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Dust motes float through the air as the morning’s first rays of sunshine pierce through the large windows of the loft. It sheds some light on the mess of Derek’s living room; the forgotten, half-eaten take out scattered amongst the dusty open books and errant sheets of paper thrown into haphazard piles. There’s a system to the madness, Derek is sure. Yet, no matter how much time he’s spent with Stiles, he fails to see the same patterns Stiles does.
The culprit himself lays spread out on the couch, wearing last night’s clothes. He’s partially hidden beneath the blanket Derek may or may not have purchased solely due to Stiles’s tendency to pass out on this very couch several times a week. The light hits the delicate curve of Stiles’s wrist, as it dangles limply in the air, and his plump, pink and parted lips.
He’s been snoring all night. Derek doesn’t quite know how it went from being an annoying quality in Stiles to an endearing one. He hopes his lapse in judgement is temporary, but that’s probably too much to ask for. After all, he is standing around at six thirty in the morning quietly admiring the length of Stiles’ eyelashes and willfully ignoring the drool in the corner of Stiles’ mouth.
Stiles would call it creeping. Maybe it is. Derek shakes his head and looks down at the cup of coffee he’s been cradling in his hands. Yeah, he’s definitely creeping.
“Is that for me?”
Derek nearly startles. He had not even noticed the change in Stiles’s heartbeat from sleep to wakefulness. Stiles’s voice is raspy, his eyes soft. His lips are curved gently. Derek clears his throat.
“No,” Derek replies and takes a demonstrative sip from the cup. “Get your own.”
It only makes Stiles’s smile widen.
“Asshole,” he says. It sounds like a compliment. “What time is it?”
“Too early,” Derek admits. “Six thirty.”
Stiles hums, stretches his legs beneath the blanket.
“That is too early.”
Contrary to his words, he still makes an attempt to get off the couch, long limbs weak with sleep. Derek finds himself reaching out a hand to assist. Stiles’s hand is too hot in his, yet Derek doesn’t want to let go when Stiles finds his footing. Maybe it’s the squeeze of Stiles’s fingers that distracts Derek when Stiles snatches the coffee cup out of his other hand. He crows triumphantly, a hoarse croak, and takes a sip.
“There. Got my own.”
Derek wants to wipe that stupid smirk off of his face. He wants to trace it with the pad of his thumb. He wants.
Instead, he lets out a low growl and reaches for his coffee cup, still holding on to Stiles’s hand to keep him close. Stiles manages to outmaneuver him with an undignified yelp, clutching the cup close to his chest. Lightning fast, he gulps its contents down as fast as he can. It’s still too hot. It must burn on its way down Stiles’ throat.
It’s pure idiocy.
Completely moronic.
Derek can’t look away.
The cup drops from Stiles’ lips and he gasps like a man drowning at sea, curses under his breath.
“Fuck,” he says, eyes watering, blinking rapidly to get the waterworks under control. “Take that, buddy.” His voice breaks in the middle and the sentence ends on the unholy offspring of a cough and a burp.
Derek supposes it’s the false bravado, the absolutely fascinating red splotches blossoming over Stiles’s cheeks, and the wetness clinging to his eyelashes that is the final straw. The cup is still in Stiles’s hand, his other wrapped up in Derek’s.
“I love you.”
Stiles’s mouth drops open, his eyes wide. For a few, too silent moments, he’s just staring. Derek has the time to think that he should take the words back, but he’s been dreaming of saying them for so long that he can’t find it in himself to put them back under wraps.
Stiles laughs. It’s high-pitched, incredulous and quite frankly ugly. He sways into Derek’s space like it’s the easiest thing, his forehead coming to rest on Derek’s shoulder.
“I’ve been trying to seduce you for so long and that’s what does it?” he finally manages to say. The warmth in his voice settles deep in Derek’s belly. Derek lets his free hand wrap around Stiles’s hip, lets his head tilt until it rests against Stiles’s.
“Believe me, I don’t understand it either,” Derek blatantly lies. It makes Stiles snort. He doesn’t need enhanced hearing to discern when Derek is lying.
Stiles’s lips are hot against Derek’s clavicle. God, Derek wants, has wanted for so long and just the thought of actually getting to have is dizzying.
“I love you,” Stiles murmurs and the morning’s first rays of sunshine envelop Derek too.