking at you when you perform,” Peter said. Stiles gave
him a look.
“I’m playing drums, not lead trumpet like your boy Derek. Nobody’s going to be
looking at me,” Stiles said. Peter didn’t even sigh, he just gave him a
terrifying, wolfish grin.
“Just do it, Stiles,” Peter said, and Stiles did.
He wondered, briefly, what Peter did for work the other 11 months of the year,
and if the people working under him appreciated the brief respite from his
leadership as much as Stiles appreciated the 11 months of the year during which
Peter was not part of his life.
When he finally finished that section of music, he hoped Peter would go away,
maybe send Braeden over to analyze every part of the piece he’d hardly had time
to go over yet, but nope. He was locked on. He made Stiles play the next part,
and as soon as he messed up he forced him to play it again and again until it
was less sub-par than it had been before.
“It sucks,” Peter said. “Do it again.”
“Who pissed in your cheerios?” Stiles asked. Peter looked at him, continued
staring until Stiles was so uncomfortable looking away he had to make contact.
At that moment, Finstock called out, “LUNCH BREAK! ONE HOUR!” and Stiles heard
the distant rumbling of teenage feet pounding into the ground. Stiles stepped
back, but Peter shot out his finger and hooked it around his collar.
“Not yet,” Peter said. “Again.”
***
By the time Stiles actually got to lunch, only around six minutes late, he
found Derek already sitting at his table, in between Jackson and Isaac. Stiles
contemplated his other options. He looked around. All of his friends were
sitting at that table. Literally, every single person he’d voluntarily shared
more than ten words with before. His only other option, if he was feeling
particularly brave, was the table with Braeden and Liam.
Stiles wasn’t a brave person. He beelined for Scott, as always.
Scott scooted down a little bit to make room for him, squishing into Allison,
and Stiles swung his legs over the bench. He looked up to find himself directly
across from Derek, who was staring. Glaring? Was he really angry all the time,
or was it a resting bitch face kind of deal?
“So Scott, how were your sectionals?” Stiles asked. “Is Liam more chill than he
looks? Has Laura kicked your ass yet?”
Oh shit, should he be talking about Laura? She and Derek were related–
Whatever, it wasn’t Stiles’s fault that literally half of the teachers were
Derek’s family.
Scott didn’t pick up on that, just looked down and mournfully shook his head.
“She’s been working her way through the group. I think I might be next,” Scott
said. “And then she’s going to tear me apart.”
“Hmm,” Lydia said. “Deaton’s being cryptic as usual. ‘Try breathing...
smoother. Imagine you’re playing a sunset. Feel the gliding hues.’”
“‘Don’t tongue it like you’re just telling your friends about your weekend,’”
Allison chimed in, “‘Tongue it like you’re giving them a speech, tongue it with
conviction– make it about morals.’ By the way, Lydia, how’s the circular
breathing going?”
“It’s going great,” Lydia said. She smiled as Jackson clenched and unclenched
his jaw. He was angry that he didn’t know how to do that, even though Stiles
had barely heard of brass using that technique before. “And the flutter
tonguing?”
Allison grimaced and shook her head. “I’ve got double tonguing down, basically,
but flutter tonguing is... I don’t know why it’s so difficult! Maybe if Deaton
were any use...”
“You woodwinds and your fancy...” Stiles said, then waved over his shoulder
ambiguously, “things. Techniques. I just hit a surface with sticks.”
“And how’s that going for you?” Lydia asked.
“Peter wants my head on a pole,” Stiles said. “Finstock keeps telling me to be
louder, and then be quieter.”
“So... nothing new,” Lydia said. “I walked past you guys on the way to lunch.
Sounded brutal.”
“It was,” Stiles said. “I wouldn’t be surprised to wake up at 2 a.m. tonight to
find him looming over my bed with a steak knife.” He winced, looking over at
Derek for only the second time since he sat down. “Sorry, Derek.”
To his surprise, Derek just shrugged and nudged at his peas with his brittle
plastic fork. “It’s fine. Peter’s a creep. Nobody likes him.”
“Harsh,” Jackson said with a laugh.
“He’s old enough that he’s less likely to be your brother, and most people
don’t talk about their fathers that way, so I’m guessing...” Lydia said,
“Uncle?”
Derek nodded. “My mom’s brother. And Laura’s my sister.”
“She seems cool,” Erica said. Derek sighed at that, a long suffering sigh, and
Stiles caught himself before he laughed thinking of just the other day. “What’s
it like having her giving you instruction?”
“She already criticizes my playing at home all the time,” Derek deadpanned, “so
this really isn’t much different.”
They finished eating, and Stiles would be the first admit that he loitered for
an unnecessary amount of time to avoid going back; when he did, Peter had
blessedly started working with someone else and Braeden jumped on Stiles’s back
immediately, just watching him practice and giving occasional commentary while
she worked on transposing something for Finstock.
“You’re a drummer, why are you transposing things?” Stiles finally asked.
Braeden shrugged.
“Nobody knows the ways of Finstock,” she said.
He tried to thank her for hanging out at the end, but she gave him a weird look
and ran off to the entertainment room, so he left it.
***
Scott was the first to point it out.
They were in their cabin, going over music, practicing some, and Derek was off
somewhere doing something; probably not practicing, though, because he’d left
his trumpet on his bed.
“His case is in perfect condition,” Scott said. He looked at his and Stiles’s
instrument cases. Stile’s case was little more than a glorified sack. There was
a lot of damage to it, given how clumsy Stiles could be, but he’d covered most
of the holes and tears with patches and things, plus a few extra added for
decoration. He had a little Slytherin patch and a NASA patch and a Star Trek
patch. He even had some Doctor Who and Batman on there. Scott had one of the
shitty school-issued quality pebble-skinned hard-shell trombone cases, but
their school didn’t believe in lending things out free so Scott bought it from
them cheap. This meant that he could do whatever he wanted to it, and what that
meant was stickers. Stiles had no idea if Scott had actually bought any of the
stickers himself. Stiles had given him the Captain America and Doctor Who ones
(Scott didn’t watch Doctor Who, which meant that whenever band geeks, who are
gigantic nerds, saw it and commented he wouldn’t understand the reference).
Allison had given him the basic star-shaped stickers and Mrs. Grossmans’s
pirates. Melissa had given him some of the ripped stickers that they would’ve
given to kids in the hospital.
Most people didn’t cover their cases in decorations the same way the two of
them did, but usually it was at least a little bit personalized. Allison’s
flute case was grey with a little pink lining and a flowery skull design at the
corner (not something she’d put there), and she’d done a few modifications so
that, in theory, the case could discreetly function as a miniature crossbow
(Allison was actually kind of terrifying). Erica had repaired part of a broken
strap with leopard print duct tape and made a glittery silver case
identification tag (though almost everybody else threw those out). Even
Jackson, who had a fucking ‘blood orange’ leather trumpet case, had a small
patch at the bottom, maybe in really expensive calligraphy, that said he,
Jackson Whittmore, was the owner of the trumpet, and his name and phone number
in case it was lost. It was functional and decorative.
But Derek– Derek had nothing. His case wasn’t even unique. It was the most
standard, somewhat-smooth, square Yamaha case that Stiles had ever seen. It
didn’t even have an ID tag, though god knows he needed one, having a case so
bland and standard as that one.
“Perfect condition, Scott,” Stiles said. “But at what cost?”
They didn’t see Derek for a few more hours, but immediately when he came back,
Stiles asked him.
“Why is your case like that?” Stiles asked.
“Like what?” Derek asked. Stiles gestured ambiguously.
“Plain?” Stiles asked. “Not-decorated?”
“I’m renting,” Derek said.
“Renting your trumpet?” Stiles asked.
“It’s cheaper,” Derek said.
“Oh,” Stiles said, and that was that. He knew about cheap, and saving money.
There weren’t a whole lot of timpani rentals in the area, so they’d been forced
to buy used from a family friend. He didn’t want to press on, but Derek kept
talking anyway.
“My parents are music teachers,” Derek said. “It’s not a lot of cash.”
“Where do they teach?” Stiles asked.
“Over in Beacon County,” Derek said. Stiles raised his eyebrows.
“No shit,” Stiles said. “I live just a few miles over, in Beacon Hills. I
haven’t even been to central Beacon County for like, five years, since I went
over there to go see some arts film.”
 
“Yeah,” Derek said. “We end up seeing a lot of foreign stuff, and indie films.
I think there was a silent movie on one time. I don’t remember.”
“I could never sit through that,” Stiles said. Derek shrugged.
“You’d be surprised.”
***
Stiles loved craft time. It was a widely known fact. He loved the glitter glue,
he loved the construction paper, the markers. It was also widely known that he
sucked at it.
“What’s that supposed to be, Stiles?” Erica asked, sitting down next to him.
There was a friendly thud as Isaac plopped down on the other side.
“It’s going to be a christmas tree ornament,” Stiles said. A pile of little
green pom-poms with glitter smeared in, he just needed to stack them right–
“Of what?” Isaac asked.
“A christmas tree,” Stiles said. He glanced up, briefly, to see that Jackson,
Derek, and Scott had suddenly appeared across from him. “Hey Scott, where’s
your better half? I don’t think I’ve seen you two detached from one another
since sectionals.”
“She’s with Lydia and Malia,” Scott said, and sighed mournfully. “Having girl
time.”
Stiles looked at Erica. She shrugged at him.
“They’re trying to come up with a plan to get Malia and Kira together,” Erica
said. “I want to stay as far away from that matchmaking shit as possible. That
applies to you too, Stilinski.”
“What’s going on with Stilinski?” Derek asked, and Jesus fucking Christ.
Stiles’s hands stuttered around his tube of glue and unleashed an unholy amount
of golden glitter directly on top.
“Nothing,” Stiles interjected, overly-cheery. “Nothing is going on with me,
literally, zero things are happening around me.”
Nobody at the table looked convinced.
“The real question is why Stiles enjoys this so much, when he has the skill
level of a third grader,” Jackson said.
“He gets to be messy and creative,” Scott informed dutifully.
Stiles grinned, and held his glittering, gold-streaked middle finger in
Jackson’s face. Jackson made a noise like this was all ‘so far beneath him’,
and he couldn’t believe he was even talking to these fools. Stiles knew that
sound well.
He kept grinning, and Jackson narrowed his eyes, but neither said a word.
***
Finstock looked troubled. Stiles wasn’t sure if he was past the point of anger
yet, if he’d reached a level where he was purely resigned, because his face was
only partially visible as he paced back and forth behind his desk. The bunk bed
that existed in Stiles and Scott’s room was missing here; instead, the larger
bed was pushed towards the end, creating space for the gigantic mess of empty
Dorito bags and chicken-nugget casing that was piled in the middle of the
floor, and in front of that, this desk that crowded the entrance to the cabin
and served as the only barrier between Stiles, Scott, and Finstock’s space.
There weren’t any chairs, so all three were on their feet.
Finally, Finstock slowed to halt, and placed his palms downwards onto the flat
center of the wooden surface. Yep, that was definitely some sort of resignation
in his eyes.
“Tell me, boys,” Finstock said. “Tell me about the promise you made to me at
the end of last year.”
“We promised not to go looking for trouble,” Stiles said.
“You promised,” Finstock repeated. “Not to go looking for trouble. Wise words.
A wise promise to make. And to keep, if I do say so myself. Now, would you like
to explain how you ended up here, three hundred and fifty-eight days later, in
the front of my office?”
 
“It’s Jackson’s fault,” Stiles said. “We didn’t do anything.”
“Stiles,” Finstock said. “Jackson is one of our most dedicated musicians, our
second trumpet in a highly elite brass program; not to mention the nice
donation his family makes to this program on a regular basis, but that’s
probably not something I’m supposed to be talking about anyway.”
“Jackson is a dick,” Stiles said. Finstock turned to Scott, who cowered under
his gaze.
“Jackson has a totally clean track record,” Finstock said. “You two, however.”
It looked like he needed to take a moment to regain composure. He rolled his
hands into fists, and planted them firmly at his hips.
“I can explain,” Stiles said.
That was a lie.
It all started just a few days earlier, when Jackson had said some unkindly
things about Stiles’s artistic skill and process. True things, but cruel things
nonetheless. Erica  had given him the go-ahead to keep screwing with Jackson,
as long as it hadn’t interfered with her studies, which meant that it was
finally time for Stiles to eek out his revenge.
 
“We need to get him good this year,” Stiles said. Scott nodded
enthusiastically. “I want him to feel the shame and humiliation of being bested
by two less talented, asthmatic weaklings for the rest of the year.”
“You don’t have asthma,” Scott said, but seemed generally unbothered by the
‘weaklings’ comment. Stiles shrugged, and climbed up onto his bunk, rubbing his
hands together ferociously in the evil-villain style. “What are we going to do
to him?”
“Some kind of revenge,” Stiles said. “Retribution for the previous incidents of
today. I’m thinking something with poetic justice.”
“Fill his trumpet with cotton balls?” Scott asked.
“I can see the appeal,” Stiles said.
“Snails?” Scott asked. Stiles shook his head.
“His family would not hesitate to sue us,” Stiles said.
“Pipe cleaners in his bed?” Scott asked. “Hair-dye in the shampoo?”
“I don’t think that would even work, would it?” Stiles asked. “His hair is too
dark to show any real color except black. Oh, that’d be pretty funny though.
Emo Jackson, with the dark hair. Man.”
 
“We don’t actually have any dye, though,” Scott said. Stiles sighed.
“We need to hurt his image,” he said. Scott nodded. “Take him down a notch.”
That’s when Derek entered the room. He gently placed his trumpet case down at
the foot of the bed, and grabbed his book from off the floor.
“Glitter?” Scott asked. Stiles took a moment.
“Yes,” Stiles said. “Yes, Scott, you genius. Before he goes to dinner, so it
won’t look too suspicious if we’re late. Just take a big bucket and dump it
right on his head.”
“That sounds a little messy,” Scott said.
“It’s supposed to be messy,” Stiles said. “Messy is fun. What does everybody
have against messy?”
“What are you guys plotting now?” Derek asked.
Before Stiles could stop him, Scott blurted out, “Revenge on Jackson.”
“I see,” Derek said. “Revenge for what, exactly?”
“Just because he’s a dick,” Stiles said.
“Is he though?” Derek asked. At that, Stiles couldn’t help but laugh.
“Is the sky blue?” Stiles asked. “Does grass grow? Does Peter even really hate
me?”
“This is an unhealthy number of idioms,” Derek said. Scott shrugged.
“He’s in evil-villain Stiles mode,” Scott said. “He gets like this sometimes.”
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Derek asked.
“Of course it is,” Stiles said. Scott shook his head. “Is that doubt, Scott?”
“Just because it’s a terrible idea doesn’t mean we aren’t going to go through
with it,” Scott said. Stiles jumped right back down from his bed and high-fived
his friend
“Damn right,” Stiles said. “Now quick, let’s go steal some glitter before the
entertainment room closes.”
Inexplicably, Derek followed. He watched as they stuffed a zip-lock bag to the
brim with pink glitter, and then seemingly retreated back to his book.
The hardest part was, honestly, getting on top of Jackson’s cabin without
disturbing anyone inside. Stiles was a tree-climber growing up. He’d climbed a
lot of trees in his day, and also fences, and the occasional school building.
Things he wasn’t supposed to. But he’d never had to be so carefully silent
before. And Scott, well. Scott was not a tree climber. It wasn’t a heights
issue, it was just a climbing issue. He was incapable.
At one point, as Scott was poised right over the window, Danny glanced up. He
saw them, but all he did was sigh and shake his head. Danny was too good for
their shit.
They poised themselves above the front entrance of the cabin. They clutched the
zip-lock bag, held it open, and waited.
At least several minutes later, Danny walked out and stared up at them.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“We’re going to glitter bomb Jackson,” Stiles said.
“It’s the herpes of the craft world,” Scott helpfully supplied.
“O-kay,” Danny said, but he didn’t go back inside, he just kept on walking,
maybe to buy himself something from the vending machine.
They probably waited another ten minutes before Jackson emerged, finally.
“Hey, Dan–” he started, and then they unleashed it onto him.
A small blizzard of pink snowed down on him, and before he could even look up
it was everywhere; across his head, his shoulders, his arms. It wasn’t even a
nice shade of pink, like the soft baby-pink glitter that came in little
shakers. It was electric pink, violently pink, almost, like Barbie and Hello
Kitty shacked up and vomited out this monstrous shade. That was what was all
over Jackson now.
“What the fuck,” Jackson said, and he whipped around. Just in time, Stiles and
Scott rolled themselves onto their backs, hidden from ground-floor view.
“Scott? Stiles? Erica? I know it’s one of you fuckers. Come out. Show
yourselves.”
They kept quiet and deathly still until they heard the sounds of his angry
retreating footsteps and under-the-breath murmuring. Then, they took another
ten minutes to climb back off of the roof and sprint, as discreetly as
possible, through the woods to their cabin.
And then they were standing awkwardly in Finstock’s office, in front of a
shitty desk, trying to defend their actions.
“I don’t exactly know what you’re saying we did,” Stiles said. “If you could,
possibly, reiterate...”
Finstock sighed loudly.
Then, Derek opened the door.
“Hi– oh, sorry, you seem busy,” Derek said. He looked over at Stiles and Scott.
“What did you do to land yourselves in here?”
“They dumped glitter on Jackson’s head,” Finstock said.
“Allegedly,” Stiles pitched in.
A look briefly crossed Derek’s face, like he was about to regret everything
leading to this moment in time.
“They did that?” Derek asked. “That’s funny, I thought they were in our cabin
for most of yesterday afternoon.”
Finstock gave him an evaluating glance.
“Are you challenging the claims of one of our best reoccurring students, whose
rich parents keep me in a job?” Finstock asked.
“No, not at all,” Derek said. “I have... a high level of academic respect for
Jackson. Maybe it was an accident?”
“An accident,” Finstock scoffed. “Nearly a pint of bright pink glitter fell on
Jackson by accident?”
Derek shrugged, hands in pockets, until Finstock exhaled forcefully and closed
his eyes.
“Leave me,” Finstock said. “Now, Derek, what was it you came to ask about?”
“I was wondering if you could make a copy of my part for Laura? She wants to be
able to–”
Stiles never got to hear the end of that sentence, he was out of there so fast.
He and Scott practically sprinted out, so that when they jogged to a few meters
away they were breathing hard.
In only a few more seconds, the door swung shut and they turned to see Derek
approaching.
“Why did you do that?” Stiles asked. Derek glared at him.
“I don’t know,” Derek said as he brushed past him. “But don’t make me regret
it.”
***
Stiles had to fight to hold in his laughter as Jackson aggressively stabbed his
lunch with the fork the next day. He maintained a steady glare with almost
everyone around the table, including Scott, who had the nerve to look almost
sheepish. Scott and Stiles were probably one of the few people not openly
laughing; it had been a close call and they didn’t want to push their luck.
 
Jackson tried to wrap his arm around Lydia’s shoulder, but she made a
noncommittal noise of disagreement.
“Sorry, I don’t want that crap on me,” she said, waving a hand over her curly
locks and pristine clothing. “Pink isn’t really my color.”
Jackson leaned over the table and made a show of crushing his red solo cup
right in front of Stiles’s face, and then stormed off. Stiles immediately burst
into a fit of giggles.
“Oh, Jesus,” Stiles said, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. He clutched
at his stomach. God, he was going to pop out a six-pack just from laughing so
hard. He even noticed Derek’s expression softening, hiding a smirk behind his
hand as he looked the other way.
“I hope he’s still not like that at the performance,” Lydia said.
“Are you kidding? That’d be great,” Stiles said. Isaac hummed in agreement.
“I want the judges to take us seriously, Stiles,” Lydia said. “I have a lot to
gain from this.”
“Aren’t you going into neuroscience?” Stiles asked.
“Music scholarships never hurt,” Lydia said. “What are you going to do, Derek?
Are you planning on pursuing a career as a trumpet player, or something more...
profitable?”
“I, uh,” Derek looked moderately off-guard. “I don’t know. I guess I’ll see
what I’m interested in when I get there. Maybe I’ll become a teacher.”
“Music teacher?” Lydia asked. Like his parents, Stiles thought. Derek just
shrugged. “You’ve got a lot of talent. It’d be a shame if you didn’t do
something with that.”
Derek didn’t say anything to that, just held a moment of eye contact with Lydia
before nodding and glancing down at his feet. When he looked back up again, he
looked over at Stiles.
“What I really want to know,” Derek said, “Is if I should be worried about any
retaliation on my cabinmates that could possibly put me at risk.”
“The ‘prank war’ has just been Scott and Stiles mercilessly attacking Jackson
for a while now,” Lydia said. “I’m not sure Jackson has the level of creativity
required to plan something sufficiently humiliating or inconveniencing that
it’d effect you.”
 
“Okay, good to know,” Derek said.
That’s when Allison got a gleam in her eye.
***
“Are you kidding me?” Stiles said. “Drag night?”
“What the fuck, Finstock,” Jackson said a few rows in front of him.
“Does this mean we’re going to have to see Finstock in a dress?” Malia
whispered next to him.
“I myself will not be participating in tonight’s activities,” Finstock said,
“However, I expect all of you to do so. Dinner in two hours, you’re all
dismissed.”
Within moments, Stiles found himself converged upon by Allison and Lydia.
“Ooh, we should grab Scott, too,” Allison said. “And Jackson. And Isaac.”
“I’ll find them,” Lydia said, and disappeared in a terrifying twirl.
“What about Derek?” Stiles asked.
“Grab Derek too!” Allison called out. Lydia gave a curt nod over her shoulder.
He found himself herded into Allison’s cabin where Erica was already rustling
through her duffle bag.
“I am not a fan of loose clothing,” Erica said, which Stiles knew to be true
from having seen her wardrobe before. Tight leather, denim, and leopard prints.
“Of the boys here that I feel comfortable enough trading clothes with, your
figure is the most... slender.”
“Is it?” Stiles asked. “What about Isaac?”
Erica shook her head. “Isaac’s shoulders are wider, and you’ve kinda got that
twink thing going on.”
Stiles scoffed. “Great. Just what every boy wants to hear.”
It was then that Scott, Isaac, and Jackson were pushed in by a totally
ambivalent Lydia. Allison rushed outside, and Stiles heard some sort of
bickering. He and the other boys in the room looked moderately frightened, even
if Scott’s expression had that lovey-dovey haze to it. After a few moments,
Allison stepped back inside.
“Derek won’t come in,” she said. “Lydia, toss me the cotton halter.”
Lydia sighed and plucked a small piece of black fabric off the bed and threw it
over. Allison caught it easily and went back outside. There seemed to be some
kind of negotiations taking place. Lydia eyed the boys, and then picked Isaac.
She grabbed Erica and got to work.
They put him up against the wall and held the various articles of clothing up
against him, murmuring to each other in an almost incomprehensible language of
colors, cloth types, and measurements.
When Allison came back in, she gave Scott a moderately reflective green shirt
with a wide v-neck that probably would’ve been pretty loose on her, but fit
pretty tightly on him. Then, she fitted him with a very, very long black skirt
with a very, very elastic waist that actually looked almost comfortable. Stiles
briefly brushed his fingers across the soft cotton, which was a lot nicer than
the material of the jumpsuit Isaac was given.
Jackson basically refused to put on anything too feminine, like Derek
apparently had, which was the entire point, so Lydia picked out something that
would effectively just serve as a muscle t and convinced him to wear a necklace
or something so Coach wouldn’t kick his ass. He conceded eventually.
As soon as Stiles saw what he was being handed, he let out a pained wine.
“Lydia,” he said. “This dress isn’t complete.”
“Oh, yes it is,” Lydia said, narrowing her eyes. He held it out in front of
himself. It looked like a regular dress, he guessed. Except there were giant
gaping holes in the side, and he wasn’t even sure the bottom of the skirt would
reach a quarter of the way down his thighs. It was black and sleeveless. It was
tiny.
 
“Oh, Stiles,” Allison sighed happily. “You’re going to look so beautiful!”
“Get changed,” Lydia commanded to all of them.
Jackson didn’t even bother going into the bathroom, he just threw his shirt off
right there and pulled on the sleek cotton. The silvery necklace Lydia gave him
didn’t even really do anything to make it look like he was trying to cross
dress, it just made him look like some kind of shitty 90’s bouncer.
Isaac went the bathroom route, and after changing he emerged looking also retro
in some way, and pretty alright. He didn’t look too uncomfortable.
As predicted, Scott’s clothing was really comfortable. He did a few spins and
watched in fascination as the skirt kind of billowed out around him.
Then it was Stiles’s turn. He mustered up all the strength he had left and
willed himself into the bathroom, where he stripped down to his briefs and
unzipped the dress. Now, how was this going to work?
He managed to get it on, but of course he couldn’t reach the zipper in the
back. God damn it.
“Allison!” he called out. “Can you help me with the zipper?”
He almost regretted asking after that. His chest was squeezed, thank god he
didn’t have actually breasts to be fitting in there too, and then it was
squeezing down on his hips too.
 
“The drag bonfire is directly after dinner, which means we should start on
makeup now,” Lydia said.
“Makeup?” Isaac asked. “Makeup?”
“This is cross dressing,” Lydia said with a totally unapologetic glance.
“Permission to sort through your shit?” Erica asked Stiles.
“Sure,” Stiles said. Allison smiled.
“I’ll go grab some clothes from you guys’s room,” Allison said. “Is it okay if
I wear one of your things, Scott?”
“Of course,” Scott said, with a totally whipped smile. God, they were
disgusting.
Just for that, Lydia grabbed Scott first.
***
“This feels weird,” Stiles said.
“Sit still,” Lydia said. “Stop moving your eyelid, Jesus, you’re making this
impossible.”
“Good,” Stiles said.
“Do you want to fuck Derek or not?” Lydia asked.
“What?” Stiles replied. “What does that totally not true thing have to do with
this, what we’re doing right now, and the thick slimy ooze you’re putting on my
eyelid which, by the way, the human eye is extremely prone to things like
infection and–”
“You’re going to look hot,” Lydia said. “And you’re going to going to look a
lot more like a girl than you usually do. If he’s into guys but he hasn’t had
that crisis yet, this might push him along a little. If he’s into guys and he’s
already comfortable with that, gay guys do drag all the time. I’m going to make
you look totally fuckable, Stiles. Have faith in me. Hold still.”
Stiles tried to force himself to go limp, but then there’s another stripe of
the cold, wet... goopy stuff and he has to clench up so he doesn’t flinch.
It feels like hours before Lydia finally says, “Okay, you can open your eyes
now... slowly.”
He carefully peeled his eyes open. Scott and Isaac appeared to be watching with
some level of interest from the bed, and Allison and Erica were of course both
very dedicated to examining every detail of his appearance.
“Alright,” Lydia said. “You’re clear. Want a mirror?”
Before he could even respond, one was being handed to him. He almost didn’t
recognize himself.
“I look... good,” Stiles said.
“Of course you do,” Lydia said. Stiles looked back up at her with a sense of
new-found appreciation.
“You do that every single day before school?” he asked. “Shit, man.”
Erica brought over the ‘finishing touch’; a slim turquoise beaded necklace.
“Wow,” Scott said. Isaac even nodded. Jackson looked over and quirked an
eyebrow.
“Why haven’t you gone and run off back to Danny yet?” Stiles asked. Jackson
rolled his eyes.
“Shut the fuck up, Stilinski.”
“He’s providing me with clothing,” Lydia said. Suddenly, the girls all erupted
into a flurry of movement and chatter that, thankfully, no longer involved any
of them.
Though they were no longer required to be there, they hung around anyway.
Stiles didn’t really feel like walking all the way across the plaza to their
cabin, and neither did the rest of them. So they stood in silent solidarity,
watching the girls tie up their hair and gradually put on the boys’s clothes.
All three of them drew little mustaches on their upper lips.
Outside, the light was starting to dim.
They marched out seven abreast like a small drag army converging on an innocent
civilian courtyard. A few people looked at them when they took their seats.
“Eat carefully,” Lydia warned. “If you smear the lipstick, Stiles, I swear to
God.”
He looked mournfully down at his hamburger, sighed, and started ripping it up
into little bites.
And then Derek saw him.
He froze like a deer in the headlights, and Derek seemed to freeze up a little
bit too. He dropped his tray on the table just across from Stiles, and just
kept staring.
Derek went with the same overly-macho muscle-man type thing as Jackson, but his
shirt ended at around the mid-way point of his chest, leaving his glorious abs
totally exposed. Stiles had to look away. He might start drooling. He cleared
his throat.
“Malia. Uh. You look. Great,” Stiles said. She gave him a weird look. “I see
the fake mustache look is popular tonight.”
God, his voice sounded totally wrecked. That was embarrassing.
He tried not to talk for the rest of the meal. He just sat listening to
Jackson, once again, recounting his most recent athletic successes to Lydia,
Danny, and basically anyone within hearing range.
After dinner, Finstock crowded them all into the entertainment room for
karaoke, where Stiles had to listen to Scott and Malia do a terrible Lady Gaga
tribute. The only consolation was that Jackson was standing directly in front
of him, and he spotted some sparkly pink behind his ear.
He looked over his shoulder, briefly, and found that Derek was standing right
behind him, eyes focused on a point somewhere around Stiles’s shoulder.
 
“It’s a little bit stuffy in here,” Stiles said carefully. “I think I’ll go get
some air.”
“Yeah,” Derek said, and fuck, his voice was low. “That sounds like a good
idea.”
Stiles squeezed out behind Danny, waited with a finger poised over his lips
until Finstock was turned away, and then crept out into the night air.
 
They were silent for a moment. Stiles looked out at the cabins in front of
them, and up at the starry night sky. He could almost feel the body heat
radiating off of Derek, despite the fact that he was probably wearing less than
Stiles was. Well, no, that was a lie. Derek had an actual jacket, and Stiles
felt like he was wearing literally nothing. He’d never felt the cool night
breeze brushing the sides of his waist like a creepy uncle before, and he’d
never wanted to.
 
“Shit, it’s way too fucking cold out here to be summer in California,” Stiles
said. “The movies say we should probably be out lying around on a beach
somewhere in our swimsuits, drinking and, I don’t know, night surfing? Is that
a thing?”
“I don’t think so,” Derek said.
“Have you ever been to the Drake Beach?” Stiles asked.
“That’s the one more than an hour away?” Derek said. “No. Why would I have?”
“Uh, because you live in California, and it’s the closest real, ocean-side
beach to where you live?” Stiles said. “Anyway. Don’t go. It’s terrible. Scott
had a birthday party out there one year. You can’t even take off your sweater
or you’ll get frostbite, and the sweater’ll be blown away. It’s terrible. I
demand some actual warm beaches, and warm water.”
“I like pools better,” Derek said. “Cleaner.”
“Babies pee in pools,” Stiles said, scrunching his nose up.
“That’s what all the chemicals are for,” Derek said with a grin. “And pools are
warmer, too. Clear water.”
“I guess,” Stiles said. “Do you swim?”
Derek shook his head.
“What sports do you play?” Stiles asked. He gestured towards Derek’s
midsection. “Because, damn.”
“Basketball,” Derek said, and was– was Derek blushing? Just a little bit?
“Lacrosse.”
“Wait, lacrosse?” Stiles asked. “No shit. Scott and I play for Beacon High. Did
we compete last season?”
“I think so,” Derek said. “I think we probably crushed you.”
“No way,” Stiles said. “We totally won. Our team is top notch.”
“So is ours,” Derek said.
“I think I’d remember seeing you out on the field,” Stiles said. Derek
shrugged.
“Helmets, etc.,” Derek said. “I think I’d remember you out on the field,
though, you don’t have quite the... average lacrosse body type.”
“I don’t get a lot of time off the bench,” Stiles said. He grinned, and he felt
his teeth start to chatter.
“You’re cold,” Derek said. Stiles rolled his eyes.
“Yeah, I said that before– no wait, stop that, what are you–”
Derek pulled off his leather jacket and draped it easily around Stiles’s
shoulders. It was warm, and it smelled like him. God, Stiles was so creepy.
“Is it time to head back yet?” Derek asked, looking over his shoulder. “Will
they ever be done with Karaoke?”
“No,” Stiles said. “Well, maybe. It depends. Finstock’s unpredictable.”
“I’ve gotten that feeling,” Derek said.
“Maybe we could leave early,” Stiles said. “I don’t think anyone would miss
me.”
“After you spent all that time getting all dressed up?” Derek teased. Stiles
rolled his eyes again and pulled the jacket closer around himself. Derek gave
him a quick once-over, and if Stiles didn’t know any better he’d think Derek
was checking him out.
“I’m ready to put some pants on,” Stiles said. “Come on.”
***
“And then what?” Malia asked. Stiles jiggled a sheet of photo-copied sheet
music into a little plastic holder.
“What do you mean, ‘and then what’?” Stiles asked. Malia raised her eyebrows in
exasperation.
“You went back to your room early, together,” Malia said. “Alone. Scott wasn’t
there. You had the entire room to yourself. And you didn’t do anything?”
“I’m me,” Stiles said. “And he’s... him.”
“That doesn’t mean anything!” Malia said. “He’s so obviously into you, it’s
ridiculous, and you’re so obviously into him... You guys really need to get
your shit together, I swear to god.”
“I don’t even know if he likes guys!” Stiles said. “Maybe he’s not homophobic,
but that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t punch me if I tried to kiss him!”
Malia rolled her eyes.
“Honestly,” she said. “You–”
“Alright!” Finstock shouted. “From the top!”
***
Derek had very nice eyelashes. He also had nice cheekbones, and a nice jawline.
Stiles had already spent a lot of time thinking about both of those. How did
people even develop such nice jawlines? Now, he was taking a little bit of time
to appreciate the eyelashes.
He was trying to be subtle. It was mid-afternoon, and Stiles was on the top
bunk. Derek was reading below and across from him in total silence, like usual.
Every once in a while he could hear the rough sound of paper on skin when Derek
turned the page. What was he reading, Stiles wondered?
“Where’s Scott?” Derek murmured suddenly, and Stiles was so startled he shocked
up in bed a little bit.
“Oh, uh. Where is he ever?” Stiles said. “With Allison, probably, making moony
eyes and being overly happy.”
Derek hummed in response, and then slammed his book shut. He looked up at
Stiles.
“I need to go talk to Laura about something,” Derek said. In one fluid motion
he spun himself around and stood up onto his feet, and then he was gone out the
door.
Stiles sighed. He had a problem.
Well, Stiles had multiple problems. Derek was probably number one on his list
right now. Somewhere below that was the fact that living with Derek, living in
close quarters with Derek, and also Scott, deprived him of the chance to jerk
off as often as he liked.
He was a teenage boy. It was a well known fact that teenage boys jerk off a
lot. So his roommates should be understanding, right?
He wasn’t about to risk it.
He looked suspiciously at the door. He didn’t know when Derek would be back. He
probably had at least, what, ten minutes? Twenty? He hopped off the bed.
He was on his way to the bathroom when Derek’s book caught his attention. The
hard cover was a shade of dark red, no sleeve. The title was in pale print. He
squinted, and flipped open the book to a random page.
Elliot groaned at the sight of him; face down on the bed, legs spread. There
was a wet patch on the sheets at his midsection.
“ Somebody’s happy I’m back,” Elliot said. Joseph turned and threw as smirk
over his shoulder.
 
“I’d be a lot happier if you were on top of me right now,” Joseph said. Elliot
undid his tie and took a step forward.
“Shit,” Stiles whispered out loud. Gay erotica? He gently closed the book and
set it back down on the bed. So all the time they’d been there, every time
Derek was so stoically sitting and reading he was actually reading this
explicit porn?
 
He pictured Derek lying there in the dead of night after everyone else was
sleeping, moonlight illuminating the text; Elliot bending Joseph over the
kitchen counter and fucking him until he wept. What part turned Derek on the
most, Stiles wondered? Did he get hot and bothered thinking about one man on
his knees, cock in mouth?
Was that what Derek wanted for himself?
He didn’t even remember how he got to the bathroom, but he got there, bracing
himself against the sink with one hand, one hand stroking up his shaft, tip of
his finger tracing along the underside of his vein. He started off slow, and
thought about how Derek liked it. When Derek touched himself, how did he do it?
Was he loud?
Maybe he tried not to be. Stiles pictured Derek, writhing on the bed, hand
fisted in the sheets as Stiles went down on him. What would it take for Derek
to lose his cool?
Maybe Derek liked to top. He seemed like the type. Maybe he’d want Stiles on
his hands and knees, on the bed in front of him, like Joseph. And then Derek
would come up behind him and make him feel good. He’d fuck him hard, and long,
and slow...
Stiles’s grip faltered. Shit, he was so close. Just a few more strokes and–
“Stiles?”
He came in a rush, hand on the counter sliding forward as he bent over. Shit.
“Stiles? Are you okay?” he heard Derek ask behind him, and he was much closer
now. He looked over his shoulder. Stiles had forgotten to close the door. Not
even lock it, he’d forgotten to just close it. Fuck.
“I’m fine,” Stiles said. His voice was embarrassingly high. He could only
imagine how he looked right now, debauched, flushed, pants pushed halfway down
his ass.
Derek’s gaze traveled across his face, and then dropped directly to his hips.
His cheeks turned pink.
“I, uh,” Derek said, and fuck, he sounded totally wrecked. His pupils were
blown wide and dark, almost consuming his irises. He cleared his throat and
kept looking for another long second. He seemed like he wasn’t sure what to do.
Then, he turned and left.
Stiles cleaned himself up quickly and made a beeline for the door.
“I’m going to go find Scott, I’ll see you at dinner or something probably!”
Stiles said. He tried to inject as much casual cheeriness into his voice as
possible. He didn’t look at Derek at all before he closed the door. God, he was
going to die.
 
***
Erica and Boyd were conversing over a bowl of grapes while Isaac looked on.
Jackson was leaning against some other table, talking to trombone prodigy kid
Liam. Lydia and Allison were laughing about something Deaton said to them
earlier that day. Scott was staring Stiles down. He was looking right into
Stiles’s soul, with that puppy-dog conviction that made Scott so lovable and
was currently making Stiles’s skin crawl just a little bit.
“Hey Stiles, where’s Derek?” Allison asked. That was a good question. In fact,
it was a question Stiles had already been asking himself, before he came to the
conclusion that, like most things, it was totally his fault.
“I may have... fucked up, a little bit,” Stiles said. He felt a blush creeping
up his skin thinking of the day’s earlier events. Stiles would never be able to
look Derek in the eye again.
“Did you finally make a move, or at least try to?” Lydia asked.
“What? No! Of course not!” Stiles said. He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m
not telling you anything.”
“I know I’ve probably said this before, but this is unbelievably pathetic,”
Lydia said. “You like him.”
“I– yes,” Stiles said.
“But you’re too afraid to make a move,” Lydia said. “Is it because you’re
afraid he’ll reject you?”
“Stop psychoanalyzing me!” Stiles said.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Lydia said. “Well, lucky for you, I’ve been talking
to him. He’s a sucker for romantic gestures.”
“How do you even get that information from someone?” Stiles asked. Lydia
quirked her head.
“Psychoanalysis,” she said. “And magic. Anyways, romantic gestures. Get on it.”
Twenty minutes later, Derek walked into the entertainment room and hovered next
to the couch.
“Didn’t see you at lunch today,” Stiles said.
“Laura wanted me to eat with her,” Derek said, and let himself fall backwards.
For some reason, he was wearing that goddamn leather jacket, and it made a
ridiculous squeaking noise as Derek’s back hit the leather of the couch. He
didn’t say anything else.
Scott was standing by the lanyard string, watching Allison as she tried to
teach him how to make a lanyard. Stiles felt the sudden, urgent need to make
one for his drum case, so he moseyed over in a very obviously casual way and
sat on the brown metal folding chair across from Allison.
“What do I do?” Stiles whispered. Scott looked at him with a very sympathetic
expression, bordering almost on– on what, pity? Stiles would not have Scott
pitying him. Oh, no. Lydia was a higher life form who was allowed to pity
anyone and everyone, but Scott? Scott and Stiles were bros. “I’m going to do
something. I swear. I’m going to do it. Do what, though? Scott, help me out
here.”
 
“I don’t know,” Scott said with a shrug. “I’m not the idea-man, that’s you.
Just treat it the same way you treat all the pranks.”
“Like I treat the pranks...” Stiles murmured under his breath. “Yes, Scotty,
you’re a genius! Allison, hand me that construction paper, will you? And the
blue Crayola marker. No, not that one, the other one. I have an idea.”
 
***
“No,” Erica said. “Absolutely not. I already told you I wasn’t going to get
involved in any of the drama this year, and that includes relationship
bullshit. On top of that–Scott, my baby, and water? No.”
 
“Please?” Stiles said. He put a hand on Erica’s shoulder which she quickly
peeled off. “It’s a great idea, Erica!”
“It really isn’t,” Erica said. “Listen, I won’t do it, but I don’t hate you, so
how about you talk to Kira, the third alto. She sits pretty much right in front
of Scott, I think they’re on good terms.”
“Thanks!” Stiles said.
“And in return,” Erica said grimly, turning to Stiles, “you can never bother me
again.”
Stiles nodded vigorously.
***
“Why?” Derek asked. The cool night breeze gently ruffled his hair.
“Why what?” Stiles asked. “Why are we going boating? Come on, Derek, it’s part
of the classic summer-camp experience.”
“Is it?” Derek asked. Stiles merely laughed and led him by the hand across the
mucky brown beach. Stiles wasn’t sure he’d really call it a lake; more like a
very large pond, a few hundred feet across. He thought it was probably some
requirement that all summer camps have a moderately sized body of water, and of
course, at least one row boat. There were two here; one was dented with the
wooden seats torn up into splinters, and the other one was somewhat sturdier,
metal, with white paint flaking off the sides. “Is sneaking out past curfew
also part of the summer camp experience?”
“Definitely,” Stiles said. “It happens in all the movies.”
He pushed the metal boat halfway into the water and made a gesture towards it.
“After you,” Stiles said. Derek climbed over the back, and then Stiles pushed
with all the power of his stringy little muscles to get the boat farther into
the water. Once it was floating on its own, Stiles hopped in a carefully as
possible.
Not carefully enough, apparently; the boat started wobbling precariously.
Stiles could feel his limbs starting to flail involuntarily in a misguided
attempt to maintain balance.
That’s when Derek’s arms darted out, and he pulled Stiles’s abdomen to his
chest. Stiles’s hands landed on Derek’s firm shoulders, and he steadied himself
as the boat’s rocking slowed. He pulled himself, reluctantly, away from Derek,
and sat down.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to take over from here?” Derek said. Stiles
shook his head.
“I’ve got this,” he said, expression the epitome of pure determination. Of
course, after a few strokes, he realized rowing was a little bit harder than it
looked. His arms were getting tired before he got to the spot of moonlight
towards the center of the lake.
That’s also when he heard people noises off to the side.
“Shit,” Stiles whispered, still rowing. “Did you hear that?”
“It’s probably just some other campers,” Derek said with a shrug.
“What if it isn’t?” Stiles squeaked out. “This is how people die, Derek.
Teenagers sneak off to the lake late at night–”
“It’s like 10 right now,” Derek said.
“–and then the monster, or the other people, whoever, come and kill them,
Derek,” Stiles said. Were the voices getting closer? Shit. Shit. This was not
part of the plan.
It was at that exact moment that Scott walked to the edge of the dock,
glimmering alto saxophone in hand, and began blasting out some of the most
disgusting notes
Stiles had ever heard in his life.
“What’s Scott doing?” Derek asked. He didn’t speak for a moment. “Is he
playing... Careless Whisper?”
“What the fuck?” someone said, but it wasn’t Stiles, it wasn’t Derek, and it
definitely wasn’t Scott. Stiles jerked back, and the boat started rocking
viciously again.
“Stiles–” Derek said, but it was too late. Right next to him, Stiles saw the
figure of a thing, pale, monstrous, hulking, in the water right next to him. He
lurched, and then the whole boat tipped.
They fell into the water with a devastating splash.
He was under for almost a full second, but he shot straight up when he felt
something brush against his leg.
“Oh god, oh god, I’m going to die,” he called out. “Derek? Derek, where are
you?”
When he finally blinked the water out of his eyes, he was face to face with–
“Lydia?” he asked. “Jackson?”
Her hair was down around her shoulders, darker where it touched the water, dark
against the pale flesh of her chest–
“Naked?!” he shouted, and immediately slammed his hands over his eyes, but he
began sinking so he had to take them back down. He turned to face away from
them.
“Stilinski, I swear to god, I’m going to pummel you into the dust so hard
they’ll–” Jackson started.
“Derek? Where’s Derek?” Stiles asked, cutting off Jackson’s threat.
“Over here,” Derek gasped out. Stiles searched the water for him, and found his
pale face bobbing just above the surface on the other side of the boat.
“Are you okay?” Stiles asked, swimming over.
“Can’t swim very well,” Derek said. Stiles swam faster, as fast as he could,
and grabbed Derek’s arm. His dad put him through all the rescue courses, he
knew how to do this, if he could just focus...
“Guys?” Scott shouted, and finally, thank god, he stopped playing the
saxophone. “What’s going on? Are you okay? Lydia, Jackson, what are you– oh
shit, run!”
Stiles had no idea what Scott was talking about, he just heard the distant
pitter-patter of his feet on the dock, and then he turned to the beach closest
in front of him–
And got a face full of flashlight. Shit.
He was a little bit blinded, but he heard the familiar exasperated sigh, and
then Finstock said, “My office, all of you, as soon as conceivably possible.”
***
Lydia, Jackson, and Derek had all been offered towels, but because Stiles was
the bane of Finstock’s existence, he was not. Even with the towels, all of them
were still dripping on the floor. Finstock seemed to be too bothered to be
thinking about that.
 
“Where should I start?” Finstock asked. Nobody said anything, everyone staring
at different parts of the walls in shame. He seemed to be pacing again.
“Alright. How about this. Jackson, why is it that I found you, of all people,
in my lake with your junk out?”
“Sir, I–”
“It’s really not a lake, is it?” Stiles asked. Everyone turned to glare at him.
“I mean. How big does something have to be before it’s considered a lake? Maybe
it’s a really big pond, at most.”
“Stilinski?” Finstock said. “Shut up.”
“Yessir,” Stiles said, and went back to staring into the ground as hard as he
could. Finstock took another long moment to sigh, and turned back to Jackson.
“Keep talking,” Finstock said.
“We were skinny dipping, sir,” Jackson said.
“I understand that much,” Finstock said. “And did you think, at the time, that
this was a particularly smart idea?”
“Well, I didn’t think we were going to get caught, sir,” Jackson said. Finstock
nodded, and then turned to Lydia.
“I know you’re smarter than this, Lydia,” Finstock said. “Why?”
“I’m not wearing any clothes right now, so I’m pretty sure my family could sue
for sexual harassment if we were so inclined,” Lydia said. “Permission to leave
the office.”
“Yes, okay,” Finstock said. She clutched the towel close around her and let the
door swing shut quietly. After that, Finstock’s attention jumped right back
over to Stiles.
“This is the second time you’ve been in my office over the course of one week,
Stiles. Could you please explain to me why you were in the water, with a boat,
with Derek? And also, since Lydia is the only woodwind amongst you, who was
playing the goddamned saxophone, and what happened to it?”
There was a moment of silence.
“Was that what called your attention to the lake?” Stiles asked.
“I could hear it from my cabin,” Finstock said. “It was the most terrible show
musical ability I’ve ever had the displeasure of experiencing in my entire
life.”
Stiles supposed he couldn’t really blame Scott for that. After all, the whole
thing was his idea.
“Well,” Stiles said carefully. “Derek and I were out boating to get the full
summer-camp experience.”
“Understandable,” Finstock said. “Go on.”
“...and then the saxophone playing started, which I really, truly have no idea
about, confusing Jackson and Lydia, who said something, and then I got
startled, and started flailing, and tipped the boat...”
Jackson looked like he wanted to protest, but Finstock cut him off by humming.
“Listen,” Finstock said, “My gut’s screaming that Stilinski, despite all
contrary evidence, is at fault here, as opposed to Jackson and Derek, my two
lead trumpets, the shining stars of this band. However, as I said, evidence.
Jackson, you’re on cleanup duty for blatant violation of... some rules,
probably. Stilinski, while I agree that boating past curfew is probably a big
part of the teen summer camp experience, you did take Derek out there without
either of you wearing a life vest and he did nearly drown. So, cleanup duty.
And don’t do it again. Derek, it seems to me, is the real victim of this
situation. However, I will be telling Laura, and whatever happens after that is
not my problem. Now, get out of my sight, all of you.”
Stiles didn’t wait around for Jackson to beat him, he ran straight back to
their cabin, Derek hot on his heels. They slowed down once they got about
halfway there; the wet denim of Stiles’s jeans was starting to chafe painfully.
After a moment of silence, Derek asked, “So. What was the real reason for going
boating?”
“What do you mean, real reason?” Stiles scoffed, aiming for nonchalance. His
voice cracked a little bit towards the end, breaking his cover there.
“Come on,” Derek said. “Scott was not there playing saxophone on accident.
Lydia and Jackson–”
“I didn’t know that they were going to be there,” Stiles said. Derek raised his
eyebrows, and Stiles sighed, finally throwing in the hat. “I was going to
seduce you.”
Derek stopped dead in his tracks. “What?”
“I– Lydia said you liked romantic gestures so I– Scott was playing Careless
Whisper, it was a boat on a lake under the moonlight, I thought...” Stiles
said.
“It went terribly,” Derek said. Stiles looked at the ground. He could feel his
cheeks flushing.
“It did, and I’m so sorry–” Stiles said.
“It went terribly, but it worked anyway,” Derek said. Now it was Stiles’s turn
to stop dead in his tracks.
“What?” Stiles asked. That’s when Derek grabbed him by the collar, pressed him
up against the side of their cabin and kissed him.
It started off messy and wet, urgent and awkward, and then transformed into
something a lot nicer. Stiles let his mouth fall open, and Derek pushed on,
hand dropping to Stiles’s wet hip, tongue tracing across Stiles’s lower lip. He
shuddered, and couldn’t tell if it was from the kiss or the cold, wet clothes
and cold, night air.
“Wow,” Stiles said. His hair was probably mussed up.
“You can have the first shower,” Derek said.
“No, like Deaton said, you’re the one suffering the most as a result of this,
you should go first,” Stiles said. “Though, really, you knew you couldn’t swim
that well, and consciously got into a boat with me, so.”
 
“I trust you,” Derek said with a shrug.
“You almost drowned!” Stiles said.
“Do I look dead to you?” Derek said. “Besides, I ended up here, which isn’t
such a bad place to be. You shower first.”
“Alright,” Stiles said, and opened the door to the cabin.
***
Danny and Ethan were out in the woods together, and Jackson had Lydia over at
his cabin, and Erica was out getting some extra practice time in away from
everyone else, which meant that Scott was over at Allison’s cabin, and would be
there for a while...
 
Stiles casually meandered to the front door, felt the handle, and clicked the
lock. Derek was on the bed, legs crossed, oblivious. He was reading that book
again. Stiles smirked.
He took his time walking over, quietly, and then crawling across Derek’s bed.
Derek barely made a noise of acknowledgement when Stiles climbed over, and that
simply would not do.
“You know,” Stiles said, “when you were out that one time, talking to Laura, I
decided to take a peek at your book...”
Derek looked up at that, and then started blushing.
“I just couldn’t help myself,” Stiles continued. “I wanted to know what you
spent all that time reading, and of course the cover wasn’t any clue. Then,
when I found out, well.”
“You ran straight to the bathroom and jerked off?” Derek asked, raising an
eyebrow. Stiles was blushing too, now. Derek put the book down, gently set it
on the floor, and reached out to skim his knuckles across Stiles’s thigh. He
leaned forwards, so close that his lips were brushing against Stiles’s ear, so
it sent shivers down his spine when he whispered, “You know, I had some pretty
graphic thoughts about you too, during the drag night, when you were wearing
that dress...”
“Yeah?” Stiles asked. He could feel himself getting hard already. Derek’s hand
was still creeping up, mid-thigh, now, just brushing up against his leg very
gently.
“Oh, yeah,” Derek said. His voice was low, getting lower. “The skirt kept
riding up in the back. I thought about what would happen if I just put my hand
up it, shoved it up to your hips, sucked you off...”
Stiles’s hips bucked a little at that and made contact with the firm flesh of
Derek’s thigh. He groaned and the contact, and ground down harder. Derek’s eyes
were dark, and he was staring down at the two of them. Stiles could feel the
firm sign of his interest against the tip of his knee.
“Shirt off, right now,” Stiles said. Derek was all too happy to oblige, and
then he returned the favor, pulling Stiles’s shirt up over his head. Stiles let
his eyes wander across Derek’s chest, down to his abs. “Fuck.” He reached out
and traced his way up the dips and curves, running his hands everywhere he
could reach.
Derek surged forward and kissed him again, and Stiles let out a soft moan at
all the contact that was going on between them. When Derek finally leaned back
for breath, Stiles said, “Pants off. Unless... you think that’s not a good
idea.”
“I think it’s a great idea, actually,” Derek said with a wolfish grin. He took
his pants off quickly and easily; Stiles pushed his own down to his knees, and
then kicked them off until they lay in a defeated pile on the floor.
Derek bracketed his knees around Stiles’s thighs and pushed forwards on
Stiles’s shoulders until he was lying flat on the bed in front of him. His gaze
was hungry, and for a few moments he just looked at everything Stiles had to
offer. Then, he leaned forwards, but swerved before he came to Stiles’s mouth.
He felt Derek’s lips on his chest, and then locked around his nipple. Stiles
cursed.
Derek laved his tongue over the nub, and then pulled it gently between his
teeth, sending a sharp spike of heat straight to Stiles’s groin. He arched up,
trying to get some contact. Derek just smirked and switched to the other
nipple, licking and biting until Stiles was practically writhing under him.
“Please,” Stiles said, and somehow Derek’s pupils blew wider. His mouth
actually went a little slack before he had a moment to regain some of his
composure.
“Well,” Derek said, “Since you asked so nicely.”
He crawled back on the bed until his head was hovering just above Stiles’s
crotch, and he felt his dick pulse at that, a little spurt of pre-come dripping
down. Derek kept eye contact as he wrapped his lips around the head of Stiles’s
dick.
“Shit, fuck, Jesus Christ,” Stiles said.
“Hey, you can call me Derek,” Derek said. Stiles gently kicked him with the
side of his foot, and Derek chuckled. Then, he put his mouth back on Stiles’s
dick.
He licked around the head, and then traced down the bottom of the shaft with
his tongue as he kept taking it down. Slowly, he pulled back up, twisting at
the top, and then he went back down again. Stiles had to close his eyes. It was
so much.
He fisted his hands in the sheets and bucked up. Derek pressed his hips back
down onto the bed, holding him there, and then Stiles felt something tracing
around his hole, just a finger, pushing gently past the rim at the same time as
Derek was sucking him down, passing farther and farther into him until it
curled and hit something inside of him. Sparks flared behind his eyelids and he
shouted while Derek teased it mercilessly, dragging his finger back and forth
over it.
He came quickly after that, heels digging into the mattress, one finger inside
of him. He felt bad about not giving any warning, and then he looked up to see
Derek, spit dripping from his loose lips, wiping the last traces of Stiles’s
come from his cheek with the back of his hand. His dick was so hard it looked
like it ached. Stiles reached forwards and wrapped his hand around it.
“I’m not going to take long,” Derek said. Stiles twisted his hand, pressed his
finger gently on the slit, and Derek’s breath hitched.
“Good,” Stiles said. He stared Derek in the eye, drinking in the sight of him,
every little noise he made. He wasn’t very loud, but he made a lot of little
sounds. When he came, he was totally silent, eyes fluttering closed, mouth
still slack, come pulsing onto the both of them. Stiles stroked him through the
aftershocks, and Derek leaned in to recapture his mouth. The kiss deepened
quickly; if Stiles had another twenty minutes, he could probably get it back up
again. He guessed Derek was probably the same.
“This is so gross,” Stiles said, dragging a finger through the mess of semen on
his stomach. Derek chuckled.
“I’ll go get a towel.”
***
Finstock looked nervous. Everyone was watching him as he paced, the sound of
his footsteps on the linoleum floors echoing through the hall.
Finally, he turned to them.
“Forget the crowds. Forget the other camp, and their fancy uniforms. Remember
what got you here,” Finstock said, getting passionate, “Focus on the
fundamentals we’ve gone over time and time again. Most importantly, don’t get
caught up in winning or losing this competition. If you put your focus and
effort into playing to your potential, being the best that you can be, I don’t
care what the judges say at the end of the performance– in my book, these past
weeks were a success. Now go! Go out there and do it!”
“Did he lift that speech from Hoosiers?” Derek whispered.
“I have no idea what that is, but he always takes his best speeches from
movies, so probably,” Stiles said.
They picked up their instruments and marched into the small stadium. In the
distance, he could pick out the Sheriff and Melissa sitting together, as they
should be. He watched Finstock, felt the collective intake of breath as he
lifted the baton, the total, perfect silence around the entire area that lasted
just for a few moments.
The baton came down.
Lydia led in beautifully. None of the trombones were off by even a little bit.
The tuba was playing in time. The oboe was in tune.
Derek had, somehow, improved upon his solo since that first day; Stiles felt
pride welling up inside of him as he listened to the soaring notes of brass
that rose over the band.
When they finished, they cut off perfectly, sound cinching together smoothly
and cleanly.
It was like a dream.
They got all Excellent’s on their scorecard. Allison shrieked and jumped up to
high-five Scott with both hands. Scott pulled Stiles into a very tight hug,
with a lot of back-thumping. Jackson preened. Derek watched on fondly from the
side.
Parents, though they weren’t strictly allowed, began flooding the back hallway.
A small group of tall, dark-haired people began pulling Derek close to their
chest. Stiles saw Laura ruffle his hair.
“Friend of yours?” the Sheriff asked.
“Yeah,” Stiles said. “I guess you could say that. Derek Hale.”
“Live nearby?” the Sheriff asked.
“Yeah,” Stiles said. He whipped his phone out of his pocket and hovered near
the outside of the group. Eventually, Derek caught his eyes and walked over. “I
hate to pull you from your entourage.”
“I think they’ll manage,” Derek said. He looked at Stiles, grinning softly, and
then the wall, ceiling, anywhere.
“I thought I might just... grab some contact information, before you go,”
Stiles said, holding his phone out.
“Yeah,” Derek said. “I think that’s a good idea.”
“Who’s that?” Stiles heard one of the older women ask.
“Derek’s boyfriend,” Laura replied. Stiles blushed.
“Ignore them,” Derek said. “It won’t make them leave you alone, but it couldn’t
hurt to try.”
“Great,” Stiles said. “So now that they’ve latched onto me, I can expect to
never be let go?”
“Basically,” Derek said. “I think they’re already making plans to invite
themselves over next weekend. They’re going to steal all your pepsi and over-
use the barbecue.”
“Ha, ha,” Stiles said, and then turned to see his dad saying, “Sounds great!
I’m sure the boys’ll be happy...”
“I guess you’re stuck with me,” Derek chuckled, throwing an arm around Stiles’s
shoulder. Stiles smirked.
“I guess so.”
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