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Sometimes Stiles dances in the kitchen in his pajamas with his cereal spoon in his mouth. It gives Derek secondhand embarrassment so strong he literally cringes. One time the elderly neighbour saw it through the window above the sink and Stiles waved jauntily. She beamed and waved back.
.
"Dance with me," Stiles tells Derek, and Derek immediately embodies a statue. Stiles gives him a look. "You’re a douche," he says.
"You’re a freak," returns Derek.
.
"I don’t like dancing," says Derek, and it’s true. Even his teenage self hated dancing. He has no sense of rhythm. He likes wearing headphones, cranking up shitty pop music until he can’t hear anything but the throbbing beat. Sitting and losing himself in subpar lyrics.
"You don’t like having fun," Stiles decides, passing Derek the jar of peanut butter. Derek scoops out a bunch on his fingers. "You don’t like happiness. Sunshine makes you hiss."
"You do like it when I bi—" Derek begins, but Stiles knocks the peanut butter jar out of his hand.
They stare at each other. Derek isn’t sure whether to laugh or yell at him.
"That was dumb," Stiles admits, and you think? “But you were gonna say a thing I didn’t want you to say.”
"But you do."
"I take it back," says Stiles, stooping and grabbing the jar off the floor. "You like fun. But your idea of fun is being the worst person."
.
"Dancing reminds me of school dances," Derek offers up.
Stiles turns from the toaster and stares at him blankly. This sentence carries different meaning for the two of them. Derek tries again.
"Dancing reminds me of awkward standing around, music too loud to think, air too thick to breathe, and girls gossiping."
Stiles scrunches up his nose. “You and I have very different impressions of school dances,” he says. “I had my first kiss at an 8th grade formal.”
Derek shrugs. “I had mine at a dance in 7th. It was awful.”
"That’s depressing," says Stiles.
"My life is depressing," deadpans Derek.
.
Stiles offers Derek one of his purple earbuds. Derek considers it for a second, and then takes it. They sit on the back bumper of the Jeep, listen to Fergilicious, and watch Scott and Jackson toss a football back and forth.
.
"I identify on a deeper level with pop songs," Stiles says, scowling at the dandelion he’s tying to a chain of others. "I have posters of cool bands, but I like pop songs better."
Derek tries not to tackle him and kiss him senseless. “Same,” he says. “Only I don’t have posters.”
"You should get some," Stiles says, smirking at him. "So no one knows."
"I don’t care if people know I like pop songs," Scott says, frowning with confusion. "I went to see Lady Gaga with Allison and Isaac last month. It was awesome."
"Well, good for you, Bruno,” says Stiles. He and Scott make mirrored faces at each other. Stiles lifts up his dandelion chain. It’s a loop. “I don’t care as much as I did in high school,” he says, and places the dandelion crown on Derek’s head.
.
Derek hates his teenage self. Stiles has an old Beacon Hills High yearbook from ‘04 or ‘05, and he flips to the H’s and finds Derek. “You were pretty hot,” Stiles tells him, and Derek grits his teeth. Watches Stiles’ fingertips trace Derek’s greyscale, cocky face, stupid hair swooping across his stupid forehead. Stiles smiles softly at the picture, hums to himself.
Derek at fifteen would have probably had a crush on Stiles. But someone else got there first.
"For you I’d bleed myself dry," Stiles sings offhandedly to himself, and Derek snaps the yearbook shut.
.
Stiles is drunk. “My heart stops,” he sings into a whisk, “when you look at me.”
"Stop it," Derek says. Jackson is snickering in a corner and Derek can hear him.
"Just one touch," Stiles slurs. He trips, flails. The whisk goes flying. Derek catches him. "And baby, I believe," Stiles says, blinking up at him.
"He’s gonna be so pissed off when he wakes up and can’t remember his teenage dream,” Boyd says.
.
Derek turns on the radio the next morning. Makes Stiles soup from a can to the dulcet tones of Justin Timberlake. The sun is warm.