![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
januarylightStiles loves St. Patrick's Day. He just wishes he could remember it.
*
“I’m Scottish!” Scott protests, trying to peel Trent Wilson off his back. “I mean, my name is Scottish, not Irish!”
He’s wearing a Nessie tshirt and everything, poor guy. It’s the one night of the year Stiles is grateful for his surname—it isn’t linked to any so-called holidays that are likely to lead to his dad having to arrest him for drunk and disorderly or public affray, which would definitely lead to disinheritance, if there were anything to inherit, and possibly to his dad disowning him and disavowing all knowledge of where Stiles might’ve picked up that little alcohol problem from.
Not that Stiles has an alcohol problem. He doesn’t know anybody who does.
Stiles loves St. Patrick’s Day.
He ignores Trent and his friends trying to pour green beer into Scott’s mouth—and what is Scott even complaining about, he can’t get drunk, so he has no excuse for being such a priss about it anymore—and wanders up to Jackson’s bar.
Jackson’s parents have an actual bar, with bottles of spirits hanging up behind it and everything, and okay, those are mostly empty by now, and people have moved onto the warm beer they brought with them, but Stiles is an admirer of conspicuous consumption when it’s so cool, okay?
Jackson is standing at the bar, crushing empty beer cans and throwing them into a trashbag.
Stiles looks at what’s left and decides he’s going to make himself a Belfast Bomber.
“Hennessy’s,” Jackson says.
“Huh?” Stiles asks, and Jackson snatches his shot glass away to add something from one of the hanging bottles.
“Want one?” Stiles asks.
“My life is so depressing,” Jackson says, sweeping all the plastic cups on the bar into the bag. “I don’t know why I got out of bed today.”
“What’s wrong?” Stiles asks. “Oh. Yeah, that’s pretty bad. Although you could have just—not thrown a party. Just throwing it out there.”
Jackson dumps his bag at Stiles’ feet and wanders off muttering something about Stiles’ lack of understanding of the social graces, and total loserhood, and Stiles knocks back his drink.
There’s still some Guinness in the can, so he brings it with him when he wanders towards Scott.
Lydia intercepts him.
“Derek’s here,” she says. “I’m not dealing.”
And she turns him around and shoves him into the crowd, and when he staggers out the other side Derek is standing in front of him scowling.
“Hi!” Stiles says happily. “I didn’t know you were coming!”
He goes in for a hug, but it gets weird when he’s been doing it for a while and Derek isn’t hugging him back.
“Are you not having a good time?” Stiles asks, concerned.
“Why are you all here?” Derek asks.
Stiles waves around, because obviously.
“Uh,” he says. “Why are you here if you’re just going to be a grumpypuss? You’re worse than Jackson!”
“Why aren’t you at the meeting,” Derek growls.
“Oh, dude,” Stiles says, laughing. “Tonight?”
“It’s Friday.”
“Why do we have to have meetings on Friday anyway? It’s the worst night. What’s wrong with Wednesday? Nobody ever has anything to do on Wednesday!”
“Meetings are on Friday. Why is nobody there?”
Stiles waves his hand around again, and he almost hits Derek in the face, but Derek is fast, and soft and warm, or his hands are anyway, and then Stiles buries his face in Derek’s chest, just to check.
After a minute, Derek pulls him off and holds him away.
“It’s St. Patrick’s Day!” Stiles says, laughing. “You’re just going to have to reschedule. But not tomorrow, okay? Because nobody—well, everybody else will be fine, but I will not be fine, it is my aim for the night not to be fine, it is my goal to still be drunk by noon tomorrow.”
“Aiming high,” Derek says.
“Yup,” Stiles says, and finishes his can, before throwing it in Jackson’s general direction. “I need another drink. You should get me a drink.”
“It’s a houseparty,” Derek says. “Get your own.”
“No,” Stiles says, with extreme dignity, and tugs on Derek’s arm until Derek comes back over to the bar with him.
“A sidecar, please,” Stiles says, and Derek picks a can out of the bag on the ground and deposits it in front of Stiles.
“I don’t know whose this is,” Stiles says happily. “I finished mine. Thank you, kind sir!”
Derek holds him up while he drinks it, he thinks, but then he forgets why Derek’s body is so close to his, why he’s pressed between the wooden bar and the hard, warm line of Derek behind him, and just leans back into it, throwing his arm up around Derek’s neck and knocking the remainder of his drink to the floor.
“What—“ Derek says, annoyed, eyes following the drink to the ground, but then Stiles turns in his arms, and suddenly it feels like they’re so much closer, not close enough, and it’s nice, it’s good, and Stiles wants it so much.
His hand is already on the back of Derek’s neck, so it’s no trouble to let the other one join it there, to link his arms around Derek’s neck and pull him down, so Stiles can kiss him, and Stiles does realise he’s drunk, okay, but Stiles is an awesome drunk kisser, okay, where do you think he got all his practice?
Derek is better at it, though, keeping their mouths together, not sliding off somewhere else that doesn’t feel as good, and how is Derek so much better at this than Stiles is, than anyone else Stiles has ever kissed before? But Stiles is licking into Derek’s mouth, licking at his tongue and slipping his hands below the waistband of Derek’s jeans to get at his warm skin, and it’s okay, because Stiles can be filthy when he’s drunk, that’s fine, and he’s rubbing up against Derek’s hard body and laughing into his mouth when Derek pulls away and that’s okay too.
Derek smiles down at him, looking slightly puzzled, but Derek’s always like that, Derek doesn’t understand anything, doesn’t really know how the world works outside pack.
“You owe me another drink,” Stiles says, kissing Derek’s throat.
Derek makes him another Belfast Bomber, and that’s the last thing Stiles remembers, so he supposes he shouldn’t really be surprised when he wakes up beside Derek the next morning, totally naked.
He is, though.
*
“I’m Scottish!” Scott protests, trying to peel Trent Wilson off his back. “I mean, my name is Scottish, not Irish!”
He’s wearing a Nessie tshirt and everything, poor guy. It’s the one night of the year Stiles is grateful for his surname—it isn’t linked to any so-called holidays that are likely to lead to his dad having to arrest him for drunk and disorderly or public affray, which would definitely lead to disinheritance, if there were anything to inherit, and possibly to his dad disowning him and disavowing all knowledge of where Stiles might’ve picked up that little alcohol problem from.
Not that Stiles has an alcohol problem. He doesn’t know anybody who does.
Stiles loves St. Patrick’s Day.
He ignores Trent and his friends trying to pour green beer into Scott’s mouth—and what is Scott even complaining about, he can’t get drunk, so he has no excuse for being such a priss about it anymore—and wanders up to Jackson’s bar.
Jackson’s parents have an actual bar, with bottles of spirits hanging up behind it and everything, and okay, those are mostly empty by now, and people have moved onto the warm beer they brought with them, but Stiles is an admirer of conspicuous consumption when it’s so cool, okay?
Jackson is standing at the bar, crushing empty beer cans and throwing them into a trashbag.
Stiles looks at what’s left and decides he’s going to make himself a Belfast Bomber.
“Hennessy’s,” Jackson says.
“Huh?” Stiles asks, and Jackson snatches his shot glass away to add something from one of the hanging bottles.
“Want one?” Stiles asks.
“My life is so depressing,” Jackson says, sweeping all the plastic cups on the bar into the bag. “I don’t know why I got out of bed today.”
“What’s wrong?” Stiles asks. “Oh. Yeah, that’s pretty bad. Although you could have just—not thrown a party. Just throwing it out there.”
Jackson dumps his bag at Stiles’ feet and wanders off muttering something about Stiles’ lack of understanding of the social graces, and total loserhood, and Stiles knocks back his drink.
There’s still some Guinness in the can, so he brings it with him when he wanders towards Scott.
Lydia intercepts him.
“Derek’s here,” she says. “I’m not dealing.”
And she turns him around and shoves him into the crowd, and when he staggers out the other side Derek is standing in front of him scowling.
“Hi!” Stiles says happily. “I didn’t know you were coming!”
He goes in for a hug, but it gets weird when he’s been doing it for a while and Derek isn’t hugging him back.
“Are you not having a good time?” Stiles asks, concerned.
“Why are you all here?” Derek asks.
Stiles waves around, because obviously.
“Uh,” he says. “Why are you here if you’re just going to be a grumpypuss? You’re worse than Jackson!”
“Why aren’t you at the meeting,” Derek growls.
“Oh, dude,” Stiles says, laughing. “Tonight?”
“It’s Friday.”
“Why do we have to have meetings on Friday anyway? It’s the worst night. What’s wrong with Wednesday? Nobody ever has anything to do on Wednesday!”
“Meetings are on Friday. Why is nobody there?”
Stiles waves his hand around again, and he almost hits Derek in the face, but Derek is fast, and soft and warm, or his hands are anyway, and then Stiles buries his face in Derek’s chest, just to check.
After a minute, Derek pulls him off and holds him away.
“It’s St. Patrick’s Day!” Stiles says, laughing. “You’re just going to have to reschedule. But not tomorrow, okay? Because nobody—well, everybody else will be fine, but I will not be fine, it is my aim for the night not to be fine, it is my goal to still be drunk by noon tomorrow.”
“Aiming high,” Derek says.
“Yup,” Stiles says, and finishes his can, before throwing it in Jackson’s general direction. “I need another drink. You should get me a drink.”
“It’s a houseparty,” Derek says. “Get your own.”
“No,” Stiles says, with extreme dignity, and tugs on Derek’s arm until Derek comes back over to the bar with him.
“A sidecar, please,” Stiles says, and Derek picks a can out of the bag on the ground and deposits it in front of Stiles.
“I don’t know whose this is,” Stiles says happily. “I finished mine. Thank you, kind sir!”
Derek holds him up while he drinks it, he thinks, but then he forgets why Derek’s body is so close to his, why he’s pressed between the wooden bar and the hard, warm line of Derek behind him, and just leans back into it, throwing his arm up around Derek’s neck and knocking the remainder of his drink to the floor.
“What—“ Derek says, annoyed, eyes following the drink to the ground, but then Stiles turns in his arms, and suddenly it feels like they’re so much closer, not close enough, and it’s nice, it’s good, and Stiles wants it so much.
His hand is already on the back of Derek’s neck, so it’s no trouble to let the other one join it there, to link his arms around Derek’s neck and pull him down, so Stiles can kiss him, and Stiles does realise he’s drunk, okay, but Stiles is an awesome drunk kisser, okay, where do you think he got all his practice?
Derek is better at it, though, keeping their mouths together, not sliding off somewhere else that doesn’t feel as good, and how is Derek so much better at this than Stiles is, than anyone else Stiles has ever kissed before? But Stiles is licking into Derek’s mouth, licking at his tongue and slipping his hands below the waistband of Derek’s jeans to get at his warm skin, and it’s okay, because Stiles can be filthy when he’s drunk, that’s fine, and he’s rubbing up against Derek’s hard body and laughing into his mouth when Derek pulls away and that’s okay too.
Derek smiles down at him, looking slightly puzzled, but Derek’s always like that, Derek doesn’t understand anything, doesn’t really know how the world works outside pack.
“You owe me another drink,” Stiles says, kissing Derek’s throat.
Derek makes him another Belfast Bomber, and that’s the last thing Stiles remembers, so he supposes he shouldn’t really be surprised when he wakes up beside Derek the next morning, totally naked.
He is, though.
