Smut Please (boyxboy) #wattys2016

(Sciles)

"Look," Scott says, staring at the couch sitting in the foyer in front of him. He flicks his eyes from the arms of the overstuffed thing to the doorframe it's jammed into and then back to the pillows; the sofa is clearly too wide to make it through without some serious damage, but Stiles still looks hopeful.

"I'm not saying it's not going to fit," Scott continues, "But it's not going to fit."

"Come on, dude," Stiles tells him, planting his hands on the back of the couch and vaulting over it into the hallway of the apartment they're currently trying to move into. It's their first apartment together, some shitty little thing Stiles found on Craigslist and sent to Scott in a frantic email. It took Scott less than a second to realize he'd follow Stiles anywhere, and then all of a sudden: a month later they were roping Isaac and Erica and Boyd into helping them move hand-me-down furniture across town, and now here they are, trying to figure out what to do with this disgusting couch that neither of them really wants, anyway.

"Have a little faith," Stiles smirks, and then he's gone, disappeared somewhere into the bowels of the apartment. Scott steps over the couch and sees the last of his foot as it darts into the basement, and then the kitchen is empty.

Scott looks around for a minute, settles himself into his new home. It doesn't feel like that just yet, not really. It's going to be a little while before he really knows it, before he can come home and it will smell right, but the clatter of Stiles banging around in whatever's down in storage reminds him that he won't be alone, at least. He doesn't have to do this without Stiles.

Scott takes a breath and lets out his claws, shucks off his shoes. This is theirs now, and he wants to trace it, to feel it in his hands. He runs a nail along the windowsills, paces the small breadth of the living room, sticks his toes in the tub. He probably won't ever sit his bare ass down in it, it's too dirty for that, but he likes the feel of the cool tile under his skin in the moment of peace before Stiles comes crashing back upstairs. He'll be all breathless and flying limbs before he settles back into himself, the calm and collected kid he's had to become through all the shit they've faced. This kind of unbridled joy, this newness, it happens so much less for both of them now; it's hard to break through the heaviness of their lives sometimes.

Scott likes it when Stiles is like this, excitement brimming over and pushing through the grown-up facade. It's not like Scott feels like an adult, anyway; he still can't believe he's going to have to start cooking his own meals and learning how to load a dishwasher. More than anything, he can't believe someone trusts the two of them to do any of it. Safely, that is.

He circles back around to the kitchen, and as soon as he bends down to open the dishwasher to make sure it isn't rusted out, Scott hears Stiles clambering up the stairs.

"I got it," Stiles yells, and when Scott turns around he lets out a full-belly laugh.

Stiles is standing there in the doorway between the basement and the creepy-ass hallway, backlit and looking maniacal against the peeling and ancient wallpaper, with an old rusted saw in one hand and the other raised in triumph.

"We're going to saw the legs off of this shit," Stiles says.

"Of course we are," Scott answers.

Of course they are.

///

Three legs in, standing in the middle of a pile of sawdust and wood shavings and the shirts they'd thrown on the ground, Stiles looks up and says, "Hold on, buddy." He reaches down and twists his wrist a little to the right and the last leg just pops out, barely even a dent cut into it yet.

"So what you're telling me," Scott says, smiling through his stupor, one arm slung over his forehead in exhaustion, "Is that we could have just screwed the legs off to begin with."