Chapter Text
“I was crying a little for the boy I had wanted him to be and the boy he hadn’t turned out to be.”
― Gabrielle Zevin, Memoirs of a Teenage Amnesiac
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Once upon a time, the world could have turned to ash around them, and Stiles would have ceased to notice. He would claim the other man's hand in his own and let it all burn for a single smile. Once upon a time, he would laze under trees, tracing various veins, well relaying a newly learned fact. Once upon a time, he believed in Derek.
Scott may be too magnanimous to say "I told you so," but Stiles saw it on his face the day he told him that Derek had stepped away, hastily taking back his promises in favor of a one-sided breakup. Exactly as Scott prophesied.
His best friend had once upon a time held him, whispering words of attempted comfort. And thereafter, despite the years, Stiles has repudiated himself to fall in love again.
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Presently, the sun has painted his bedroom in beams poaking through the broken blinds. Feeling particularly lackadaisical in the comfort of his queen-size bed, clad in nothing but boxers, Stiles remains half under his gray blanket with dried paint splattered across it, with an ink-covered arm and leg dangling off the mattress.
He only begins to stir when echoes of laughter makes it's way from the kitchen. Begrudgingly, Stiles rises. A black mug of room-temperature water that reads "Good Morning Haters" is downed, chasing ADHD, depression, and anxiety meds. A routine he completes half-asleep every morning before stumbling over discarded clothes and a jar of paintbrushes his cat, Nugget, must have clobbered in the night.
Said cat leaps off his bed, thick orange fur in a perfect copy of his owner's bedhead. Stepping across the hallway, Stiles wanders into the bathroom that is currently overfilled with toiletries. Four people to one bathroom is senseless, and deep in his gut, he knows that before long, Scott will move out. He'll be alone. Even the thought makes him forlorn as he drops his boxers and steps into the off-white tile shower with Nugget sprawling out on the bathmat.
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Inevitably, the shower ends, so Stiles is forced to shut off the water and slide open the foggy door. Hopping up, Nugget doesn't waste a moment to start meowing, wanting her owner to provide breakfast.
Hearing the pleas of his child, Stiles mutters, "Isaac feeds you lunch meat every time he eats a sandwich; that happens to be all the time, your litterally so spoiled. Oh, don't give me those eyes! Ugh, fine, I'll hurry up."
Reaching for the first tie-dye towel, Stiles vigorously dries his hair before clumsily yanking his boxers back on, which mostly cover a watercolor fox that spans the outskirts of his right thigh, surrounded by geometric lines.
Without looking in the mirror, he swings open the bathroom door, following his cat to the kitchen where the trouple appears to have attempted the (supposedly) rigmarole task of making pancakes.
Flour dusts the gray countertops; a broken egg drips down a dark wood cabinet door, and the three of them look as if they've been in a flour fight. Which, based on Stiles' knowledge, isn't inconceivable.
Allison is standing to Isaac's left, her hair pulled back into a messy ponytail, wearing an oversized shirt with stains of flour and donning the dark purple glasses she was forced to start wearing just a year ago. Spinning around, her warm smile spreads wide as she charges at Stiles, enveloping him in a hug that steals his breath.
"Happy Birthday!" She beams.
"Thank you." he presses a quick kiss to the top of her head, something they started doing platonically when Stiles was too depressed to leave his bed, and now it's transformed into a silent form of affection.
Once she steps away, he gets a good look at his other two friends, equally blanketed with flour, and all of them with a light layer of blush. "The three of you were making out instead of focusing on pancakes." Stiles hypothesizes, moving to grab wet cat food out of the magnet-covered fridge and prepare it for Nugget, who happily eats before plopping himself on the cushioned island stool.
"Doesn't matter," Scott picks up a vintage plate with Han Solo on it, courtesy of Isaac three Christmases ago, "enjoy, and happy twenty-sixth birthday." The plate is set in front of him with a stack of badly formed pancakes filled with chocolate chips.
He digs in without hesitation when silverware is handed over. And in between bites, he says, "You guys-" chews and swallows "-wow, this is better than I thought it would be." he downs a few more bites before returning to his original topic, "twenty-six isn't an important birthday; you guys didn't need to do any of this."
"Try telling that to Lydia when she gets here in an hour," Isaac chimes in, walking around the kitchen island to perch on the stool beside Stiles.
"Oh god," he groans, "what does she have planned?"
"Like we'll tell you that," Allison smirks, hopping upon the edge of the island, coffee in one hand and reaching over to rip a piece of syrup-covered pancake off Stiles's plate with the other.
"Just be dressed and, to quote Lydia, 'tell him to have a good attitude.' So you know, good luck," Scott adds, squeezing Stiles' shoulder before forcing Isaac off the stool, the two of them beginning the cleanup.
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Exactly an hour later, the doorbell rings and all four of them are dressed. Stiles has lazily thrown on his burgundy Måneskin hoodie and baggy black jeans, ready for whatever he will inevitably be inveigled into doing.
Allison opens the door, hugging her best friend before Lydia struts over to where Stiles has plastered himself on the 70's-style orange leather couch they picked up years ago at a garage sale, Nugget on his lap. Her kitten heels clack against the wood floor.
"Stiles." She reaches out a single perfectly manicured hand with baby pink nails, presenting him with a gift bag. "You can not open this until later."
"That's just cruel," he mutters, placing the bag on the coffee table in front of him as Jackson, in form-fitting jeans and a light blue polo (clearly dressed by Lydia), hands him an opened Amazon box.
"Here," he says nonchalantly before walking away in favor of raiding their fridge.
"Wow, I can feel the love from here," Stiles calls back sarcastically, gripping at his chest. "I think I'm being smothered by it. It's too much, Jackson-" he picks up the orange cat and delicately places her on the couch before collapsing to the floor "-too much love; I think I'm dying from it."
Upon returning to the living room, Jackson tosses an apple at Stiles, hitting him in the gut. "Get up and stop being an idiot."
"You're no fun," he whines, returning to the couch as Scott and Allison try to conceal their laughter.
"Shouldn't someone who's almost thirty be more mature?" Jackson quips before pointing at the box that's now resting beside Nugget, who has repeatedly clawed him in the past. "Open it."
"First off, twenty-six isn't actually that close to thirty. And, fine, I'll open your gift, though it looks like you've done that for me," he fires back, but nonetheless reaches in and pulls out season one of Andor on DVD.
A smile subconsciously breaks out across his mole-dotted face, and he looks back at Jackson. "Sometimes you actually surprise me-" Stiles teases before adding, "-thank you."
"Ew, don't be genuine with me; it's weird." At her boyfriend's statement, Lydia rolls her eyes and orders him back to the car, which he does without protest.
"Where are we going?" Stiles finally asks, watching Jackson walk away with the trouple already yanking their shoes on to follow.
"Shopping, arcade, malt shop," she lists off her plans, heels clacking as Stiles is forced to run after her, one shoe untied, and the apartment door hastily locked.
Once he's climbed into the backseat of Jackson's sleek black car (the throuple taking Scott's), Lydia looks at him in the rearview mirror, checks her bright red lipstick, and says, "Also, I have a surprise for tonight."
Letting out a groan, Stiles sinks in the seat, muttering sarcastically, "Oh, great."
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Against all odds, a day spent gallivanting around the mall turned out to be pleasant. Yet, Stiles has been unable to tear his thoughts away from the surprise Lydia has planned.
So, upon returning to Scott and his apartment, where Nugget has plastered herself to the front door in hopes of dinner and scratches, Stiles drops the half-dozen bags of art supplies, video games, CDs, and the few pieces of clothing Lydia thought he'd look hot in before feeding his cat.
His friends all gather in the living room, every one of them in need of temporary rest, well, waiting for dinner to be delivered, courtesy of Jackson (even though he has Lydia take the credit).
"Will you finally tell me what's happening tonight?"
Stiles watches his friends glance nervously between each other, seeming to speak without words before Lydia rises, smoothing out her dress and picking up the present from earlier.
"Follow me," she calmly says, leading him to his bedroom covered in posters for movies, shows, bands, LED lights lining as many frames as possible, and art pieces that have yet to make their way into his gallery stacked upon racks.
As friends, they have a tacit agreement to never mention the name Derek Hale, though that doesn't stop Lydia from cursing his existence internally. Especially now, when she sits down next to Stiles on his unmade bed and speaks tenderly.
"There's a queer club I want all of us to go to tonight. I scoped it out with Allison last week; it's quite a nice place."
His head snaps to the side, staring at her with wide doe eyes as he stammers out, "Lydia, no. You know…you know I don't do that; I'm not-I'm not wanting anyone right now."
"Stiles, breathe." She reaches over, resting a hand on his shoulder and squeezing. "You don't have to try and find a one-night stand or partner or anything. That's not why I'm doing this. It's just going to be all of us having fun as a friend group. I just want you to allow yourself to let go a little more, but you don't have to move on until you're ready."
Inhaling, Stiles counts to five before exhaling for three, as his therapist taught him. He does this continuously until his body has untensed and he has thought over Lydia's words.
"Okay," he mutters.
"Okay." She smiles, squeezing his shoulder once more before leaning in to whisper, "Now open your gift."
Hurriedly, he removes the tissue paper, letting it fall to the floor before pulling out tight-fitting black shorts.
"I thought you weren't trying to get me laid?"
"I'm not," she rolls her eyes before standing up, "and you don't have to wear those. But from an objective point, you have great legs, so why not show them off? Not to mention all those tattoos."
"I'll think about it," he gives in ever so slightly, and she seems satisfied.
"Good. Now, let's get back out there before the food arrives, because those bloodhounds will eat it all if we're not careful."
"Hey, I'm one of those bloodhounds!" He protests, following her as she lets out a huff of laughter.
"Trust me, I'm aware."
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Three hours later, it's nearing nine pm as the gang stands in line outside a two-story brick building with music blasting and color-changing lights reflecting onto the sidewalk. With a beauteous 60's psychedelic mural on the wall they're leaning against.
Despite his friends' insistence that he looked ravishing in the shorts Lydia gifted him, he decided on paint-covered jeans and one of his favorite shirts: The Tree of Life by Gustav Klimt in a Hawaiian-style print.
"If I freak out, I might as well be comfortable," were his exact words to Scott.
But as they all show their ID's to the bouncer, he doesn't feel as nervous as he did the first and only time he entered a bar right after turning twenty-one. He feels exhilarated. The bass pounds through his body, and knowing his friends are just a hair away lets him feel liberated.
Stiles may not drink anymore, but he refuses to let that stop him now that he's here.
So onto the dance floor they go. Where he dances with each friend, cackling at how bad they all are (besides Lydia, of course).
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Shots of water have been downed repeatedly, and it's suddenly hitting Stiles. So, he excuses himself from the booth on the second floor they have found themselves occupying.
Once he has relieved himself, Stiles stands at the sink with his back to the bathroom door, washing his calloused hands under the weak spray, the smile on his face a permanent fixture all evening.
But it disappears when the door creaks open. Looking in the mirror, Stiles sees behind him the man he once loved. The man he still loves, even when he tells everyone else that he doesn't. The man he would have died for. The man he cried over for weeks.
Derek Hale.