Stiles is drunk. The party slides around him in washes of color and sound– everything transient, nothing sticking. Bass thumps in his eardrums, turning his stomach. Derek appears as a blessing, half out the door before he even makes it through the foyer, but still the most solid thing Stiles has seen all night.
“I hate this,” Stiles whispers, his breath hot against Derek’s sensitive ear. “You’re the only person here worth talking to.”
“Okay,” Derek says, his hand settling solid and reassuring on Stiles’ hip. “So let’s go somewhere that isn’t here.”
EDIT:
“What were you even doing there?” Stiles peers at Derek curiously over the rim of his mug. The coffee isn’t quite strong enough to dissolve tooth enamel, but coupled with the brisk walk from the rave to the diner, it’s doing wonders for counteracting his buzz. “A warehouse party isn’t really your scene.”
Derek shrugs, placidly plowing his way through a mountain-high portion of chicken souvlaki. His knees keeps knocking against Stiles’ under the chipped Formica tabletop, and Stiles can’t find it in himself to pretend to mind.
“Didn’t really look like your scene, either,” Derek says, meeting Stiles’ gaze unblinkingly. His wackadoo eyes make Stiles’ head spin, and it’s easy to blame it on the booze. Bourbon, Stiles thinks admonishingly. When will you learn that bourbon is not your friend.
“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” he huffs, darting his hand across the table to snatch a few of Derek’s fries, nearly knocking a glass of water over in the process. Derek rolls his eyes heavenward with a sigh, and then rotates his plate so that the truly impressive mound of deep fried potato is facing Stilinskiwards. Stiles bites down on a victorious whoop, and grabs another handful to cram into his mouth.
Derek watches him chew happily, his ridiculous eyebrows drawn together in the expression Stiles has categorized as “exasperated but fond.” It’s much preferred to the look that Stiles used to get, which was better classified as “imminent manslaughter”.
“So, this is nice,” Stiles begins, at the same time Derek sets down his fork and says, “Scott told me about your fight.”
Concept 4:
Published
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