Chapter Text
Derek woke naked in an empty bed. The sheets beside him were rumpled but cold. So the boy from last night had had the sense to leave––a relief, as Derek had the biggest headache and wasn’t in the mood to politely make small talk and hint at a one-night-stand to leave. He had drunk too much last night, and he wasn’t able to bounce back as well as he used to. He supposed that was a sign of getting old.
He stumbled down the hall to the bathroom. As he ran water and soap over his hands and face, he heard a loud clang from the kitchen. He dashed out, face still dripping with water. Apparently, the man from last night hadn’t left. He had done the exact opposite, and was now melting butter onto a pan. Derek’s butter. On Derek’s pan.
He cleared his throat.
“Hey! Morning Derek,” the man said.
Derek hated it when they remembered his name. The man was pretty much exactly Derek’s type. He was lean and muscular with bright, curious eyes, and energy emanating out of every part of him. He was absolutely beautiful. What the hell was his name? Was there even a polite way of asking that?
“Hey. What are you doing?”
“Making french toast,” he said.
“You don’t have to do that,” Derek said. What he meant was, please don’t do that.
But the man just shrugged, plopped a piece of the moist bread onto the pan, and said, “No problem at all. My way of thanking you for letting me stay the night.”
“Yeah, it was great,” Derek said. Honestly, he couldn’t remember much. He had an impression of the man and him dancing together at the club last night. Everything after that was a blur.
The man laughed. It was a freeing sound, like a child’s uncontained giggle. “What?” Derek said, defensive. He hated being laughed at.
“Derek, what do you remember from last night?”
“Everything.”
“Oh yeah? How was it then?”
Derek paused. “How was what?” He hedged, trying to glean more information from the man.
He smiled impishly. “You know. How was it ?”
“Oh, like the sex?” Derek said, relieved to be on the same page again. “It was awesome. You’re really good.”
The man raised his eyebrows, staring Derek down. Then he burst out laughing. The laughter went on for far too long, and he only stopped because of the insistent sizzling of the french toast. As he flipped the breakfast, he said, “You’re a big fat liar. We didn’t have sex last night. I told you that you wouldn’t remember.”
Derek felt a bit betrayed by his drunk self that he had managed to bring the beautiful man home and hadn’t even given himself the pleasure of having sex with him. Maybe Laura was right, he should probably cut back. Embarrassed, he didn’t know what to say.
“Well, you owe me trivia night in that case,” the man said.
“What?” Derek snapped.
“Hold on,” he put down the spatula and reached into the pocket of his sweatpants. Actually, Derek’s sweatpants. He pulled out his phone. He opened up the voice memo app and pressed play.
Through the grainy sound quality, Derek could make out his own voice, slurred in drunkenness. “No no no, I’m totally good. I’m not even that drunk.”
The man’s infectious laugh. “Derek, I will bet you anything that you won’t remember a thing tomorrow.”
“But I wanna fuck, pleasssse Stiles?”
Had he heard that right? The man’s name was Styles? Like Harry Styles? Who named their kid that?
“You’re too drunk, man.”
“I’m gonna remember everything. It’s fine. Please?”
“You wanna bet?” Stiles asked, amused.
“Yes. I will remember everything,” Derek heard how he was over enunciating his words, the way he did when he was trying to prove he wasn’t drunk.
“Ok, if you don’t remember all this tomorrow, and I’m right, then you have to come to Trivia night with me and my friends next Friday night.”
“I’m a fucking boss at trivia. I-I’m so smart.”
In the present, Derek closed his eyes and took a deep calming breath to relieve the strong cringe at his drunk self. Stiles smirked at him.
“Wait, wait, wait,” voice-memo Derek said, “What if I remember everything?”
“Well, what do you want?”
The voice memo cut out with the painful sound of static.
Derek sat at his kitchen counter to avoid Stiles’s smug expression.
“That’s when you kissed me, then passed out, by the way.”
“Yeah, I get it,” he muttered.
“So, trivia night next Friday! Our team is me, our pop culture man, my best buddy Scott, our history and literature boeuf, Lydia, our math and science whiz, Jackson, our sports jock, and you, our wild card! It’s great you’re coming, Allison has to work and our team hasn’t missed a trivia night since last year. The Wolf Pack is an expected team at this point.”
“The Wolf Pack?” Derek asked.
“Yep! I came up with it, it’s badass, right?”
Before Derek could disparage the stupid name, Stiles set down a cup of coffee and a plate of french toast with fresh fruit, powdered sugar, and maple syrup.
“Breakfast is served!” Stiles shouted, in a French accent attempt that would have got him beat up by any Frenchman worth his salt.
“Wow, thank you,” Derek dug into the plate, holding back his “happy food dance” as Laura called it. “Where’d you get the fresh fruit?”
“I went to the supermarket this morning. You only had beer and ice cream in your fridge.”
“I don’t cook much,” Derek said, “This is delicious.”
“My dad is a killer breakfast chef. I learned from the best.”
They ate in silence for a minute. Stiles wolfed down his portion, and after he was finished, it became clear there had only been silence because Stiles’ mouth was occupied. This man could talk .
Derek just nodded as Stiles talked about his day job and his dream to become a stand up comic and then his dad and his mom, who had died when he was young, and his best friend Scott and his wife Allison, who had met in high school and been together ever since. He liked that he didn’t have to put much work into the conversation because his hangover was killing him.
Derek stood and started to do the dishes, clearing Stiles’ plate. “Oh, you don’t have to do that,” Stiles said, “I’m the one who made all this mess.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. In my house, there was always a rule that if you cook, you don’t do dishes.”
“Well, thank you.”
“No problem.”
“Tell me about yourself, Derek,” Stiles said.
Derek’s shoulders tensed at the question. Not only did he not like to tell people, especially one night stands, about his life. But this was first date question material. “Nothing to tell.”
“Who cooks in your family?” Stiles asked.
A spoon slipped out of Derek’s hand and fell down the garbage disposal. “No one.” No one, anymore , he thought. “My sister Laura tries. She’s not good at it.”
Luckily, he had said just enough to get Stiles blabbering away again.
Derek worked slowly at the dishes so that he wouldn’t have to look at Stiles as he talked. He was more comfortable this way, having something to do with his hands during a conversation. Finally though, there was no more work to be done. He fiddled with the coffee machine.
“So, if you had won the bet and remembered everything, what would you have asked for in the bet?” Stiles challenged.
Derek looked up at him and raised an eyebrow. Stiles was leaning back on the stool, his elbows on the table. The sweatpants were too big for him and they had slid down his hips. There was a spot of powdered sugar on his collarbone. He could have been on the cover of one of the “sexy boy” magazines Derek had stolen from Laura’s room when he was young.
“I would want...” Derek trailed off, took two strides toward Stiles, and placed his hands on the counter on the outside of Stiles’ elbows and leaned in. Their chests were almost touching. Derek stopped inches away from Stiles’ face, waiting for him to give him a sign either way. Stiles stayed completely still, which was not his natural state. “This,” Derek said, then broke the distance between them.
This he knew how to do. Conversation, not so much. Stiles kissed him back enthusiastically. He tasted like maple syrup. Derek wrapped his arms around Stiles and pulled him more upright. Stiles was quite a good kisser, in Derek’s opinion. And he had a lot of experience. Derek made a low noise in his throat, and Stiles deepened the kiss even further. Without much difficulty, Derek lifted Stiles to sit on the counter and began kissing down his body, pausing to clean up the powdered sugar he had seen earlier.
Stiles was panting, his head thrown back. He ground into Derek’s body and a thrill of desire coursed through him. Derek palmed Stiles’ groin and began kissing below his belly button to meet his fingers with his mouth. Just as he pressed a kiss to the sweatpants Stiles said, “It’s too bad you didn’t win the bet.”
Derek froze, his face still between Stiles’ legs. “What?” he gasped.
“You didn’t win. If you had, then we could be having sex right now, but, since you didn’t,” Stiles hopped down from the counter, almost slamming against Derek’s head as he did so. “I’ll see you at trivia night.”