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It's not like Stiles doesn't know how to ask for the things he wants. He asks for the things he wants all the time - rattles them out like they're nothing: You gonna eat that last spring roll? Feel like buying me a new car, dad? Hey, buddy, you wanna try making out, just for a second? It's easy to put yourself out there when you don't actually expect to get any of the things you're asking for.
Out on the deserted field, armed with a roll of duct tape, a racquet and a heavy bag of league-standard lacrosse balls, Stiles doesn't have what he wants. But he's closer than he ever expected to be.
Scott's facing away from him, hands behind his back. His shoulders are trembling and he’s bouncing a little, jittery. But he was the one who asked for this. He’s the one who came and told Stiles he wanted to try this thing out again. And if it wasn’t Stiles’s idea, then it can’t be Stiles’s fault. This is an exercise in restraint. It’s what’s going to stop Scott from losing control and killing everyone. It’s an act of pure, selfless heroism.
The fact that it’s also an act that he’s spent more than a few nights turning over in his head is nothing but coincidence.
Stiles swallows hard and winds the duct tape around Scott’s wrists, acting like it hasn't occured to him that it’ll hurt like a bitch when he rips it off later.
Scott doesn’t even flinch. He just sucks in a breath and ducks his head forward, the nape of his neck stretching out under his hoodie. For an awful moment, Stiles can’t trust himself not to lean forward and press his lips against the taut, exposed skin. Instead, he gives Scott’s arm a friendly smack and lets his hand linger a little longer than it needs to, hoping Scott can’t feel his fingers shake.
There’s no way in hell he’s going to let Scott know how much he wants this. He can barely admit it to himself.
“You sure you want to do this?”
Scott nods, and Stiles remembers the way he looked that first time, bent double and practically howling with the effort to withstand the pain. He hasn’t been able to let go of the image for weeks now, and he knows that makes him a bad friend at best and a borderline psychopath at worst. But Scott was the one who asked for this. Stiles is just being a pal and helping out.
Scott’s turning around to face him, his off-centre jaw set in determination. Stiles could reach up and touch his face right now. He could grab a handful of Scott’s hair or crush their mouths together or-
But that’s not what Scott asked for. Scott asked for help. This is an exercise in restraint.
Stiles jogs back a few steps, scoops up a ball, and takes care of business.
*
It becomes a regular thing. So regular that Stiles comes up with a name for what they’re doing.
He tosses it out with a grin and a smack on the arm in the showers after practice, but he carefully avoids eye contact. It’s not weird to have a name for it, he reminds himself. His best friend is a werewolf. It’s not like they’re normal guys anymore.
“You up for some target practice later today?”
He keeps one eye on Scott’s reaction in the mirror above the sink, pretending not to notice the way Scott pales for a moment when he figures out what Stiles means. He doesn’t look away fast enough to miss the way Scott’s tongue dart out to wet his lips before he replies.
“Yeah. If you’ve got time.”
“For you?” For this. “Always.”
Scott smiles that brave, goofy smile that makes Stiles want to wrap him up in his arms and fight all the monsters in the world. Then he turns away, and Stiles’s eyes skim across his lean body, trying to pick out any marks from their last session. As usual, the bruises are long faded – which has to be a werewolf thing – and, as usual, Stiles fights off a guilty pang of disappointment.
I’m going to hell, the knowledge hits him square in the gut. For so many reasons, I am going directly to hell.
But it’s for Scott’s own good, and Scott never asks him to stop. So three hours later, in the dimming light, they’re back out on the pitch and Stiles is pelting his best friend with a shower of lacrosse balls. His pulse rises in thrilled sympathy as Scott ducks, twists and howls at the impact of every blow he can’t dodge.
Scott’s holding up better than usual, keeping his heart rate lower than usual, even as a ball crashes into his side, dragging out a noise that’s almost a sob. And that should be Stiles’s signal to stop, but he can’t. Because once Stiles gets into it, this isn’t about friendship or love, or even lust. It’s about his mom, five years ago, lying alone in her hospital bed. It’s about the thick creases around his dad’s eyes and mouth. The pills in their medicine cabinet. The grades that aren’t enough to get him into a decent school. The bench on Friday nights. The dents in his jeep. Anything. Everything. It’s about Scott kissing Allison in the locker rooms. It’s about Scott’s mouth and hands. It’s about Lydia’s smudged lipstick when Scott knew that Stiles-
He’s hard in his jeans and panting in time with Scott. He always is by this point.
A ball finally knocks the wind out of Scott, ending it. Scott drops to one knee, loses his balance and goes down completely, curling onto his side and gasping for air, hands still taped behind his back. Stiles drops his racquet and crosses the field with slow, deliberate steps. He doesn’t stop until his sneakers are almost touching Scott’s face. On the ground, Scott rolls onto his back and looks up at him. His eyes are bottomless and black.
The darkness draws in. Stiles takes a moment to make his decision before stooping to help Scott to his feet, one hand on the small of his back.
*
He tells himself it’s a trade-off. Scott gets the girl. Scott gets to be co-captain of the lacrosse team. Scott gets amazing werewolf superpowers and he gets to endanger Stiles’s life on a daily basis. Stiles gets this.
Stiles gets to bundle Scott into the passenger side of his jeep, still muddy and unsteady, his wrists red where Stiles ripped off the tape. Stiles gets to drive Scott to his empty house and guide him upstairs. Stiles gets to peel away Scott’s dirty sweats and help him into the shower. Scott doesn’t even stop him when, after a moment’s hesitation, Stiles steps in behind him and turns on the hot water.
“You’ve been so good,” Stiles hears himself muttering under his breath as he squeezes out a handful of shower gel and massages it into Scott’s shoulders. “You did so well out there. You held out so long.” His hands dip lower, lathering down Scott’s sides, digging his fingers into a fading bruise that will have vanished completely within the hour. Scott whimpers low in his throat, and Stiles wraps both arms around his waist, pulling him backwards so his back is pressed up against Stiles’s chest.
Scott’s got his eyes closed and Stiles wonders, for a moment, what – or who – he’s thinking about. But it doesn’t matter. Scott is right here, slick and soapy under his hands, and not protesting as Stiles’s hands move downwards. And Stiles doesn’t ask permission, not even as a joke. He just keeps whispering in Scott’s ear as he runs a hand down the plane of Scott’s stomach. “That’s right, come on. You’ve been so good.”
And this is so much easier than he thought it would be. Scott just keeps on whimpering, twisting in Stiles’s arms to bury his face in Stiles’s neck and press up against him. Scott’s biting at his shoulder and thrusting up against Stiles, and Stiles lets him. “That’s good,” Stiles hears himself babbling, painfully sincere. “You’ve been so good. You deserve this.”
Scott’s mouth is sweet and desperate and there’s pressure building low in Stiles’s belly because this is it. This is what he wants. He pulls Scott right up against him, slippery and bruised and perfect in his arms, and reaches down to slowly, deliberately jerk him off. He buries his free hand in Scott’s hair. This is all he wants: to make Scott happy; to make Scott safe; to make Scott come. And he’s earned it. Scott’s teeth sink harder into his shoulder and he stiffens in Stiles’s hand and Stiles has earned this moment, earned the warmth of Scott’s lips against his neck. He’s waited so long. He’s been so good.
He rinses them off and shuts off the shower and they stand together in silence; the water chilling against their skin.