Sterek drinking cheap beer the night after stiles’ high school graduation
"You cannot be a snot about this," Derek says when he pops the tab on the first can. "You’ll be lucky to get it this good in college, Stiles.”
"That’s not even—"
"Miller High Life is the champagne of beers, okay, I don’t want to hear it.”
"Daphne calls it grown-up Gatorade," Lydia agrees from her perch on steps. "She says it hydrates you in a way that water alone just can’t. It’s science. I should know." She smirks at both of them and takes a long, slow sip.
"I think I liked you better before you started making jokes," Stiles tells her, giving in and pulling a can of his own out of the cooler. It’s slippery with ice, cold enough to burn against his fingertips. It’s cold enough, actually, that he can barely taste anything at all. He drinks half the can in a swallow.
When he looks up Derek is watching him, eyes wide with a look Stiles had only recently started to recognize for want, his gaze fastened squarely on Stiles’ neck, his throat. A quick glance around the yard reveals most of the pack caught up in their own little post-graduate celebrations, Allison trying to teach Boyd and Scott how to turn cartwheels in the grass while Isaac curses manfully at the weakly smoking charcoal in the grill.
"Hey," Stiles says, drawing closer, downing the second half of his beer. "Think we can sneak upstairs for half an hour? ‘Cause I have it on pretty good authority there are other things I’d be lucky to get this good, after I leave." Derek rolls his eyes, but it doesn’t stop him from taking Stiles’ hand and pulling him towards the house.