They All Disappear From View (I Only Have Eyes For You)
This is a Halloween themed (but not at all spooky) Scott/Stiles ficlet for @scottstiles because Divvy is truly wonderful. Thanks to @skittlestrash for prompt suggestions!
“We never got to go to prom,” Stiles says one day, late in September.
It’s true. They’d been all set, had everything planned, and then an omega werewolf had come crashing into Scott’s world half an hour before they were supposed to arrive at the Beacon Hills gym.
Scott doesn’t understand why Stiles is bringing it up over a year later via FaceTime.
“No,” he says, cautious like he’s learned to be, where Stiles is concerned. “We didn’t.”
“There’s this party planned for Halloween,” Stiles continues, either not noticing or ignoring Scott’s hesitation. “And I thought you might wanna leave California during the time of ghastly ghouls, given, you know, our vast and horrible history with them.”
“You want me to fly thousands of miles cross-country to spend Halloween with you?” Scott asks. He waits a beat, two. “I’m there.”
Stiles smiles and it’s beautiful. Scott feels his heart physically skip a beat. “Great!” he says, not an ounce of sarcasm in his tone, which is… Scott’s not sure he’s ever heard that before. Not even when they were nine. “Got any ideas for costumes?”
No. No he hasn’t. He hasn’t had to think of a Halloween costume since he was twelve. They didn’t bother in their teens, first because no one ever invited them anywhere, and second because they were too busy combatting the scary creatures of the night.
“Maybe I could just wolf out?”
“Y’boring.”
“What’s your brilliant idea, then?”
“I’m not sure yet. I’ll get back to you.”
They spend the rest of the video call talking about their pack and their studies and there’s a reason this is Scott’s favorite day of the week. Talking to Stiles revitalizes and soothes him. He can tell, by how Stiles’ breathing changes, how he settles on his bed, that the same’s true for Stiles.
*
Over the next week, Scott gets messages every day from Stiles, filled with links to low-cost or low-effort costumes. They’re never both. Scott saves links for the ones he might be capable of and discards the ones he’s pretty sure Stiles sent as a joke: sexy vampire, sexy vet, sexy Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle. He starts sending Stiles his own suggestions: sexy werewolf, sexy FBI agent, sexy Finn from Adventure Time (that last one is just upsetting, but so was the TMNT.)
“Most people I know made or chose their costumes in February,” Stiles whines, two weeks later.
“Most people you know are freaks and you know I include myself in that category,” Scott says, raising his eyebrow. “What about themed costumes, like I’ll be an egg and you’ll be bacon. Or you’ll be a jar of peanut butter and I’ll be a block of chocolate. Or, hey! I’ll finally be the Robin to your Batman.”
“You want us to wear couples costumes.” Stiles says, voice flat.
“You hate it.”
“No. I don’t. I’m surprised. I kinda love the idea. How do you feel about attaching cinnamon rolls to the sides of your head?”
“I don’t want to be Queen Layla.”
“You deliberately fucked that up, because you’re pure, unadulterated evil. But okay, I’ll think some more. Talk soon.”
*
Before he’s even aware of it, it’s nearly time for Scott to fly to DC. In between classes, pack meetings, college lacrosse and his part-time job, the weeks soar by. And he and Stiles are still costumeless. Scott’s about two sleepless nights away from suggesting they go as Adam and Steve in the garden of Eden. When he does suggest it, at the end of his tether, he starts a joint six minute rendition of In a Gadda Da Vida with air guitar, tabletop drumming and fake organ-playing.
“I didn’t know you were such an exhibitionist,” Stiles says after a long, showy drink of water.
“I’m not.”
“As a last resort, we’ll go as each other, down to every last detail. I’m talking underpinnings too, Scotty.”
“No one knows me and we wear practically the same clothes anyway,” Scott points out, more stressed out than he’d care to admit.
“Honestly?” Stiles says, staring into the camera like he’s staring into Scott’s soul. “The costumes are immaterial. Having you here is more important to me.”
Scott wants to reach out and touch him. Hold his hand and draw him close. He settles for softly smiling. “Same, dude.”
*
The airport is a bustle of activity and Scott’s feeling queasy from the flight, exhausted because he had a paper due yesterday and had to pull another all-nighter, and so anxious to see Stiles he thinks he’s going to burst.
When Scott finally sees Stiles, pressing through a throng of bodies, the blood in his veins stops pulsing for a moment and his spine tingles.
Stiles is pale and his heart’s rocketing a mile a minute. He looks around for a second before sprinting up to Scott and launching himself at him. Scott wraps him up in a tight hug and sways him from side-to-side.
“Hi,” Stiles whispers. He pulls away an inch, stares into Scott’s eyes. He’s beautiful over FaceTime, but he’s mesmerizing here. “Good flight?”
“Horrendous. Atrocious. Fucking appalling. But it got me here, so it was totally worth it.”
“You brought your potty-mouth with you. I like it,” Stiles says. Neither of them have moved further apart. Not yet.
“I thought you preferred my pure and sweet mouth?”
Stiles’ gaze focuses on Scott’s lips and the hollows of his cheeks go deep, bright pink. “I like them both to equal degrees.”
Scott’s about to run with that, to take the chance he’s been thinking about since a week after Christmas, a week after the last time he and Stiles were in the same space, but Stiles takes his backpack and marches them toward an airport shuffle bus, chattering all the way about the friends he’s going to introduce to Scott.
*
In Stiles’ room there are large rectangles of cardboard, acrylic paints, sharpies, and tubes of glitter glue all stacked up against one side. Stiles places Scott’s bag on one of the beds, mutters something about his roomie staying with his boyfriend.
“So what’s the plan?”
“The party’s at 9 and I thought maybe we could make FaceTime frames around ourselves, sort of a meta commentary thing.”
“That’s probably the cutest idea you’ve had in your entire life.”
“It wasn’t mine. Mason suggested it.”
Scott laughs, bumps into Stiles. “Of course. Are you gonna offer me a drink and something to eat or is it straight-up nose to the grindstone?”
Stiles glances at the cardboard, back at Scott, at the cardboard again, shrugs. “It can wait another hour. Party technically starts at 9, so we both know it won’t be worthwhile until at least 10:30.”
They grab sodas, fries and burgers from Five Guys to take back to Stiles’ room, sit cross-legged opposite each other on Stiles’ bed. They talk about everything and nothing and it’s nice, hearing the cadence of Stiles’ voice without distortion. Being able to see his myriad expressions without lag.
After they’re finished eating, Scott rests his hand on his belly and slumps against the wall, drifts into a warm and safe mindset. Stiles mirrors him. They talk about movies they’ve seen and all the things they haven’t gotten to watch yet. Eventually they lie down next to each other, Scott with his eyes closed, listening to the metronomic precision of Stiles’ heart.
“You don’t wanna go to this party, do you?” Stiles asks, when it’s gotten dark outside and Scott’s half-dozing.
“It’d mean I’d have to share you again,” Scott confesses, taking Stiles’ hand in his own and resting it on his chest. Stiles’ skin feels so good against his, warm and smooth. Scott loves the weight and security he feels from the simple touch.
“When you put it like that, it doesn’t sound very appealing, no.”
“Why did you wanna go?”
Stiles sighs, starts stroking fingers through Scott’s hair with his free hand, tender and slow. “I wanted to show you off. This is Scotty, the best friend I’ve been talking about for months on end. He’s the greatest person I know.”
“Hard for them not to take that as an insult,” Scott says, smiling so wide his cheeks hurt.
“For some of them, that’s the intention.”
Scott opens his eyes, bites his lip when he sees Stiles’ affectionate half-smile. He thinks – he’s pretty sure – how he’s been feeling isn’t one-sided. Stiles is still scratching his nails lightly against Scott’s scalp, rubbing his thumb at the center of his chest.
“You’re not too disappointed, are you?”
“Are you kidding? All I really wanted was you.”
“You got me,” Scott says, placing his hand at the back of Stiles’ head and craning up at the same time, telegraphing his intentions clearly. Stiles matches him, bending down to close the distance, until they’re almost touching lips. “So life fulfilled,” Scott finishes before claiming his kiss.
It’s sweet and tentative, a gentle exploration that fills Scott up and makes him feel whole.
They didn’t get to go to prom, and they didn’t get to go to this Halloween party, but they got to be together, and that’s all that really matters.
i’ve been watching roswell again recently and does it REALLY ANNOY anyone else how shiri appleby always pronounces the hard “g” in her “ng” digraphs, like instead of saying “wrong” like a normal person it’s like “wron-guh” and i wanna SLAP HER
“There’s no way that thing will fit in the back of the Jeep,” Stiles mused with a touch of smugness as he chomped on a cloud of rainbow cotton candy.
“Then maybe you shouldn’t have won it for me,” Scott amiably countered from somewhere behind the enormous teddy bear he struggled to hold in both arms.
Stiles, throwing an arm around Scott’s shoulders to help guide his path through the throng of carnival-goers Scott couldn’t see due to the giant wall of fur he carried, chuckled and said, “Nothing but the best for my Scotty.”
