“[We've been creatively partners] since pretty much the first day we ever spoke to each other. Our first conversation- I don't know why we had this conversation, I don't know why it happened this way, but the first thing we talked about was... songwriting. And we were 10. He told me he wrote a song, and then I told him I wrote something and I play guitar and then y'know... he came over to my house and we would just make these bad comedy tapes on little cassettes while mom was working the grave yard shift.”
—Billie Joe Armstrong (x)
002. There's dog piles involved.
It’s a stipulation that the girls have to sleep with their hair up. Jackson spits out hair every few minutes until they put it to a vote. Erica, obviously, does her best to piss everyone off, and loosely balls it on top of her head so that it comes out during her sleep anyway. Lydia braids Allison’s hair back, intricately weaving the hair in and out. Erica comes to Stiles, unwilling to go to Lydia, and Stiles spends the next twenty minutes on YouTube, before he properly braids back her curly blond hair.
It’s not a bed, but rather a huge assortment of mats, and pillows, and quilts. The Hale house has yet to have a proper heater installed, so it starts with Derek in the middle, and Stiles curled next to him, hands around his chest, and Derek’s arm wrapped around Stiles’ shoulders. Somehow everyone manages to snuggle into a huge pile, all of them on top of one another. Scott and Allison wraps their limbs around each other, Erica’s pressed into Stiles’ back, and Derek strokes Isaac’s hair. Boyd is laid out at the end, hand wrapped loosely around Isaac’s. Lydia somehow gets the most space, in between Jackson and Allison.
They co-exist. There’s pancakes in the morning, and Stiles checks over homework, and braids hair and applies make-up, and Derek cleans, and trains, and they work together and complain about the lack of TV. Scott jumps on Jackson, and soon there’s six other people on the co-captains. Stiles grins, half-tempted to join in until Derek wraps his arms around his shoulders, resting his chin in the crook of Stiles’ neck, his stubble pressing into Stiles’ cheek.
“Still good?” Derek asks, mumbling into Stiles’ ear.
Stiles smiles. “Still good.”
