Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1031147.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Isaac_Lahey/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Stiles_Stilinski, Isaac_Lahey, Scott_McCall, Derek_Hale, Sheriff
      Stilinski, Danny_Mahealani
  Additional Tags:
      Slash, Oral_Sex, Nerdiness, Awkward_Conversations, Hurt/Comfort,
      Alternate_Universe_-_Canon_Divergence, First_Relationship
  Collections:
      TW_Rarepair_November, Stisaac_Week
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-11-04 Words: 14297
****** Just Awkward ******
by alasweneverdo
Summary
     or
     Relationships: How Do They Even Work?
Notes
     Beta'd by inheritedjeans, as usual, because no one else puts up with
     my shit.
     This ignores everything occurring after Boyd and Erica's decision to
     hightail it on out of Beacon Hills, including their capture. Because
     if I ever write a sequel to this, or anything else in this universe,
     that will be a relevant fact.
From what Stiles knows, the hardest thing about a relationship seems to be, you
know, actually getting into one. It has to be, since he hasn't managed it in
sixteen years. Unless you count Maggie Escher in third grade. God knows he
doesn't.
So it's kind of a big surprise when things with Isaac are as simple as,
"Hey, you want to, uh, go out sometime?"
"Yeah, sure."
And then one date turns into two dates turns into three, and there's kissing—so
much kissing, oh god—and they're, well, together. Or something. Which has
Stiles pretty convinced that he's gotten over the biggest hurdle and things
will only get easier from here.
Which, of course, is not even a little true.
Stiles only realizes later that he forgot to factor in a few things—like, say,
their friends, some of whom are tactless werewolves with no sense of
boundaries. And the ones who aren't werewolves are still blunt and opinionated
and meddlesome. Then there's Stiles himself, who's a force of nature when it
comes to screwing things up. So as far as he's concerned, there's basically no
reason to expect this relationship to go well at all, because there's only so
much awkwardness and strain a couple can weather.
There's this one instance sometime around the beginning of the relationship
where Stiles asks Scott if game night is still on for the three of them. Scott
visibly hesitates and it only takes a second for Stiles to figure out why.
"Is that gonna be weird? With me and Isaac? I mean, we could keep it between
you and me like always, but that's kinda—"
"No, it's cool," Scott says a bit too quickly. "I just thought you'd rather
hang out with him, I guess. Since he's your boyfriend."
There's a change in his tone when he says boyfriend. The word doesn't trip him
up, exactly, but it does sound alien and forced and not like anything known to
the English language. When Scott says boyfriend, it's less like speech and more
like the sound of someone vomiting into a sousaphone, for how weird and
unnatural it is. Stiles has never, in all his life, heard his best friend sound
so completely out of his depth. He feels a little uncomfortable on both of
their behalfs.
"It's not like I'm gonna just abandon our friendship, dude," says Stiles.
"C'mon. Bros before... other bros? No. How does that even work?"
"Dudes before nudes?" Scott suggests.
"Yeah, good enough. Seriously though, this isn't gonna be too weird for you, is
it? It's not like I'll make out with him on your couch or anything, but. Really
can't promise it won't be awkward. For, like, everyone."
"No, dude, it's totally fine."
It's less fine when they're all at Scott's house and Scott looks decidedly like
he regrets having agreed to be third wheel in his own home. But Stiles and
Isaac are pointedly not being hand-holdy or cuddly or gross; they aren't like
some couples who have an inordinate fondness for making other people
uncomfortable. They do make a joint effort of thoroughly kicking Scott's ass,
though. That's a step up from cuddling anyway.
Which isn't to say Stiles doesn't really like the cuddling, of course. Sure,
it's hard to find time for a good old-fashioned snuggle, especially when one of
them is hiding the relationship from his dad and the other lives with a pair of
grumpy werewolves. But that makes those rare moments all the more worthwhile,
when they're squished together on Stiles's too-small mattress and they've been
kissing for too long and they end up sort of just collapsing and lying there.
Sometimes Stiles uses Isaac as a pillow and slips into a brief sleep, and Isaac
shakes him carefully awake to let him know the Sheriff's home. Those are the
moments Stiles feels like he's been missing out on the most all this time.
He doesn't really know how or why he found this with Isaac, of all people, but
he's glad he did.
                                       —
Stiles knows there has to be a way to approach the matter at hand without being
awkward or arousing suspicion. He just doesn't know what that way is. Mostly
he's been hoping the problem will more or less solve itself.
Then, one night during dinner, he asks, "Hey, you think I could get a new bed?
Mine's been feeling kinda cramped."
"Puberty'll do that," says his dad.
"So... is that a yes?"
"Sure, we'll head down and check out mattresses on Saturday." He takes a bite
of spaghetti (with non-meat sausage, naturally) and Stiles very nearly pumps
his fist, but then: "If I get to meet her on Friday."
Alarms. Bells. Sirens. "Who? Meet who?"
The Sheriff fixes his son with an unimpressed look. "I'm not an idiot, Stiles.
I know a hickey when I see one. They haven't changed since I was a teenager."
Oh god. Oh fuck. Stiles doesn't know whether to be mortified about the hickeys
or just scared out of his mind because his dad wants to meet Isaac. Well, not
meet, since they've definitely met before under less pleasant circumstances—but
it's not like he knows Stiles is dating a guy who was once suspected of murder.
He will soon, though. Very soon. Possibly a minute from now. Fuck.
"So?" says the Sheriff. "You gonna tell me who it is you've been sneaking
around to see?"
"Yeah. Yes. Definitely. That is absolutely what I'm going to do."
Silence.
"Stiles?"
"Hold on, working up to it."
Rolling his eyes, the Sheriff picks up his empty plate and leaves the table.
Stiles isn't dumb enough to think this is the end of the conversation; he
anticipates a reprise of The Talk any moment now. Panicking, he pulls his phone
out of his pocket and sends off a text to Isaac.
The response:
        Isaac
        18:43
        fridays fine
At this point, Stiles is too busy having a crisis to be bothered by the lack of
apostrophe. He texts back,
        Me
        18:45
        He's probably going to kill you. I haven't even told him who I'm
dating.
"That your girlfriend?" asks his dad, appearing so suddenly that Stiles jumps
in his seat.
"Boyfriend," says Stiles. "I mean. Uh. No."
"Is that why you've been hiding it?" The frown of disappointment on the
Sheriff's face is so emphatic it's almost like a caricature.
The phone vibrates, but Stiles doesn't look at it. "Are you—no, Dad, I'm not
keeping him a secret because he's a guy, all right? It's—a little complicated."
"What, is it Scott?"
"Okay, I just ate and you're gonna make me throw up. We're talking projectile
vomit of Exorcist proportions."
The Sheriff holds his hands palm-out, placating. "Sorry, didn't mean to make a
perfectly reasonable assumption."
Stiles sighs. "It's Isaac."
If the Sheriff's eyebrows lifted any higher, they'd probably go into orbit.
"Lahey? From the lacrosse team?"
It's nice that he's making an effort not to mention the suspicion of murder.
Really, it is. Very considerate of him. Still, rather than gratitude or relief,
Stiles just feels this awful, sinking dread.
"Yep. That's him."
"Isaac Lahey is your boyfriend."
"Pretty sure."
Eight seconds of silence pass before the Sheriff says, "Well. All right."
Stiles blinks. "Yeah?"
His dad nods. "Dinner Friday. Six thirty. Tell him he'll show up early if he
knows what's good for him."
When Stiles is alone again, he checks his phone.
        Isaac
        18:46
        good thing h edoesnt know im a werewolf
Small miracles, Stiles thinks.
                                       —
On a late afternoon, two weeks after what Stiles insists on referring to as The
Awkwardest Night of His Life, John Stilinski trudges through his front door.
There are exactly two things he wants right now: food and sleep, in that order.
It's only when he sits down to eat his sandwich that he wonders where Stiles
is. The Jeep's out front, so he has to be home, the Sheriff reasons. Stiles
never goes anywhere without that piece of junk, even if he can get a ride from
someone else or just walk.
As if on cue, there's a thumping sound and laughter coming from upstairs. John
purses his lips; he just got done with a stressful twelve-hour shift and it's
possible that his judgment may be a little off, but it almost sounds like—
Another thump, then a whine: "I-saaaaaac."
Okay. Maybe it's exactly what it sounds like.
Tiredness has shortened his patience significantly. Dropping the sandwich onto
his plate, he hauls himself to his feet and marches to the staircase, wondering
if it isn't too late to go back down and fetch his gun first. That, however,
would take time—time that could otherwise go toward teaching a couple of boys
about respect and discretion.
When he opens the bedroom door, he gets as far as "Sti—" before he's shocked
into silence.
Sheets hang down from a series of hooks and cords on the ceiling, forming a
sizable tent on the floor. The shutters are closed, the lights all off, and
there's a faint glow coming from behind the sheet wall. It's somehow more
alarming than what John had been expecting.
The sheets part and Stiles appears, a rope of red licorice dangling from his
mouth. He stares at his dad. "What?"
"I think I should be the one asking that." Through the gap in the sheets, the
Sheriff catches a glimpse of a familiar mess of curls. "Hello, Isaac."
"Hi, Sheriff Stilinski," says Isaac.
"We made a fort," says Stiles, as if nothing about that is the least bit
unusual.
John nods slowly. "I can see that." He looks up at the hooks in the ceiling,
then back down to the cottony fortress. "Why did you make a fort?"
Stiles shrugs. "Coach cancelled practice. We didn't have anything better to
do."
"Uh-huh." John pauses for a beat, grip on the doorknob loosening. "Well, I'm
about to call it a day. You staying long, Isaac?"
"Leaving before curfew," says Isaac. "Sir."
"I'm leaving money on the table for pizza. Try to keep it down in here," the
Sheriff tells his son sternly.
"Yeah, yeah." Stiles rolls his eyes. "Don't worry, we're not gonna interrupt
your beauty sleep." He disappears behind the sheets again. Someone whispers.
Then, "And don't think I don't know about the ham!"
Once the door closes, Stiles settles back into the nest of blankets and
pillows, snatching the bag of Red Vines out of Isaac's hands. "We should've
picked up soda," he says, queueing up the movie on his laptop. "Licorice
straws."
"We can just order Coke with the pizza," says Isaac. He pushes Stiles over to
get a better position in front of the screen.
"Oh my god." Stiles looks at Isaac with awe. "Why didn't I date you sooner?"
Isaac's lips twitch. "No idea," he says. He hesitates. "You know he was
checking—"
"Yep," interrupts Stiles.
"Think he learned his lesson?"
Stiles snorts. "I think this weirded him out enough not to ever check in on us
again. I mean, walking in on us getting frisky would've been awkward, but dude,
wearing pajamas and sitting in a blanket fort? That's a level of disturbing he
probably didn't know existed."
"It is kinda weird," says Isaac.
"Anyway, if we get this started now we can order pizza afterward and have
enough time after for The Dark Knight. Which is still the inferior movie, by
the way," Stiles adds.
Isaac appears to mull this over. "Or we could make out for a while, get pizza,
then just skip straight to The Dark Knight."
"Batman Begins," Stiles says firmly. "Otherwise, deal."
"Only if I pick the pizza," says Isaac.
"You're gonna get something terrible, aren't you. Like—sausage and pineapple."
"Ehh. Well, actually, I was thinking bacon ranch, but now that you mention
it..."
"I hate you. You're the worst person on the planet."
"So... we're not making out?"
"Like hell we aren't."
There's something inherently weird about kissing and groping in a blanket fort.
Stiles feels a bit like his childhood is being violated, but he has no
intention whatsoever of stopping; he's developed something of an addiction to
Isaac's mouth and hands. And body. Sometimes when his hand slips under one of
Isaac's dumb sweaters, he feels the muscle there and isn't sure whether to be
more turned on or self-conscious. But is he going to complain about having a
hot boyfriend? No. Definitely not.
At one point, Isaac bites a sensitive part of Stiles's neck that has him
yelping and smacking Isaac on the side of the head. Isaac's laughter is muffled
against Stiles's collarbone. Muttering curses, Stiles shoves him to the side
and goes off to order the pizza.
                                       —
Even though the whole werewolf thing has been a part of Stiles's life for
around a year now, he still forgets things. The monthly occurrence of the full
moon is probably the biggest—and dumbest—lapse in his memory.
It's only when Isaac turns down a proposal to hang out that Stiles remembers.
It actually catches him off guard a little; it's not like they talk much about
how Isaac is occasionally a bloodthirsty fuzzball. It just doesn't come up.
Still, for him to outright forget about it is pretty sad. Stiles is convinced
he's kind of an awful boyfriend.
After a series of ill-advised decisions, and with a fair amount of bickering
along the way ("The whole night." "Yeah, I'm actually aware of how long the
moon stays up in the sky, surprisingly enough"), the two of them end up in
Derek's loft that night, sitting on the floor upstairs with their backs against
the wall. Not the best spot to try to make yourself comfortable, but Derek has
to be a dickwipe and take the only bed in the apartment. Stiles is going to
have a talk with some people about improving Isaac's living situation a bit,
because this is patently ridiculous. It's too bad the Hales are currently off
embracing their feral nature in the woods, or whatever. Otherwise they'd be
getting an earful.
Isaac is slumped, head on Stiles's shoulder and eyes closed. It would be a
precious moment if not for Isaac's tense demeanor. Stiles can hear him taking
deep, long breaths. Some nights, he knows, are still rough.
"Hey. Hangin' in there?" Stiles asks, squeezing Isaac's hand where it rests on
Stiles's thigh.
A nod.
"So do you need focus, or—I dunno, a distraction?"
"Distraction would be nice," Isaac mumbles. "Make it good."
"Well, I mean, if you're gonna bring expectations into it, maybe I shouldn't
even bother trying." Stiles sighs, then laughs softly. "Hey, so this girl was
talking about you the other day in English."
Isaac hums. "Yeah? What'd she say?"
"Something about how it's too bad you're all weird and unsociable, since
apparently you're kind of on the hot side. Which is news to me," adds Stiles.
"No one is more repulsed by me than you," says Isaac.
"Exactly." Stiles pauses thoughtfully. "She wasn't the only one, you know.
Other people've said all kinds of shit about wanting to mount you like
Seabiscuit. I'm paraphrasing here, but you get the idea."
"Huh," says Isaac. "That's pretty cool."
"Pretty cool?" Stiles echoes. "Are you kidding me right now?"
"I've kinda got this boyfriend. Not seeing a point in caring who else wants
me."
"Boyfriend appreciates your unwavering loyalty but still thinks you're an
idiot," says Stiles. Isaac laughs but says nothing.
The lull is just long enough for Stiles to take notice of things here and
there—like how the smell of the loft makes him think inexplicably of picking
blackberries and falling off his bike. Dusty summers, he thinks. Or how Isaac's
hands are getting dry, because werewolf healing apparently doesn't include
automatic moisturizer. Or how he thinks there might still be a mark on his
shoulder, the one Isaac's head is on right now, and god, it's just unfair that
werewolves can't bruise.
Then again, he doesn't think he wants to see Isaac bruise—or bleed, or break,
or hurt. He wants to hide Isaac away from the world sometimes because it's
horrific and cruel, especially to sad werewolves who haven't done anything to
deserve what happens to them.
"So why'd you say yes, anyway?" Stiles asks, more to redirect his attention
than anything.
"To what?"
"Me. When I, like, asked you out."
"Um. I guess—I'unno, it seemed like it was worth a shot. And I could tell you
weren't just fucking around." He laughs. "God, you were so nervous."
"Look, it's not every day a guy tries asking out his best friend's second-best
friend, all right? His distressingly hot second-best friend. Sue me."
"That hasn't stopped being weird," says Isaac. At Stiles's questioning grunt,
he says, "Hearing you say that about me. All the time. It still freaks me out,
kinda. But not in a bad way, I guess. Just takes getting used to."
"Yeah, I'm kinda still confused by how there's someone I'm attracted to that
actually wants to date me. Freaky. Then again, said attractive individual is
now trying to stop himself from going on a killing spree, so it's a tradeoff."
Isaac groans. "Shut up, I still suck at all this werewolf shit."
"You're not that bad," says Stiles. "You're keeping in control now, aren't you?
Must be a pretty good anchor or something. You know, Scott's is Allison. He's a
total sap."
An unasked question hangs in the air. Isaac huddles closer to Stiles's side,
clutching at him like a security blanket.
"My dad," he says.
"What about him?" asks Stiles.
"He's my anchor." Isaac says it defiantly, his tone daring Stiles to question
him. "I know it's fucked up. But he was all I had for a while, with my mom dead
and Camden deployed. We were all right."
"He hurt you, though," says Stiles. "In case you forgot. The way I see it—he
could've been Dad of the Year before that and it wouldn't've mattered. What he
did was shitty."
"I know," says Isaac.
A moment's pause. Then: "I hate him a little," Stiles says with more bite than
he'd intended. "The guy's dead and I never even met him, but I almost wish he'd
come back to life so I could bludgeon him with his own arm or something. I'd
say I'm sorry but—god, it just... pisses me off."
"It's fine, I get it. Sometimes I kinda hate him, too." His grip on Stiles's
hand tightens. He swallows loudly. "Stiles, I'm not a freak for still loving my
dad, am I?"
Stiles feels like he's been punched square in the chest. His breath leaves him
for a short second. He gently shrugs Isaac's head off his shoulder and sits up;
Isaac follows suit, back straightening as he looks at Stiles with wide,
helpless eyes. Like a frightened child.
Cupping the back of Isaac's neck, Stiles leans in and kisses him first on the
forehead, then on the mouth, and says, "No. You're a freak for wearing three
layers of clothing in September."
"Be serious."
"I am," says Stiles. "Look, I don't totally get what your deal is about your
dad, but I think I sort of understand. And even if it doesn't make a lot of
sense to me, I don't think you're a freak. I don't. A little too forgiving,
maybe, but not wrong, okay? Not a freak."
First Isaac smiles, then his expression falls into a grimace. He squeezes his
eyes shut and starts to growl, a quiet rumble at the back of his throat. After
a moment it passes, and he looks at Stiles sheepishly.
"Sorry," he says. "My emotions get weird. It's like my brain forgets the
difference between being happy and wanting to kill someone."
Stiles raises his eyebrows. "That's... kind of a big difference. Admittedly not
the first time someone's told me I make them wanna commit murder, though."
"You do have that effect on people," says Isaac.
He kisses Stiles, maybe a bit rougher than he normally does. But there's no
sign of fangs or yellow eyes all night, and even though neither of them gets
any sleep and they have a day of school to look forward to, the experience
surpasses Stiles's expectations. The scowl Derek gives him over coffee the next
morning says he's too chipper for someone who just spent a whole night camped
out with a volatile werewolf. Stiles chooses to take it as a compliment.
                                       —
They try not to spend too much time at Stiles's house, on the grounds that the
Sheriff is terrifying when he wants to be and Isaac is still scarred from the
"hurt my son and I'll cheerfully break your kneecaps" talk. They even lounge at
Derek's on occasion, mostly when he isn't there to get annoyed about it. They
aren't sure where he goes, exactly, but since he never comes back half-dead
they figure it probably isn't anything to be concerned about.
It says a lot that Stiles is willing to go all the way out to Derek's, since
the loft isn't even in town and Stiles has never been especially good friends
with the guy. Actually, he isn't really friends with him at all. But there
aren't any nosy parental figures at Derek's, and, most importantly, they have
access to a near endless supply of gross junk food that Cora probably forces
her brother to stock up on. Stiles is convinced that Cora's more like the rest
of them than she'll admit.
They're eating an inadvisable number of jellybeans and watching the stupidest
movie Netflix has to offer on Stiles's laptop—Mega Shark vs. Crocosaurus—when
Derek shows up. Normally this wouldn't matter, except that Isaac seems to have
forgotten to warn Stiles so they could have time to extricate themselves from
the mess they've gotten into. The result is that Derek has walked into his
apartment to find the two teenagers all tangled together like unruly headphone
cords, a far cry from the respectable gap they usually try to put between
themselves.
Isaac's head whips around before Stiles's does. They both stare with the
slightly widened eyes of people who haven't decided whether or not to panic.
Derek eyes them for only a moment, not saying a word, then walks right past
them and up the stairs. They almost relax, until he shouts down at them, "No
sex on the couch."
Stiles's immediate response, despite having yet to move from his position
halfway onto Isaac's lap, is to frown quizzically and ask, "Does he mean just
the couch? 'Cause that was a really specific demand. Pretty sure he just
implied any other surface is fair game."
"I don't think he wants us exploring loopholes," says Isaac. He watches the
stairs almost cautiously, like they pose an imminent threat.
"I don't think he wants us exploring any holes, dude," Stiles says with a
snort.
It's funny for the two seconds it takes for Stiles to remember that he's still
sitting on his boyfriend, the same boyfriend he hasn't actually had sex with or
seen naked. Now that this realization has struck him, he feels so awkward it
actually kind of itches. The discomfort is so intense that it's manifested into
an army of invisible spiders that are snickering at him as they crawl under his
shirt and all over his skin.
Maybe if he focuses on how creepy that mental image is, he can make himself
feel less weird about this entire situation.
...
Nope, not helping.
It's probably a good thing that Stiles doesn't have crazy werewolf superpowers
to tell him whether Isaac's feeling as awkward as he is. That's what he tells
himself, anyway. A little bit of denial can work wonders.
Cora eventually trudges down the staircase while Stiles and Isaac are sitting
in tense silence (well, save for the cheesy explosions and comically awful
dialogue), trying desperately not to think about sex. She folds her arms in
front of her chest, eyebrow raised at the laptop.
"Could you at least pick a better movie to pretend to watch?"
"Don't diss Mega Shark," Stiles replies without sparing her a glance.
She huffs. "Look, I don't care what you do—just stop sitting here and being
awkward. I can't hear myself think."
"Awkward?" Stiles echoes. "Nothing awkward here. Everything's totally okay. A
hundred percent normal. Right, Isaac?"
Isaac nods. "Definitely not awkward. We're just—minding our own business. And
not having any sex. At all. Ever. Especially not on your brother's couch."
Cora's brow furrows into a look of simultaneous concern and distaste. "O-kay,
could you go not have sex somewhere else, then?"
Snapping the laptop shut and tucking it under one arm, Stiles springs to his
feet and says, "All right, fine! We don't need Derek's couch anyway!" With his
free hand he grabs hold of Isaac and drags him off in a hurry.
When they get to the Jeep, Isaac glances over from the passenger seat to where
Stiles is fidgeting more than usual. "You know, we could also... not do that,"
he says.
"What?" asks Stiles. He adjusts his mirrors unnecessarily.
"Not have sex."
First, Stiles only chances a sideways look, then finally turns to meet Isaac's
gaze. He bites the inside of his cheek.
"Like, not not have sex?" Stiles's voice nearly goes up an entire octave. Sad.
"If you want," says Isaac, trying to sound casual.
"Yeah. Okay, yeah."
"Yeah?"
"Definitely. Let's, um. My house. Okay. I know how to get to my house," Stiles
says, not sounding entirely convinced of this fact.
"Wait," says Isaac.
Stiles waits. Somehow.
"Do we need to uh... pick anything up first?"
All the gears in Stiles's head grind to a halt, and suddenly he's drawing a
complete blank at what's even necessary for anal sex. He gapes at Isaac for a
long moment, feeling heat creep up to his face as he tries and fails to
remember all these very basic facts.
"Do we?" he asks, voice cracking.
"Do you have condoms? Lube?" At the word lube Isaac's own face starts to color.
Because sex in theory is one thing, but acknowledging that you need certain
items before anyone can insert their dick into someone else's—yeah, that's
another matter entirely. One that makes Isaac even more uncomfortable than he's
letting on.
Stiles, meanwhile, is coming up empty. Does he have condoms? He can't remember.
Condom doesn't even sound like a real word anymore. Oh god, what even are
condoms. What is sex. What is he doing.
They make it to a nearby drugstore, where Stiles persuades Isaac to go in and
get the necessities, because Stiles is the Sheriff's underage kid and he can't
be seen buying condoms. Isaac narrows his eyes at this, prepared to disagree,
but then out comes the irrefutable argument that if he doesn't do this there
will be no sex whatsoever, and that's compelling enough for him not to bother
pressing it further.
He comes back ten minutes later, looking traumatized as he shuts the car door
behind him. Stiles takes the bag out of Isaac's hands and looks inside.
"What's with the Sour Patch Kids?" he asks.
"I freaked out."
"So you bought sour candy with your condoms and lube. Because that's not weird
at all."
"I also got three different kinds of condoms because I wasn't sure which ones I
was supposed to buy," Isaac confesses.
"Candy, three boxes of condoms, and lube. Isaac. Dude."
"Fine, you can do it next time!"
"Which won't be until after we've used all these condoms."
"Whatever. Shut up."
                                       —
As if obtaining the necessary supplies hadn't been awkward and terrifying
enough.
They refuse to make eye contact. Eventually, Stiles says, "I don't think that's
supposed to happen."
"Um," says Isaac.
"The internet made it sound a lot less..." Stiles cringes. "Painful."
"Sorry." It's the dozenth time Isaac's apologized in the past three minutes.
He's the epitome of broken records.
"Maybe we rushed into it," says Stiles.
"We probably should've done it the other way." Isaac stares at the bed
guiltily. "I mean, I can heal faster, so until we know what we're doing,
maybe—"
"No. No way. You might be comfortable putting your dick in there, but I'm
totally not. No offense," he adds. Then, red-faced and fixing his gaze on his
desk chair: "And, y'know, I'd just rather do it this way. With me on—yeah. If
that's... cool with you and everything."
"Yeah, sure." Isaac fidgets and finally looks over to Stiles. "I think I'm
gonna go now. I'll see you tomorrow?"
Stiles nods. He's relieved that Isaac is going, honestly; the discomfort levels
were getting ridiculously high. There are only so many awkward silences a
person can stand when they're trying to ignore the vaguely unpleasant
sensations going on around their anus.
Once Isaac's clothed and gone (declining the offer of a ride in favor of taking
a thirty-minute walk), Stiles scrambles for his phone and texts the one person
he thinks will be able to help him out.
        Me
        19:14
        Need a favor ASAP
Thankfully, the reply takes only two minutes.
        Danny
        19:16
        What is it?
        Me
        19:19
        I need you to teach me all you can about buttsex.
He gets a call moments later.
"That is the weirdest text you've ever sent me."
"Hey, Danny," says Stiles.
"Context?" asks Danny. "Or do you have this sudden, burning desire to learn
about the many wonders of anal penetration? Wait, this isn't a come-on, is it?"
"I tried having sex with my boyfriend and everything went horribly,
devastatingly wrong," says Stiles. "You can laugh all you want about that
later, but for now, I am in serious, desperate need of your help."
"Wait, wait, wait." There's a pause. "Since when do you have a boyfriend?"
"Since—a few months ago? August. I kinda thought people knew."
"It's not Scott, is it?"
Stiles feels an immediate wave of nausea. Why does everyone always think it's
Scott? "Jesus, no."
"Good, 'cause he's seriously one of the straightest guys I've ever met and
you'd just be setting yourself up for heartbreak." Sounds almost like he's
talking from personal experience, Stiles thinks. "So who is it?"
"Isaac Lahey. So are you gonna—"
"Isaac?" Danny's disbelieving outburst is so uncharacteristic that Stiles snaps
his mouth shut. "Wow. Gotta say, I wouldn't have guessed."
Letting out a patient sigh, Stiles says, "Yeah, Isaac swings both ways, and
it's a tragedy to everyone else in the known world that he's stuck with me.
Look, can you help me out or not?"
"Yeah, but only because I hate the thought of anyone doing anal wrong."
Stiles snorts.
"So what happened?"
"Everything was terrible," Stiles says miserably.
"...Okay, maybe we should try a different approach," says Danny. "Who was on
top?"
"Uh. Does it matter?"
"Not really, honestly, but now you've got me curious, Stilinski."
"I don't ask you about your sex life." A beat. "Anymore."
Danny sighs. "Already starting to rethink this."
                                       —
It almost goes without saying that everything's better the second time around.
Still, Isaac is kind of concerned about the state of Stiles's ass, since Stiles
insists it's fine but his wince says otherwise. This time, though, there's no
terrifying smell of blood to kill the mood.
"You're sure you're okay?"
Stiles groans, sinking face-first into the pillows and sheets. They're all
going to need to be washed. He's trying not to focus on that part just now.
"Are you really just fishing for a compliment? My ass feels awesome. Good job.
Go team." He raises his hand to give a thumbs-up, then lets it drop back down
with a thud.
When Isaac sighs, his breath hits Stiles's shoulder. It tickles a little. He
grabs at Stiles's opposite hip and tries to roll him over. With a quiet laugh,
Stiles moves onto his side to let Isaac pull him backward. He feels sweaty and
gross skin pressed against his back. There are worse feelings, he thinks.
"You're warm and sticky," he mumbles.
"So're you," Isaac says into Stiles's hair. He breathes in deeply. "You smell
nice."
"...is what made my boyfriend sound most like a serial killer," says Stiles.
"'Kay, what do I smell like?"
The silence makes him think for a minute that Isaac may have fallen asleep. It
would figure that this would be the only time Stiles has caught his boyfriend
snoozing in the daylight hours. But then Isaac says, "Same as you always do,
but better."
Stiles closes his eyes and smiles. "That's frustratingly cryptic. Deaton would
be proud."
"Please don't talk about Scott's boss when we're naked."
Fair. Actually, Stiles doesn't want to talk about anything right now, really.
He's fine with a complete lack of talking. He yawns, jaw popping; a feeling of
contented drowsiness hits him like a brick and he sees no reason to resist the
urge to slip into a nice, peaceful, excessively long nap.
Isaac says something after a while. Stiles thinks he responds, but he's too far
gone to be sure. He hopes Isaac caught the sentiment anyway.
                                       —
Isaac is kind of bad at nap time. He can manage the cuddling and the sprawling,
and he's developed a real knack for the unproductive lazing, but the sleeping?
He sucks at that part. Too much energy. Instead of making even the barest of
attempts at chasing unconsciousness, he just lies there and thinks—usually
about Stiles, who's also kind of bad at sleeping sometimes. And right now, for
whatever reason, he's thinking about Stiles's skin.
The thing about Stiles's skin—on his waist especially, exposed when his shirt
rides up because of the insistent friction of the sheets underneath him—is that
it's soft. Ridiculously so, to the point where Isaac almost feels guilty for
touching it.
Almost.
There are parts, though, that are flawed: a birthmark on the shoulder blade, a
bruise on the knee. An unfortunate (albeit minor) outbreak of bacne. But it
takes Isaac by surprise when he comes upon a scar, small and white, just above
the elbow. He inspects it with a curiosity that refuses to be suppressed,
staring at it so intensely as to engrain its image into his memory. There was a
time when he was only passively interested in things like this, but he can't
remember anymore when or why that was.
Resigned to his inability to leave the subject alone, he taps his thumb against
the scar and asks, "What's this from?"
"Nnh?" Stiles opens his eyes and lifts his head. Half his face is covered in
wrinkle marks from his sheets. He holds up his arm, turning it at all kinds of
angles to see what Isaac's talking about. "Oh, ha. Marcus Finch, sixth grade.
Good times. You know, he used to call me a faggot. Like, every fucking day."
Stiles snickers. "If he only knew."
"You were bullied?"
Stiles's eyebrows pull upward incredulously. "Uh, yeah. Have you seen me?"
"You're the Sheriff's kid," says Isaac. "Why would anyone pick a fight with
you?"
"He wasn't always the Sheriff."
"Still a cop."
Stiles huffs, moving up to a sitting position. "I was an easy target because I
was Deputy Stilinski's son," he says. "They knew that I knew that if I told my
dad, everyone would hate me. Not that keeping quiet got me all that many
friends, right? So—y'know." The pause is short but heavy, then he says, "What
about you?"
"Like did anyone ever beat the shit outta me?"
Isaac hears Stiles's heart stutter for a split second, then start to thud
wildly. "I'm the worst person on the entire planet," says Stiles.
Isaac deliberately refrains from rolling his eyes. "It's not that big a deal,"
he says. "You're more sensitive about it than I am. I didn't get picked on or
anything, though. They probably would've had to notice I existed."
When Stiles turns and all but collapses onto Isaac, Isaac lets him, even though
Stiles has all these bony parts and annoying angles that aren't all that
pleasant to be jabbed by. It's not like Isaac minds all that much, getting
ambushed with affection, and he doesn't exactly bruise.
"You were pretty good at staying invisible," Stiles mumbles, limbs curling
around Isaac with all the noodliness of an octopus. "You know, up until you got
accused of murder, then came back to school and pulled an Olivia Newton John
with your leather and hair products."
"Does that make you John Travolta?"
"Only if you were trying to seduce me. Which wouldn't've worked, just so we're
clear," Stiles adds. "I wasn't about to sleep with the enemy. Plus, come on,
you were a dick."
There's no arguing with that, except maybe to point out that there is no past
tense to Isaac being a dick, and he doesn't see the use in bringing that up.
Then, apropos of nothing, Stiles says, "I don't even really like sports, you
know that?"
"Not sure if you noticed, but you're on the lacrosse team," says Isaac.
"Them's the breaks."
It's obvious Stiles has something on his mind. Isaac nudges him with his leg.
"So what're you doing playing a sport, dumbass?"
Wordlessly, Stiles reaches up and flicks Isaac's ear. Isaac grabs the offending
hand, refusing to let go as Stiles tries to pull away, and it quickly turns
into a wrestling match that Isaac does his best not to win immediately. It ends
with their positions reversed: Isaac pinning Stiles down but keeping most of
his weight off of him, doing what he thinks is an excellent job of not gloating
over the easy victory. One of his hands is halfway up Stiles's shirt, his face
pressed against Stiles's neck. Their legs knock together awkwardly, since
Stiles never seems to know what to do with his, now or ever. Isaac doesn't
care. He's preoccupied with the sensation of fingers threading into his hair,
brushing his scalp. He sighs and feels the rhythmic pulse beneath him stutter.
"It started with soccer," says Stiles. His voice is soft in a nostalgic kind of
way. He keeps petting Isaac absently. "I was so friggin' clumsy that Dad just
didn't ask about the bruises. The black eye made him a little worried, I guess,
but I fed him some bullshit story about accidentally running into the goal or
something. He must've bought it. Otherwise I don't think he would've let it
go."
"How old were you?" asks Isaac.
"Mm. Twelve? Yeah, I think twelve. Anyway, when we got to high school I guess
lacrosse seemed like the best option. But the assholes weren't really giving me
trouble anymore, and I was on the bench anyway. But Scott was there for the
long haul and I didn't have anything better to do, so... here I am."
There's a fine line, Isaac knows, between commiserating and making it a contest
of who's more worthy of sympathy. What he doesn't want—what he's never
wanted—is for Stiles to pity him or to think he doesn't understand. Isaac does
understand. To a painful degree.
"My brother died right before I turned fourteen," he says, "but nothing
happened till that summer. I joined the team when school started." He laughs.
"More of my injuries were from practice than from my dad."
"I kinda hate you for making first line even before your stupid werewolf
powers," says Stiles. "You were a useless nerd like me. What gives, man?"
"Coordination helps."
"Asshole."
Isaac's smirk turns downward into a thoughtful frown. "Stiles, I'm gonna tell
you something I've gone out of my way not to bring up in front of anyone else
on the planet, all right?"
"Okay."
"So don't be a dick about it."
"Yeah, fine. Gotcha."
"When I met Derek and he told me about the bite, the first thing I thought was
that it sounded like Spider-Man. And that's mostly why I said yes. I wanted to
be a superhero." To be special, he doesn't say.
Stiles chuckles. "I like you." Then, "I'm more of a Batman kinda guy, though."
"Yeah," says Isaac. "You really are."
                                       —
There's nothing in particular that brings this to Stiles's mind; he's reviewing
for a math test, pencil between his teeth as he plugs an equation into his
calculator, and the realization just hits him. The pencil falls straight out of
his mouth.
He and Isaac have been dating for seven months, and neither of them has said I
love you.
Stiles can't think of a single good reason why they haven't. He feels like it
probably just hasn't come up. That still doesn't explain why he didn't say it
back when he realized he was, y'know, in love with Isaac, and at this point the
declaration is long overdue.
Now that it's occurred to him, he isn't sure what to do about it. He's already
overthinking it as much as humanly possible, planning and speculating and
catastrophizing, which means everything is probably going to end in complete
fucking disaster and ruin the whole relationship. And that's a bummer, since
they're done a pretty good job so far of not ruining the relationship, in spite
of every goddamn obstacle they've encountered.
There's also the troubling fact that he isn't sure whether it's normal to go
this long without saying... that. He doesn't know if it's healthy to continue
not saying it, because his only basis for comparison is Scott "Love at First
Sight" McCall, and that puts an equal yet opposite worry in his head, that it
might be too soon. He has no idea how Isaac feels about all of this, and what
if Isaac hasn't said it either because he just isn't there even though Stiles
really, definitely is?
So Stiles decides to man up and take the only logical course of action.
He talks to his dad.
"Hey, uh, can I ask you something?"
John glances away from the screen for only a second. "Can it wait till the
game's over?" he asks.
"Probably? I guess?"
Without another word, John mutes the TV and turns to look at Stiles. "All
right, lay it on me."
Careful not to hesitate and risk losing his momentum, Stiles asks, "Did you and
Mom say you loved each other a lot, or not so often?"
A year ago, Stiles would've been more reluctant to bring up his mom. But more
and more, he and his dad have been allowing themselves to talk about her, and
it isn't such a sore subject anymore. Still, he wonders if this crosses a line,
if it's too much to think about and remember.
John lets out a gust of air, drumming his fingers on the arm of the sofa. "She
didn't say it much. Didn't really have to."
"But you did? Or, I mean, you felt like you did?"
The smile's a little forced, a little weak, but it's there. "I wanted to."
Something sort of clicks with Stiles then. It's not something that's just
occurring to him, either, but something he more or less knew already: that all
he cares about is that Isaac knows, whether or not Stiles has to say it.
The same kind of realization dawns on Isaac, except his takes place roughly a
week before that. Or maybe a week after. It's hard to pinpoint, since Isaac's
is gradual and doesn't just spontaneously assault him while he's doing
homework—after all, that would require doing his homework. There's a sense of
knowing that just creeps up on him, slowly and subtly, and at one point or
another he's actively aware that 1) he loves Stiles and 2) he's done nothing to
make that fact known.
Worse, he doesn't know if he wants to.
Despite his lingering insecurities, Isaac knows, at the very least, that Stiles
is attracted to him. He isn't an idiot. And if that's the stage their
relationship is destined to stay at, Isaac thinks things could definitely be
worse. Blowjobs are by and large not the cruelest fate he could suffer.
There's also a part of him, though, that thinks it would be nice to be able to
say he... feels that way. He just doesn't know if he can, and it isn't solely
because of the possibility that it could scare Stiles away. Loving Stiles
actively scares the shit out of him. The people Isaac cares about have this
habit of dying or abandoning him, and Stiles? Stiles is just as fragile as the
rest of them. Just as human. He can't heal like the wolves can, isn't as
capable of defending himself as the hunters. And worse still, he's smart enough
that he might realize one day that the whole little world around Isaac is
unstable, unpleasant, undesirable. And then—
And then he'll leave.
So in retrospect, Isaac thinks it was probably a horrible idea to get involved
with Stiles to begin with. It can really only lead to a miserable breakup or
tragic death.
Isaac isn't normally this much of a downer. He thinks Stiles must bring out the
worst in him like that.
What this all leads to is their awkwardest date night since before they started
having sex. Both of them are filled with dread for similar—yet inherently
separate—reasons, and even though they're lying on Stiles's bed and watching a
movie just like they always do, everything is really weird and strained and
uncomfortable.
During one of the less action-filled scenes, Isaac, jittery beyond
comprehension, jumps up to get more popcorn. He tells Stiles not to pause it.
"Okay. I love you."
Stiles definitely meant to say thanks, and in context that really would've made
a lot more sense. Isaac stands frozen in the doorway. Stiles takes a moment to
regret everything he has ever done in his life.
"Um." Isaac lets out the breath he'd been holding. "I'll be right back."
Despite Isaac's previous request, Stiles pauses the movie. It's not like he can
focus on it anyway. He's too busy rambling in a broken monotone about how
ridiculously fucking stupid he is and he should've figured that not everyone
can even fall in love when they're a teenager and not all monogamous
relationships necessarily lead to love anyway so he has definitely misread some
signs because holy fuck—
"Shut up, Stiles."
He fixes Isaac with wide eyes. "Dude, I am so sorry," he says. "Like, we could
just rewind and pretend I didn't say that. That's totally cool."
"Seriously, shut up. Let me have my turn."
Stiles shuts up.
First, Isaac shoves the bowl of fresh popcorn at him. "I needed time to think,"
he says. "I wasn't expecting you to say it—like, especially in the middle of
fucking MirrorMask."
"Yeah, that was not at all planned. Bad timing. I take full responsibility."
Isaac rolls his eyes. "So I heard you talking to yourself after I left, and you
made just—a lot of dumbfuck assumptions, you know that? You didn't misread
anything. Earlier, I mean. But I guess I'm not—" He scratches the back of his
neck, searching for the right explanation.
"Looking for that kind of thing right now?" Stiles fills in. He's the absolute
picture of dejection.
"Ready," says Isaac. "I'm—it's just hard."
"Yeah, no, I get it," says Stiles. "First time staring commitment in the face.
Intimidating as all hell. It's fine, we don't have to—"
"Stiles—"
"—be on the same page all the time about everything. You've gotta do things at
your own speed, y'know, and not worry about—"
"Are you almost—"
"—whether I'm at the same place as you. Or something." Stiles pauses. "That's
how it works, right? I don't know what I'm saying. I feel like I just puked out
a marriage counseling book."
"It's not about the commitment," says Isaac. "That's fine. I'm not freaking out
about that. It's just the other part."
"The oth—? What, saying 'I love you'?"
Isaac nods. "I haven't told anyone that in—Jesus, I don't even know how long.
Years. It's not exactly easy."
The truth is that he said it just last week, when he was at Scott's and Mrs.
McCall had baked a chocolate cake on a whim, but that totally isn't the same
thing, so he's opting to ignore it.
It was a really awesome cake, though.
Stiles's shoulders relax. "So you don't wanna break up?"
"What, do you?" Isaac asks with a frown.
"No, no! I just don't wanna make you uncomfortable or whatever."
"It's fine. You're okay with me not saying it?"
"Yeah, I mean—as long as you don't mind that I do, uh, say it."
"I don't mind," Isaac says, perhaps a bit too quickly. Because selfishly, he
kind of likes hearing it from Stiles.
"Yeah?" Stiles grins. "Okay, sit the fuck down so we can finish the movie."
Isaac does. They devour the popcorn like starved animals, and by the time the
movie's over and Stiles is done moaning and groaning about how disappointing
the ending was, Isaac's managed to forget about the conversation from just half
an hour ago.
Of course, that's when Stiles bumps against his shoulder and says, "Hey."
"What?"
"I love you. Asshole."
Straight-faced as he can manage, Isaac replies, "I know."
"Oh my god. Was that a Han Solo thing? Did I win a boyfriend lottery or
something?"
Isaac lets out a huff of laughter. "Congratulations, your prize is a fucked-up
werewolf."
"The only fucked-up thing about you is that you don't like pumpkin pie, okay.
I've seen you and Scott eat fucking dog food on a dare and say it wasn't that
bad, but one look at pumpkin pie and you're ready to puke. That's a deal-
breaker right there."
"I told you, it's the texture!"
"Whatever. You're lucky you're pretty."
                                       —
If the jokes were infrequent, Isaac could probably deal with them. But by the
eighth "doggy style" crack, his eyes are ready to roll right out of their
sockets. When the awfulness of Stiles's puns finally makes Isaac keel over and
die, he hopes he'll be able to come back and haunt Stiles for the rest of
forever.
"God, you're the worst," Isaac groans into the pillow. "I can't keep it up if
you don't stop the jokes."
"But the knotting one was too good to pass up!" says Stiles. He almost sounds
apologetic, but not really.
"No more sex ever," says Isaac. "We're done. I want a divorce."
Stiles snorts. "And make my dad give back all the cows you paid in exchange for
my maidenhood? No dice, pal."
Attempts at fooling around abandoned, they lie on Stiles's bed in states of
partial undress. Isaac thinks about maybe playing video games or raiding the
fridge; he thinks he remembers seeing a container of mango salsa, but that
could've easily been a product of his imagination.
One of Stiles's hands—wonderful, inquisitive hands, fingers long and palms soft
and nails bitten painfully short—finds its way to Isaac's scalp. Whatever train
of thought Isaac had been on is immediately derailed as he hums in approval and
contentment.
Without pausing the impromptu head massage, Stiles says, "Okay, joking aside,
I've been asking Derek a couple of questions about werewolves."
"Why?"
"Eh, curiosity, I guess. Wanted to know what kind of stuff was exclusive to you
and what was just a freaky werewolf thing." Stiles snickers. "He wasn't happy
about it, but he said he'd answer anything as long as it didn't tell him more
than he needed to know."
Isaac turns his head to the side, displacing Stiles's hand. "So?" he asks.
"So," says Stiles, "all that touchy-feely stuff you do is a wolf thing. The
constant proximity, lying on top of me in weird positions, cuddling
overdoses..."
Isaac frowns. "Do we cuddle more than most people?"
"Most people? Yeah. The couple formerly known as Allison and Scott? Nope."
Stiles's hand rests in the space between them now, fingers spread out on the
mattress. "You probably figured this one out on your own, but the biting? Also
werewolf-related. Guess I'm not alone in looking like a dalmatian."
"I never hear you complain when I'm doing it," says Isaac, grinning.
"Shut up." Stiles's face screws up in thought. "Actually, there was one thing
he wouldn't tell me."
"What a surprise," Isaac drawls.
"I asked him if it's normal for a werewolf to go around smelling people all the
time. I mean, not that I mind or anything," Stiles adds quickly. "But you're
always doing that thing where you've got your nose up against my neck and you
just... sniff me a lot."
"And he didn't say anything?" asks Isaac.
"He got this ridiculously uncomfortable look on his face and said I should ask
you about that. So here's me asking."
A pause.
Stiles huffs. "Come on, it's not like it's some—" He makes a face. "Creepy
scent-marking thing, or whatever."
Isaac tries not to blush.
Stiles gapes.
"It is a creepy scent-marking thing," he says.
Flushing deeper, Isaac says, "Remember that, uh, first time we had sex and you
asked me what I thought you smelled like?"
"You just said I smelled the same," says Stiles. "Which apparently you're into.
And, hey, not the most conventional of compliments, but I'll take it."
"The same but better," Isaac corrects. "You—okay, this really is the fucking
creepiest thing I've ever said, so just—" He tries to look away from Stiles,
but it's a difficult task to accomplish when the guy's lying right in front of
him and blocking his view of everything else. "Like me, all right? You smelled
like you usually did, but... like me."
Stiles blinks a few times, eyes wide and curious. "Does that happen every time
we fuck?" he asks.
"Yeah."
"But... you can only smell it in close quarters. Right?"
Isaac turns his gaze upward, as if in silent prayer. He kind of wishes this
conversation didn't have to happen. Like, ever. "I don't just go around shoving
my face up against your neck to smell you, Stiles," he says. "I could do that
sitting next to you. I do it because—I don't know, it's relaxing or something."
He shrugs, a bit hopelessly.
"So what you're saying is..."
"If you're asking if everyone else can smell it, then yeah," Isaac says to the
ceiling. "They can tell if we've had sex in the past day." He spares a glance
toward a blushing Stiles and adds, "You can freak out now, if you want."
"I'm not gonna freak out," Stiles protests. "Just because some werewolves have
a weirdly intimate knowledge of my sex life at all times, that's—I mean, it's
not like they know who tops, right?"
The slightly miserable sigh Isaac lets out has Stiles staring in horror.
"Are you shitting me right now? They know I take it up the ass?"
"They don't know," says Isaac. "But they can probably... assume. With a pretty
low margin of error."
"Not gonna ask. Nope. Completely, absolutely not gonna ask." A pause. "You're
right. We can't have sex ever again."
"Regretting the dog jokes?"
Stiles groans. "And how."
Isaac crawls over onto Stiles, who's face-down and moping, and lets gravity
take care of the rest, pinning Stiles down with the weight of his body and
nothing else. Stiles squirms and makes half-hearted whines of protest,
muttering about how this is what he meant about stupid werewolf lounging
habits.
After Stiles resigns himself to his fate as a body pillow, he starts talking
about all the other things he found out from Derek: how all werewolves are
weirdos who don't take naps, and the scratching and petting of the head are
just things everyone likes—which Stiles should've known because he's read about
erogenous zones before (it was that or TV Tropes, and he's not making
thatmistake at 1 AM again) and the scalp is a big one. Luckily, he likes
Isaac's dumb hair anyway, so they both reap the benefits when he pets him.
"The wrestling's anyone's guess, though," says Stiles. "That's a thing wolves
and guys d—ahhhhh okay yes that is my tender flesh that you have already bitten
the hell out of very recently. Fucking—Jesus Christ, Isaac, would a little less
enthusiasm kill you?"
With a laugh, Isaac moves his mouth higher up Stiles's neck and bites down
there instead. Stiles reaches back at an impossibly awkward angle to push
Isaac's face away, nearly poking him in the eye in the process.
"Not where my dad can see them," Stiles reminds him peevishly.
"It's not like he doesn't know we're having sex," says Isaac.
"That's not the point, dude."
And Isaac completely understands this and doesn't mind in the slightest, but he
makes a fuss anyway, sighing and complaining and being difficult. Still, he
doesn't do it again; his attention is diverted toward shifting his weight more
onto his knees and lifting Stiles's hips up along with his own. There's enough
space now between Stiles's groin and the mattress for Isaac to reach a hand
down into the front of those still-unzipped jeans.
"Maybe we shouldn't rush into—y'know, the whole 'no sex' thing," says Isaac.
"Pretty big decision," Stiles agrees. "Definitely worth thinking over first."
He hums and pushes back into Isaac, wiggling his hips to indicate a desire to
have his pants removed.
Isaac doesn't pay him any mind, as usual. He ignores the huff of impatience and
kneads Stiles's hardening cock through his boxers. (He's been telling Stiles
for ages that it would do him a lot of favors if he wore something more form-
fitting, but Stiles doesn't seem to care about how his ass looks when he isn't
naked. And that's fair enough, though Stiles's ass is always a subject of
interest for Isaac, clothed or not.)
The sounds in the room are all rustling fabric and Stiles's breath and
heartbeat. Isaac is mouthing and biting at one of those forbidden spots, close
to the point by the jaw where the pulse is thudding wildly, but Stiles is
making low and breathy sounds and not voicing a single syllable of protest. A
thought floats into Isaac's head: Will it always be this easy? He hopes it
will. He hopes things stay as simple and natural as them getting off sloppily
in bed and sabotaging each other in Call of Duty and stealing all the mini
doughnuts from Derek's cupboards just because they know he likes them.
Isaac could tell Stiles right now that he loves him and it wouldn't be entirely
out of place. Instead, though—instead he gets him to turn over onto his back,
then helps him out of his jeans and tugs down those horrifically unflattering
boxer shorts.
The two of them have different approaches to giving head. When Stiles goes down
on Isaac, it's an elaborate affair that lasts for a frustratingly long stretch
of time as Stiles satisfies his oral fixation. He gets ambitious about it
sometimes, trying too hard to make it everything at once.
Isaac, however, has a completely different approach. Now, as he situates
himself between Stiles's legs, there is no gradual build-up, no teasing or
shyness; it's a straight shot from zero to sixty, the head of Stiles's cock
disappearing into Isaac's mouth while Isaac takes hold of the shaft. He licks a
few times, then takes in more of Stiles's length—not all of it, since this
isn't a porno and Isaac is fond of being able to breathe. Isaac pulls off, not
quite all the way, before sucking back down and repeating.
"Fuck fuck fuck," Stiles says under his breath, voice slightly muffled. Isaac
glances up for just a second to see he's biting down on his clenched fist.
Stiles always seems to be overwhelmed by the simple process of getting a
blowjob. Maybe Isaac doesn't do it often enough for him to get used to it.
That's something they should really work on, because this? It's pretty awesome.
Isaac genuinely likes giving head; he just doesn't see a need to draw it out
like Stiles always does. Especially since the ending is Isaac's favorite part—a
sentiment his boyfriend doesn't quite seem to share.
One of Isaac's hands moves in small jerks near the base of the dick and the
other rests on Stiles's inner thigh. If he were feeling even a bit more
patient, Isaac would pay more attention to other parts of the anatomy, but all
his focus and energy goes toward bobbing his head and swirling his tongue. And
he knows Stiles almost definitely doesn't care either way.
Isaac pauses and lets more of his spit dribble downward, wetting the shaft,
then slides back till it's just the head in his mouth again. He starts to jerk
Stiles off relentlessly, like it's a competition he's determined to win. That's
when Stiles reaches down to weave his fingers into Isaac's curls and take hold,
probably more tightly than he means to. Isaac responds by lapping at the tip of
his cock, then sucking on it.
Stiles's incoherent mumbling turns silent. His breath quickens, and by the time
he tenses up, Isaac is already more than prepared. When he finally emerges,
victorious, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and sighs, looking up.
"Scott's gonna be here in an hour and he'll be able to smell your jizz on my
breath," he says as Stiles's hand relinquishes its grip. "Happy?"
"That's gross and also wonderful," Stiles mumbles. "Hey, if you wanna wait like
fifteen minutes, we could maybe—"
"Nah."
"You sure?" Stiles sits halfway up, leaning back on his elbows. "Okay, how
about a good old-fashioned handjob?"
Isaac rolls his eyes. "You don't have to do anything," he says. "I can take
care of it myself."
"Fine, all right." Stiles chews on his lip. "Can I watch?"
Watching turns into helping, and even though they clean up after themselves to
the best of their ability they still get an earful from Scott when he arrives.
They're not even remotely sorry.
                                       —
This is ridiculous, even for California summertime. Isaac's never been a bigger
believer in global warming than he is right now, standing in front of the open
fridge and feeling only slightly less like bacon frying in a pan. The cool air
makes him hyper-aware of the sweat-soaked parts of his shirt; he isn't sure why
he's still wearing it, except that he thinks he had a good reason at some
point. Probably.
The bright side of things is that Scott's house has better circulation than the
loft. Not for the first time, Isaac feels guilty for being a burden on the
McCalls, but not guilty enough to go back to Derek's godforsaken floor.
By the time he gets back to the guest room, he's decided that whatever reason
he had for staying clothed must've been stupid anyway, which is why he's lying
half-naked on the carpet when Stiles walks in.
"Y'know, the point of having a phone is so you can answer when I text you,"
says Stiles, lightly kicking Isaac's leg.
Isaac grumbles out a response into the carpet.
"What?"
"It's too waaaaaaarm," Isaac whines.
"God. Only you could be shirtless and sprawled out and all—" Stiles waves
vaguely. "—glistening with sweat, and still manage to be like a five-year-old.
I don't know if that's impressive or just sad."
Before Isaac can tell him to fuck off, Stiles relates the contents of the text:
A bunch of them are heading to the lake, because this weather is shitty and
Lydia's parents have a cabin that's way, way too big to possibly exist. They
want to get there before the temperature peaks, so that gives Isaac two hours
to get his shit together (in every sense of the phrase) and haul ass to Lydia's
house.
"What about you?" he asks.
"I've been ready," says Stiles. "It's all on you now."
It's been a while since Isaac's done anything outdoorsy that didn't involve
stalking around the woods with his pack. His family used to go camping a lot
when he was a kid, before his mom died and Camden enlisted and everything
sucked. He has not-so-fond memories of getting stung by wasps while trying to
learn how to fish. God, fuck wasps. And fishing.
When Stiles tells him to leave his phone, Isaac feels skeptical. "Isn't this
the setup for, like, fifty horror movies?"
"Half the people coming are werewolves, Isaac," says Stiles. "We are a horror
movie. Anyway, Derek's coming along to 'supervise' and make sure we don't light
ourselves on fire or anything." He rolls his eyes exaggeratedly. "I think he
forgets he's usually the one who gets into the world's suckiest situations and
then drags everyone down with him."
Isaac catches himself on the verge of saying, It's not his fault. He has this
compulsion sometimes to stand up for Derek when Stiles and Scott complain about
him. He never does, since he cares probably too much about what those two think
of him, but the sentiment is there.
The thing is, Isaac kind of has an idea of what Derek's life is like. Losing
both parents and a sibling—that's bad enough on its own, but the shit Derek's
been through is beyond comparison. And it's not like that gives him a free pass
to be an unhelpful dick or anything, but it makes Isaac, at least, a lot
quicker to excuse his shitty attitude. Besides, he thinks maybe Derek would be
less of a dick if people stopped treating him like that was all that he was.
That's another thing Isaac can relate to, 'cause if people act like you're an
asshole for long enough—or like you're worthless or pathetic or
incompetent—eventually you start to think that you might be just that. You
start to be that. It's a vicious cycle that Isaac's still trying to fight his
way out of.
Once he gets his stuff ready, they throw it in the backseat of the Jeep with
Stiles's things. They've still got time to kill, though, so on the way to
Lydia's they stop in at a café for some iced coffee and sweet, sweet air
conditioning. While they're there, Stiles sighs four separate times over how
coffee's a hot drink and it's just weird to drink it cold, okay? Isaac bites
back a laugh, wraps an arm around Stiles's shoulders and pats him consolingly.
                                       —
Since then, everything's sucked.
Stiles thinks he may have become pathetically dependent on his relationship.
He's grown too accustomed to the ease and simplicity, to the laughing and sex
and dumb movies. Now that it's gone, he doesn't know what to do; Isaac takes up
so much of his time that this sudden distance has thrown him off. Everything
just feels wrong. It's like he's forgotten how to function as his own person
now.
He could call Scott, but Scott and Allison are in their On Again stage and
Stiles currently hates disgustingly happy couples. Just two weeks ago, he was
one half of a disgustingly happy couple; now he's just half of a miserable one.
So Stiles does what he always does when he's upset: He texts Isaac.
        Me
        11:16
        What are you doing?
The reply, for once, isn't immediate. Stiles tries not to be too disappointed,
even though he's bedridden from a fucking bullet wound and he has nothing to do
and his boyfriend isn't texting him back. He decides to sulk and play Pokémon,
which is made difficult by the limited range of motion in his left arm. Fucking
fuck.
It's a long time before his phone finally buzzes.
        Isaac
        11:49
        sleeping
Stiles finds that almost tragically unsurprising.
        Me
        11:50
        It's almost noon, loser
        Isaac
        11:54
        yep
        Isaac
        11:55
        need something?
        Me
        11:57
        Vulpix for your Chansey.
The answer comes significantly quicker this time.
        Isaac
        11:58
        fuck no i spent 2 hrs in hte safari zone getting this
Instead of texting back, Stiles calls him.
"And no matter how long you look, you won't find a Vulpix anywhere in FireRed,"
he says when Isaac picks up.
"You can catch your own Chansey," Isaac grumbles.
"But then I'd have to spend, like, two hours in the Safari Zone. Fuck that."
On the other end of the line, Isaac lets out a long sigh. "What'd you name the
Vulpix?"
"Lucy Liu."
"Why?"
"For the sole purpose of annoying you," Stiles says truthfully. "And because
it's stupid not to name your Pokémon. Come on, dude, I'm pretty much grounded
from getting out of bed for anything except the bathroom. Just lemme have your
Chansey."
Silence.
Stiles's stomach drops. Maybe he's underestimated just how strained and awkward
things have become, and now he's made it worse by being an annoying fuckhead.
"Do you need me to pick up anything?"
"What?" asks Stiles.
"Like from the store? I know your dad's at work, so if—"
"Oh. Nah, I'm good."
"Okay. I'll head over in a minute," says Isaac.
"All right, love you," says Stiles.
"Mmhm."
And that's it.
Stiles tries half-heartedly to waste time with more Pokémon, but the joy's gone
from it. He mostly frowns severely at his ceiling and idly blames it for all
his problems in life. Stupid ceiling. What an asshole.
It takes significantly less time than usual for Isaac to get there. He comes in
through the window, since the front door is perpetually locked nowadays. When
he slides into the room it's with the ease of someone who's done this too many
times before—and is also a werewolf not cursed with Stiles's own graceless
giraffe legs.
"That was quick," says Stiles.
Isaac shrugs, shutting the window with a click. "I was in the neighborhood."
"Uh. Not to poke holes in your logic there, but Scott's house isn't exactly in
the neighborhood."
"Yeah, I uh—might've started heading over after your first text." Isaac runs
his fingers through his hair. Nervous habit, Stiles notes absently. "Then I
thought it might be weird if I just showed up. So I waited. Right outside. For
about twenty minutes."
Stiles hums. "And you would've gotten away with it, too, if it weren't for that
meddling inability to lie under pressure," he says. "Gold star for trying,
though. Even if I'm pretty sure you didn't bring your Pokémon."
"We need to talk," says Isaac, eyebrows knit in worry.
Stiles shoots him an unimpressed look, because no shit. "Yeah, sure, let's work
out all the little issues in our relationship while I lie here in my pajamas.
Cool. Sounds like a plan."
Is Stiles annoyed? Yeah, a little. Because as much as he's missed Isaac, he's
still kind of pissed off at him. He thinks he has a right to be, given the
circumstances. Their argument a week ago didn't really sort everything
out—there still remains the fact that Isaac killed someone and doesn't seem to
realize how big a deal that is. And it's just one detail on a whole huge
shitheap of things that are wrong with this situation.
"I'm sorry," says Isaac.
"Sorry for what?" asks Stiles. "Gonna need you to be a little more specific
there."
"For being an idiot and not thinking. But you need to understand why I did it,
Stiles." Isaac licks his lips. "He could've killed you. That's what I cared
about. That's the only thing I cared about."
Stiles clenches his jaw. "Yeah, well. Wouldn't've made me any less dead."
"No. But it would've made me feel a hell of a lot better."
Isaac takes a seat on the floor by Stiles's bedside, legs crossed and shoulders
slouched. His shirt hangs loosely enough on his frame that it makes him look
thin and lanky, not like some Renaissance era sculpture of a god. Some of the
tension seeps out of Stiles against his will.
"I'm also sorry your dad grounded you for not telling him everything sooner,"
says Isaac.
"Not really my biggest concern right now, but thanks. I guess." Stiles lets out
a whooshing breath. "You can't maul every person that attacks me, Isaac. I know
you don't want me dead—hey, I don't want me dead either—but sometimes they're
just—"
"He shot you," Isaac cuts in.
"I know, I was there. Look, I know you talked to Derek about this. I know he
told you what he told me. Do you see why this is all kind of a problem? Like,
do you get why killing that hunter specifically was bad?"
Isaac's gaze falls. He flushes and says nothing, every bit a guilty child
caught with one hand in the cookie jar.
Stiles sighs and pats the space next to him with the hand of his movable arm.
"All right, get over here. The floor's making you all pouty."
"Stiles—"
"God, just get your furry ass up here, or I swear to god I will drag you onto
this bed and totally fuck up my stitches, and my dad will have you stuffed and
mounted."
Grudgingly, Isaac slips off his shoes and makes his way onto the bed next to
Stiles. Instinct has him taking Stiles's hand and willing the ache away from
the injured shoulder. Stiles raises his eyebrows.
"Sorry," says Isaac. "Reflex."
"See, that's a good kind of impulse. That's the kind we like. Ripping people's
throats out? Not so much."
His tone is gentler than before, but Isaac can practically see the
disappointment rolling off in waves. He can even feel it a little, seeping into
his skin before settling down heavily in the pit of his stomach.
Isaac can't say he regrets killing the hunter. He doesn't. As a rule, he
doesn't feel much sympathy for anyone who hurts the people who matter to him,
and he doesn't find it unreasonable to make a split-second decision to protect
his friends instead of waiting around and mulling it over first. But he does
feel bad for how it's affected Stiles, and, more selfishly, for what it's done
to their relationship.
Their hands are still clasped, cupped around each other but not entwined.
Platonic. It probably doesn't mean anything, but it fills Isaac with an
inexplicable feeling of despondency nevertheless.
"Hey, still here?" asks Stiles.
Isaac lets his head fall to the side, cheek resting against the pillow. He
doesn't meet Stiles's eye, looking instead at his shoulder, the sheets, a loose
thread on a T-shirt collar. "Yeah."
"Okay," says Stiles. He fidgets. "Isaac, do you not wanna be with me anymore?"
It's a stupid enough question that Isaac almost doesn't dignify it with a
response. "Why would you think that?"
"I dunno, maybe 'cause you when I tell you I fucking love you, you start acting
all weird and avoidant."
Isaac winces. "Oh."
"No, not 'oh.' You've gotta give me something more than that," says Stiles.
"You've been avoiding me for like a week now and it's really shitty. I know you
probably saved my life or something, but that doesn't give you license to be a
dick."
"I know, I know. But it's stupid," says Isaac.
"Probably," Stiles agrees.
"I think I'm just bad luck," says Isaac. "If you would've died back there, it
would've been my fault."
"How?"
Isaac shrugs. "It always is. Shit always happens to people I care about."
Seeing Stiles's expression, he adds, "Look, I told you it was stupid."
"You know, shitty things've been happening to me since before you even came
into the picture. I don't really think you can take credit." He squeezes
Isaac's hand. "Actually, pretty sure it's sucked a lot less since then."
"Yeah? How?"
When he opens his mouth again, Stiles talks like he's telling a secret. And
maybe he is; maybe this isn't something he ever meant to admit to Isaac out
loud. Something he wanted to communicate through meaningful gazes and pointed
gestures instead of words. He talks like he's shy and embarrassed.
"I don't worry as much around you. You make me feel safe, and I don't let all
the usual stupid stuff get to me. Like, who cares about werewolves and kanimas
and—fucking lacrosse games. Who cares about grades or whatever, right?"
"You do," Isaac points out.
"Yeah, but it doesn't exactly keep me up at night," says Stiles. "You really
mean a lot to me, Isaac. And I don't just say stuff like this 'cause I think
I'm supposed to; I mean every sappy, dumb word, okay? You're part of that tiny
group of people I would literally jump in front of a bus for. Whether or not
you deserve it isn't up to you. And if keeping you around means taking a bullet
once in a while, I think that's probably worth it. Fuck anyone who says
otherwise. Including you," he adds.
Something swells in Isaac's chest till it feels like his ribcage can't hold it
anymore. He looks at Stiles, at the flush in his cheeks and the red in his
eyes, and the thing in his chest expands so that he all but suffocates.
He remembers being little and hearing his mom call him her sweet little boy,
tearful and hollow but smiling shakily. He remembers being a bit older and
saying goodbye to Camden at the airport—Camden, who wore the same smirk Isaac
puts on now, telling Isaac to stop crying, promising he would be back as soon
as he could. And Isaac remembers his dad at both funerals, but he quickly tucks
that memory away.
He's felt love and affection before, but no one's ever looked at him like he's
the only thing in the world that matters. Not before now, anyway.
After a moment's pause, he says, "Stiles."
"What?"
"I love you. Like, a lot."
Stiles's answering grin is so bright it almost glows. He tugs his good hand
free, reaches up and combs his fingers through Isaac's hair—just once, enough
to muss up the curls. When he starts to draw his hand back, Isaac takes hold of
it again. Their fingers weave together.
"You can have my Chansey," says Isaac. "I even gave it a dumb name."
"Yeah? What is it?"
"Jackson."
This gets a laugh out of Stiles. "You do love me, don't you."
Isaac closes his eyes. "Yeah," he says. "I guess I do."
                                       —
The only time Stiles can recall seeing his dad look more annoyed and
disapproving is—well, maybe never. There was that time when Stiles was seven
and stole the neighbor's dog, of course, but at least he knew why he was in
trouble back then. Now, sitting on his bed with a Tom Clancy novel open in his
lap and a bottle of water halfway to his mouth, Stiles has no idea what he
could have done wrong. But there's his dad, standing in the doorway with a look
of raw accusation.
"Okay, whatever it is, it wasn't me," says Stiles. "The only time I opened my
laptop was to do my summer homework, and I haven't even left my room since
lunch. There is no freaking way anything is my fault."
"Just got off the phone with Derek Hale," says John.
"Definitely not my fault."
John's irritation seems to deepen, if the tight line of his mouth is anything
to go by. "He asked if you could come to the pack meeting tonight," he says.
"Oh, fu—uhhh. Crap." Stiles sighs. "Did he say why?"
"He wasn't too specific. But from the sounds of it, they need you there."
"So I can go?" says Stiles, his voice rising in disbelief.
"Son, there's no way in hell you're leaving this house to sit around with a
bunch of werewolves," says John.
Stiles deflates, but doesn't bother arguing.
John's expression softens. "I told him he'll just have to bring everyone around
here."
After going through a range of emotions—surprise, confusion, elation,
worry—Stiles slumps back against his pillows. "You're gonna stay and supervise,
aren't you," he says.
"Yep."
"In your uniform."
John just smiles in a cheerfully unsympathetic way.
After his dad leaves the room, Stiles marches off huffily to take a necessary
shower. Fucking werewolves and their sensitive everythings, he thinks. He's
polite enough to wash himself for their benefit, but that's the extent of his
courtesy. It's his house, and if he wants to put on some clean pajamas and eat
Cheetos while he plays host, he's well within his right to do so.
When he makes his way back to his bedroom in a pair of flannel pajama bottoms
(because putting a shirt on with one arm is still a complete nuisance), he
pauses at the door.
The door he doesn't remember closing.
If there's an ax-wielding murderer waiting to attack him, Stiles isn't above
screaming for help. His dad has a gun, for Christ's sake. Still, he decides to
exercise an ounce of caution by pushing the door open slowly with his good
hand.
He's met with the sight of Isaac sitting in the desk chair, head tilted back as
he moves from side to side in small arcs. The window's open. Stiles tries not
to smile.
"Hey Dad," he calls, "there's a vicious killer in my room."
"Tell your boyfriend to use the door like a normal person," the Sheriff shouts
back.
"You heard the man," says Stiles, closing the door behind him as he walks in.
"You're practically the only one with visitation privileges, dude. You don't
have to sneak in."
"Yeah, but it's more fun this way," says Isaac. He stops spinning and sits up.
"Want some help?"
Stiles waves him off. "Nah, it's easy without the sling."
"Didn't say I was gonna make it easier," Isaac says with a grin.
Laughing, Stiles shakes his head. "Yeah, I figured."
They talk while Stiles gets dressed. Between the two of them, they manage to
figure out which shirt is least likely to offend Lydia's tastes, because plaid-
on-plaid has the potential to make her bloodthirsty.
According to Isaac, everyone is supposed to arrive within the hour. When Stiles
asks why there's going to be a pack meeting, Isaac just responds with an
apologetic shrug. Stiles does his best not to grumble or glare, since it's not
his boyfriend's fault Derek is an uninformative asshole.
"Mr. Argent's coming, too," says Isaac.
"Good. He can keep my dad company. Maybe they can knock back a few cold ones
and talk about guns and baseball. Maybe commiserate over their teenagers dating
werewolves." Stiles sinks down onto his mattress as he pulls on some socks.
Warm as it may be outside, it's a constant seventy degrees in his house.
"Allison and Scott broke up last week," says Isaac.
Stiles makes a face. "Should I be pissed off that no one told me? I mean, at
this point I'm just glad he hasn't whined at me about it yet."
Isaac's glare says that he's been on the receiving end of Scott's whining.
Stiles feels a little guilty, but he's still childish enough to be annoyed by
their shared custody of his best friend. If Isaac wants to hang out with Scott
when Stiles is grounded, then he can't complain about mopey post-breakup Scott.
"At least he isn't hanging around on her roof anymore," says Isaac.
"That's 'cause she doesn't have her own roof," Stiles points out.
Isaac looks ready to make a dry comment, but as soon as he opens his mouth his
expression changes to that of surprise. Gaping wordlessly, he looks at Stiles
with something like recognition.
"Uh, Isaac?" Stiles watches him with unveiled concern. "You okay?"
"Yeah, just—" Isaac cuts off, snickering. "Tomorrow's our anniversary."
"No shit?" says Stiles. He thinks about it for a moment. "God, you're right."
"We forgot all about it," says Isaac.
"Guess we just suck at this, huh?"
"Guess so."
They grin at each other, because everything's so absurd and wonderful. An
entire year has passed without their notice, the changes so gradual it's almost
as though they never even happened. But twelve months ago they were worrying
about first dates and chasing after runaway werewolves, and now—
Now Isaac is sitting next to Stiles on the bed, eyes bright and hands warm. He
still kisses like it's a competition, except now he murmurs something about
love against Stiles's mouth. Stiles laughs because it still makes him that
happy, still catches him off guard.
Someone knocks downstairs. Isaac rolls his eyes.
"Probably Derek. He's a freak about punctuality," says Stiles.
"Alphas have to be responsible," Isaac says with the air of a person repeating
something he's been told one time too many.
Stiles sighs. "We should head downstairs," he says.
"We should."
A pause.
"My dad probably needs some time to give them a stern talking-to," says Stiles.
"We could give him a minute," says Isaac. "Y'know, just to be polite."
"Mm." Stiles shifts to rest his head on Isaac's shoulder. "So, what should we
do tomorrow?" he asks.
"Derek's probably gonna make us fight the forces of darkness or something."
"Can we call in sick from that, you think?"
"Sure," says Isaac. "Tell him we've got this deadly virus that makes people
overly affectionate."
"Symptoms include making everyone around you want to puke," says Stiles.
"Scientists have yet to find a cure."
They're interrupted by the sound of the Sheriff calling them downstairs. They
exchange a look that says, Time to face the music. When they start for the
door, Stiles reaches out with his good hand and grabs hold of Isaac's sleeve,
because Isaac's a freak who wears long-sleeved shirts even in the summer.
Stiles knows better than to complain.
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