Chapter Text
Rugby Union; New Zealand vs Scotland.
Scotland home game.“What, so you like big muscly men?” Derek grumbles, slouched on the sofa, staring at the television. Seriously, it’s like he never blinks.
Stiles would have spit out his whitebread biscuit if he hadn’t have finished the entire box two minutes ago. He turned in his position from his sofa, and stared at Derek like he’d just seriously asked him if he liked sporty men whose muscle toning were about of thick as Stiles’ torso.
“No,” he says slowly, like Derek is mentally deficient, because, like, he is. At least, when he says stuff like that, not, like, when he’s bickering with Peter. Then it just sounds like he’s sharing his vocal chord box with a bunch of angry wolves. Which he is. Half, at least.
Derek stares at him, face folded in half under the pressure of his dark, angsty eyebrows, but Stiles chooses to ignore him in favour of watching a couple of Scotsmen barrel through the defences of some New Zealanders and make an epic sprint to the last line, Tim Visser scoring his first Try. He cheers and loses his filter from his brain to his mouth, choosing to enjoy the moment at its fullest. Which is to say, shout along with the commentators. As loud as he can. With lots of “ooh”s and “aah”s and “YES!”s.
On the sofa next to him, Derek scowls at the television, very Derek-like and grumpy and sour. Stupid Alpha.
“I don’t—” Stiles starts, then rephrases his answer under the warning growl the wolf lets loose. Stiles is already painfully aware that he is whipped when it comes to Derek and his annoyed snort-growls. “I can see the art and skill in it, in rugby. I can appreciate the sport.”
Derek is silent, staring at Chris Hoy and some other British Olympic Champions enter the arena amidst the crowd going wild with cheers, all straining to get a picture or a handshake.
Derek doesn’t say anything.
“Not that I don’t, uh, like muscle.” Stiles mumbles, slightly disorientated as he flashes a rugby player on the screen getting a booking and being sent off with a yellow card displayed across the board. The crowd is of mixed feelings about it; the Kiwis screaming foul, the Scotsmen out-shouting them with their boos for vengeance and justice.
Derek still doesn’t say anything, glaring at the New Zealander that tackled a Scotsman, replayed in slow motion, his foul play coming to light when his boot stamps on someone’s head. Stiles calls him a filthy bastard, then resumes his flailing.
“Muscle is great, I swear. I mean, obviously, I need to gain a bit, but, … Yeah. Muscle looks good on guys though, um, like you, and, … It really works with girls, but it looks horrible when they just turn into these body builders and lose their chest fat—”
“Stiles,” Derek growls, just heard over the television sounds.
He swallows and gulps nervously. “Right. But, um. What I’m trying to say is that, … Well.” Derek looks at him from the corner of his eyes, hazel green eyes curious. Stiles is momentarily distracted by his cocked eyebrow.
“I like muscle, but, uh, I like yours more.”
There’s a tense silence where Stiles refuses to look at anything but the television and his shoes peeking over the edge of the sofa. Finally, he can’t take it anymore, and turns and stares at Derek.
He’s surprised to find him shaking with silent laughter.
“Hey! That isn’t funny!” he squawks, cheeks flushing red. He throws a pillow at him, which harmlessly bounces off his shoulder. Derek’s shaking increases, and Stiles is slightly disappointed that he won’t share his happiness with others more often, because it really shows him in a different light. A good light. One that’s upbeat and happy and fun. He’s attractive that way, Stiles realises.
Derek’s muted giggle fit tapered off, and he turned to look at Stiles, a sort of challenge in his eyebrows, eyes bright and vivid, mouth crooked at one corner, twisted into a sort of smirk. A smile-smirk. Like Stiles had just given him a mayor compliment. Which, … He kind of had.
I like your muscles better than those other people.
You look good.
I think that you look good.
Stiles’ mouth may or may not have dropped open slightly, and he’s certainly not aware that he’s missed the half time break, and that he’s already missed fifteen minutes worth of the second half. He’s just staring at Derek; all smirky and slightly cocky but happy. With Stiles.
“Come here, you,” Derek says, soft, a hint of amusement in there somewhere.
He reaches out from his sofa to Stiles’ sofa, and his hand cradles the back of his head, pulling him closer.
And Derek’s lips meet his somewhere in the middle, lazy and content and happy.
For the rest of the game, all Stiles can think about are making suggestions of them playing rugby on their own.
Naked.
