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Stiles has been staring at the picture for a good five minutes now.
He's gotten some strange looks from the other kids in his sixth period gym class because of it. But he physically cannot make himself look away. It isn't a particularly remarkable photo - just a standard 12 x 10 photo of the BHHS Varsity Water Polo Team circa 2009, according to the caption.
Today is the first day of their swim unit in P.E., and also the first time Stiles has spent any amount of time here since Orientation Day in freshman year. Stiles had been walking through the atrium of the building the pool is housed in; there are glass cases specifically made for displaying trophies and awards, not to mention an entire wall dedicated to blown up group photos of past swim and water polo teams. Stiles hadn't been paying particular attention to them as he walked past; too self-conscious in a maroon Speedo, with BHHS in white print scrawled across his ass, which felt two sizes too small.
Coach Kimble had looked down at where his Speedo felt like it was cutting off the blood flow to Stiles' most favoritest body part, assured him the feeling was perfectly normal, and shut his office door in Stiles' face.
Okay then.
So, Stiles had been walking past the trophy cases, not paying particular attention to anything other than his soon-to-be-numb balls, when a face caught his eye. Stiles froze in place before taking a smooth step directly backward and turning to face the photo mounted on the wall.
Derek Hale was staring back at him.
Derek Hale wearing a Speedo was staring back at him.
Derek Hale, wearing a maroon Speedo (Stiles could only assume BHHS was printed across his ass too and paused for a moment to picture it) was staring at him.
Doing some (frankly beyond his mental capabilities at the moment and having to resort to finger-counting) math, Stiles quickly figured out that Derek had been on the varsity water polo team two years before. Stiles cursed his parent's decision to not have him two or three years earlier.
Then Stiles remembered they'd only known each other for a year before conceiving him and cursed fate instead.
Instead of shaking his fist toward the sky (ceiling) in impotent rage, and risking drawing more attention to himself in the process, Stiles took a step closer to The Photo instead. Further study was needed.
Other than younger-Derek's painfully good looks, (slightly smaller and leaner than the first time Stiles had seen him, but laundry could still conceivably be done on his abs), the photo is otherwise ordinary. Derek and his eleven painfully average-looking teammates gathered around Coach Kimble holding a yellow water polo ball. This does nothing to explain Stiles’ unmitigated fascination with it.
He's seen cute boys in speedos before. Stiles and Scott have spent the past five summers at the Beacon Hills Community Pool whenever the weather became too hot to sit around in their boxers playing video games. Hot guys in skimpy swimsuits are something Stiles has become intimately acquainted with (via his internet connection) since discovering his bisexuality at the age of twelve.
But there's always been something about Derek that's drawn Stiles to him - something he hasn't experienced since Derek went away to college the previous September.
Stepping as close to the picture as he can without pressing his face into it, Stiles looks into picture-Derek's eyes. Because he possesses more than a modicum of self-preservation, Stiles has never allowed himself to really examine Derek Hale's eyes before and he briefly regrets that Derek and he have never shared so much as a passing word and a love of lacrosse, because his eyes are beautiful.
Shades of blue, green, and gold.
Stiles takes his time cataloging them, vaguely aware of classmates passing him by in the entry way to go to the pool. Class must be starting soon, but Stiles has moved on from his in-depth study of Derek's eyes to the line of his neck and can't find any fucks to give.
It looks like a good neck to have; strong and smooth, a blank slate. The graceful curve of his neck segues flawlessly into the not inconsiderable arch of his shoulders. Stiles’ eyes make love to Derek’s photo. His heart beat thumps out sonnets to Derek’s eyes; an ode to the supple line of his arms, inches smaller than Stiles assumes they are now.
Stiles’ eyes are covetously tracing the outline of Derek’s abs and following the dark trail of hair down to his Speedos when a hand claps down on his shoulder, startling him so much he flails backward and slaps whoever dared to interrupt this momentous moment in Stiles’ life in the face.
Accidentally, of course.
Coach Kimble is staring back at him with one eye, his hand covering the other, when Stiles turns around to see who’d startled him.
Coach’s good eye glances back at the photo Stiles has been adoring for the past five minutes before flickering down to his Speedo, which is approximately when Stiles realizes that he’s hard. And most likely has been for the past four and a half minutes, while his classmates rushed past him giving him bizarre looks, which Stiles had attributed to him standing mere inches from a two year old water polo team photo with his mouth gaping open.
Guess the Speedo wasn’t cutting off his blood circulation, after all.
Coach Kimble rolls his one good eye and huffs out a sigh before nodding back in the direction of the locker room. “Take care of that before coming to class, Stilinski.”
And walks away, like this is not the first time he’s found an underclassman ogling Derek Hale’s team photo, and is secure in the knowledge that it won’t be the last.
Stiles walks back to the locker room, bypassing the closed toilet stalls and heading straight to the nearest shower head and turning the handle all the way to cold. As Stiles stands shivering under the freezing cold water, he simultaneously considers standing under the spray until he drowns and also how he can steal that photo without Coach automatically assuming (correctly) that it was him.
It appears that his infatuation with Derek Hale is alive and well after almost a year of not seeing him.
Good to know.
*
Derek has been away at Humboldt State University for eight months.
This is the first time he’s been back to Beacon Hills in just as long. He didn’t even go to Beacon Hills for Christmas, as his family picked him up from school in their RV on their way to Oregon to visit his mom’s brother, Peter, and his family.
Humboldt State is only a three hour drive away from Beacon Hills, but Derek has been making a concentrated effort to be as involved in school activities as possible. He’s joined a nature conservancy club, made some new friends; even dated a guy for three months right after he moved to Humboldt. They broke up shortly after Christmas though and Derek hasn’t really missed him.
The sex? Yes. The guy? Not really, which was sort of the reason they broke up in the first place. It seems Derek’s body can do what his mind and heart can’t.
Connect to people.
With the exception of one, who he has made a separate and concentrated effort to not think of. More than once a week (day).
In fact, Derek has been thinking of him less and less; the regret of not saying something or even introducing himself before he left Beacon Hills fading a little bit each day. He has a separate life now and has taken great strides to not be thought of as “Future Recluse Guy” or “Laura Hale’s Weird Little Brother” to his new classmates. Even Laura admitted that he’s made excellent progress when she and their parents visited him for Thanksgiving and she saw that he’d actually developed a social life.
All of this progress is, of course, instantly undone when Derek pulls into the parking lot of Beacon Hills’ best grocery store in his mom’s Range Rover and sees a shirtless high-school-aged boy standing at the entrance holding a strategically placed sign.
‘BHHS JV Lacrosse Team CAR WASH!!!’
Another boy is standing near him in a similar fashion holding a neon green sign proclaiming, ‘COME SUPPORT OUR TEAM – BRING US YOUR FILTHY VEHICLES!!’
Behind them is an entire operation; three cars in the process of being washed by shirtless, swim-trunk clad teenage boys and girls wearing bikinis. It looks like the JV cheerleading and JV lacrosse teams have joined forces; members of both teams working either the car wash or a nearby lemonade/snack stand for their waiting customers.
Derek parks near the back of the parking lot, even though there are spots open closer to the front and his mom only sent him out to pick up milk and eggs.
There’s already a line three cars deep and the kids are doing brisk business. Derek is thinking how he’s actually impressed at their level of organization (his water polo team had taken their car wash fundraiser as an excuse to shoot each other with high powered hoses until Coach Kimble threatened to take away the hose and make them use buckets) when Derek hears a familiar laugh.
It’s sad how familiar he is with it, considering he’s never actually been its cause. Derek’s eyes automatically seek out the source and find him immediately.
Derek has been gone from Beacon Hills for eight months, but he hasn’t seen Stiles in closer to ten.
A lot has changed in the year he went away.
Gone is the whip-cord thin boy he left behind and in his place is a young man. His shoulders are noticeably broader; his legs lightly muscled from lacrosse. Even his face is different, slightly leaner and ages more mature looking than he’d been as a freshman.
Derek suddenly realizes he’s been frozen in place for at least a full minute, blatantly ogling an underage boy in front of the entire JV lacrosse team and the rest of Beacon Hills who’ve chosen to do their shopping on Friday afternoon. He tears his eyes away from Stiles and continues walking into the store. Derek gathers his purchases quickly and checks out before heading back to his mom’s car.
Derek’s eyes are unwillingly drawn back to Stiles in a familiar fashion as he walks, and Derek looks ahead at his mom’s Range Rover instead.
His mom’s spotlessly clean Range Rover, damn it.
He looks back toward Stiles one more time; vowing it will be the last glance he steals before he leaves the next day for Humboldt, just as Stiles whips his wet t-shirt off his head and throws it at his friend Scott’s head. Stiles is laughing, openly, joyously. His lightly muscled abs clench reflexively and suddenly Derek thinks to himself, ‘Maybe I’ll go back and get Laura’s car. It’s pretty dirty from the drive up from L.A.; a nice brother would do that for his sister, right?’