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Today is Stile’s eighteenth birthday.
And every mother fucking body forgot about it.
At first, he thought they were planning to surprise him by pretending they didn’t know what day it was. He dropped a few majorly unsubtle hints (‘cause that’s just how he rolled) but werewolves had to be some of the densest creatures on the god damn planet since they didn’t get them. At all. Scott even asked if there was some project due in school he was forgetting about, to which Stiles just closed his eyes, slammed his head on the lunch table, and let out a quiet sigh.
Maybe this was his curse for being born on February the 14th, when everyone was all lovey dovey and focused on more important things than the birthday of a loser like him. Scott and Isaac were acting all cuddly and adorable, yet still insisting they weren’t a couple—the linked hands beneath the table said otherwise. Erica was sitting in Boyd’s lap and smiling, for God’s sake. When she looked at him with all of her teeth showing, he instinctively ducked and covered, ignoring the mocking jeers coming from Jackson, whose arm was across Lydia’s shoulders. Lydia seemed to be the only one thinking something was wrong with the way Stiles was acting—he wasn’t usually this blatant or this…depressed. Normally they were telling him to shut up, not to speak up.
Of course, immediately after that, Derek strolled into the cafeteria liked he owned the place. His tight black tee shirt and skinny jeans clung to his body like a second skin; the collar on his leather jacket was turned up and the black biker boots on his feet were scuffed. His black hair was rumpled as though he had just rolled out of bed—though with Derek, it was more likely that he had just been rolling around in the dirt with another supernatural creature. A mixed pack of weres had just moved into Hale territory, including a fearsome wereturtle. Stiles hated turtles since his mother bought him an evil turtle named Opie who used to get out of his cage to stalk Stiles and destroy Stiles’ stuff.
All of the betas at the table had stood up as soon as Derek had walked in through the doors, ready and itching for a fight. Frankly, Stiles would rather finish the pathetic birthday cupcake that the entire table had stolen bites out of it (after removing the single sparkly red candle he had been about to blow out) than go out and risk his life for a rude Alpha who couldn’t stand him. Hell, he wasn’t even pack—everyone, including puppy Isaac said so, and no way in hell would he ever admit how much it crushed him to hear the words, “You aren’t pack,” even though Danny and Lydia were also human and pack. —but everyone expected him to be at their beck and call twenty-four seven to research, use his ‘spark’ to work magic, or to become bait since Jackson vehemently declared that Lydia and Danny would never be human bait. Stiles wished that he could just bow out, but he knew that one reason would always keep him coming back to the pack.
He was in love with Derek Hale.
Oh, he’d accepted that way back in sophomore year, when Scott first got mixed up in the supernatural. He couldn’t just ignore the fact that he thought about Derek all the damn time, usually not fully clothed. At first it made him uncomfortable, but when it became such a regular occurrence that Derek’s face even snuck into his jacking off time, he had to accept it. It wasn’t easy, by all means, but he did. It was now the end of senior year, so he’d definitely had some time to think on whether it was a crush or more—more was the correct answer.
So, the epitome of sex on legs was now standing in front of him, glaring. Over the years, he’d categorized them into four specific types: I’ll rip out your throat with my teeth, why the hell won’t you shut up, come now, or why are you still breathing. Of all of them, he hated the last one the most and it happened to be the one he had receiving now; he wouldn’t deny that his breath seized in his lungs and his heart stopped beating with the full force of that glare turned on him. He had no idea what he was doing wrong until Derek plucked the easy light Bic out of his fingers and chucked it into the garbage. Derek’s hand fisted in his shirt and Stiles felt himself being pulled out of his seat and drug out of the cafeteria. For a second, he considered blowing the rape whistle his dad gave him, but he knew Derek wouldn’t take kindly to being handcuffed and detained in a jail cell. So he went limp and allowed himself to be carted towards the woods.
Stiles was completely through with helping the wolves after this; he swore it on his mother’s grave, which he had only done once before to promise that he would keep his father healthy and keep up a semblance of happiness for himself. Insofar as he could, he felt that for a teenage boy he had done well, especially since his mom died back when he was eight after a car accident. He could feel tears well up in his eyes at the memory, dashing them away quickly with the heels of his hands, remembering a little too late that weres could smell pretty much everything, including emotions.
Right now, Stiles was ready to eject whatever supernatural baddie Derek had taken them out of class to beat and go home to crash on the house with his normal birthday dinner of a cold pizza, curly fries, and a gallon of Mountain Dew sipped through a swirly straw. Hell, now that he thought about it, his father had forgotten his birthday for the last ten years, always picking up extra shifts at the station to avoid home during the day of love, which he used to spend with Stiles’ mother by holding a candlelit dinner on the terrace of their old house—they’d moved after she died because memories of her were present throughout the entire house, from the paint on the walls, (pastels were her signature as an artist) the grape juice stains on the carpet (she’d loved grape juice), to the raw pancake batter splattered on the ceiling (she’d never had managed to learn how to control the throw so they didn’t hit the ceiling, so Stiles cooked the traditional Sunday morning pancakes from age four onwards, when he could finally reach the counter by only using the stepping stool.).
The entire battle was a blur to Stiles; he couldn’t even tell you what they were fighting or if he did anything more than sit like a lethargic lump trapped in his thoughts. He assumed he fired off a few spells, since his fingers were sparking lightly, but he couldn’t recall what they were even if he were tortured. The final snarl rang through the early afternoon fight, signaling that the fight was over. There were no injuries or casualties on their side, but the intruding weres had lost most of their pack. They beat a hasty retreated, tails between their legs, cutting towards the Nevada border. As soon as all sounds faded out and the other wolves left Stiles and Derek alone, he drove off in his Jeep.
As soon as he parked the Jeep, he threw himself out the door and shoved opened the door, not having bothered to lock it behind him when he left that morning. The only people likely to be dumb enough to walk into the sheriff’s house were the wolves and they usually came in through Stiles’ window anyway, so there was really no point in locking the door—also, the lock had been broken when he was kidnapped by orcs at the end of junior year. He barreled up the steps and threw his bag down on the floor of his room, throwing himself face first onto his mattress, inhaling deeply. The tears that had welled up earlier in the day came back with a vengeance and there was no way he could stop after the first few trickled down his cheeks. He sobbed, shoulders heaving, the sound oddly comforting in the silence. It meant he was alive and still capable of feeling, that he didn’t have to use his sarcasm and humor as a shield when he was in the privacy of his own room. As far as the rest of the population knew, Stiles Stilinski never cried and he was as strong as Derek Hale in protecting his feelings. In truth, he was likely the most fragile person you would ever meet and he knew it. He built walls so high and so thick that he only let himself creep out on two days a year: his birthday, so today, and the anniversary of his mother’s death. So he let himself go, not even batting an eye when he felt the bed sink lower as another body sat down on it.
But when the presence began carding its fingers through his hair, he stiffened slightly. He had let it grow out since sophomore year, into a hairstyle he though looked like a duck’s butt, and hated when people touched it; it was the one thing only his mother was allowed to do, which is why he had buzzed it immediately following her passing. There were so many euphemisms for death, he realized, but none of them took the sting out of what it meant; they were never coming back and that all hope was lost.
He sat up quickly, effectively ripping the fingers out of his hair and glared through his tears at the offender into his weakness. It was none other than Derek Hale, the cause of most of his pain singularly. Swiping his hands across his face quickly, wiping away all the tears from his face, he attempted to get up off of the bed, but several sets on strong hands pushed him down again. Now that his eyes were free of the tears obscuring his vision, he could see that the entire pack was there—the pack he wasn’t part of. Growing angry, he growled slightly, shocking the pack, but especially Derek.
“What is your pack doing here, Derek? This is my house, not yours, but it seems like you have all forgotten that fact, considering how much time you spend in my bedroom and force me to help you. I’d love it if you would all just fuck off and leave me alone, for good.”
Lying back down on the bed, shoving Derek off the edge with his feet, he turned his face towards the wall—rather, he was turning his back on his non-pack. He thought they had left until Isaac spoke up, his voice surprisingly snappish for the puppy, who was known for being nice and his naiveté.
“What the hell are you going on about his pack? This is your pack, too, you know. So why don’t you take that stick out of your ass and tell us what the fuck this is really about.”
Stiles growled again, lower in his throat and rocketed off the bed, clenching his fists to avoid hitting the beta in the face like an idiot—the rest of the pack would rip him apart if he hurt Isaac, or any of the other members really. Except possibly Jackson, since most of them still hated him.
“No, it’s not. Just yesterday you told me, ‘you aren’t pack,’ so what the fuck are you talking about? I’ve never been a member of this pack, no matter how much I wanted to be. I’ve been you stupid, magical, faithful lapdog for the past three years and I’m sick of it. I’m tired of abusing my Adderall and pulling several all nighters in a row. I hate coffee, but now my blood stream is more of a caffeine stream, what with all of it I drink to keep up with you idiots on full moons, which Derek always forces me to attend. I want to be normal, to have people actually remember my birthday and to bake me a cupcake, rather than gobbling mine up at lunch. I’d like to be able to remember my mother without connecting it with something bad that happened to one of you. I’d like to be able to show weakness and to not always be strong because that’s what you all expect of me; to be invincible, sarcastic Stiles who manages to trip over air and is always able to crack a smile in the direst of circumstances. I’d like to be ME. For one god damn minute without anyone judging me.”
Based on the stunned expressions on the faces of the pack, this had never occurred to them; that Stiles wasn’t the Stiles they all knew and tolerated, if barely. He could practically smell the emotions that must have been rolling off of him in waves: anger, depression, need, want, love, fear, regret, tiredness, and weakness. Stiles felt the tears come back into his eyes and he took a shuddering breath, trying to calm down.
Just when he had collected himself enough to be able to shove them out, he felt Isaac fling himself on top of him, folding his tall frame across Stiles protectively. Next came Scott, wrapping his arms around Isaac and Stiles’ legs, gripping them tight to hold them flush to his chest. Erica and Boyd each grabbed a foot and cuddled it to themselves, while Lydia, Jackson, and Danny settled around his head. Derek was the only one not to have joined the puppy pile, as Stiles called them, though he had never been part of one before, before Derek slipped before Stiles and pulled him flush to his chest, kissing him soundly on the mouth.
Stiles was pretty sure his brain was broken, since there was no way in god’s green earth that Derek Hale, Derek Hale, was kissing him. But when a tongue swiped across his bottom lip, causing him to gasp, he knew that he wasn’t dream by the feel of the wet tongue against his own, battling for dominance. The rest of the pack purred appreciatively, kissing there significant others firmly as well; Jackson kissed Lydia and Danny, which was a shock, Erica kissed Boyd, and Isaac kissed Scott, effectively and efficiently outing them to the pack.
When all of the couples—or threesomes, in the case of Jackson, Lydia, and Danny—Derek rumbled a laugh deep in his chest—Stiles could feel it reverberate against his own ribs. Then he opened his mouth and said the words Stiles had been dying to hear all day:
“Happy eighteenth birthday, Stiles Stilinski.”