Inspired by swingsetindecember’s Stiles/Milk madness:

Stiles slams  the refrigerator door, and sucking in a deep breath, yells, “Derek!”

He doesn’t care that Derek is sleeping, and he certainly doesn’t care  that Derek has sensitive werewolf ears, because Stiles is furious. Livid, even. There are not enough words to describe how much rage is coursing through his body. 

Moments later, Derek shuffles into the kitchen, groggily rubbing his eyes.Stiles absolutely does not think it’s cute or endearing. 

“What?”

He gestures to the bowl of dry cereal and empty glass on the counter and then to the fridge, “We have no milk. You were supposed to get milk yesterday, Derek. Why is there no milk?”

“I did get milk,” he huffs as he starts up the coffee maker, “It’s in the same place where we always put the milk.”

“No!” And seriously? They’ve been over this a million times already. “You got almond milk. Almond milk. It’s not even real milk. It’s nut juice. As in a liquid that comes from nuts. Congratulations, Derek, you literally bought a carton of jizz and now you want me to eat my cereal with it. Well, guess what? It’s not happening.”

And frankly, he is offended that Derek would insult the deliciousness of milk by deigning to put fucking almond milk in it’s place. He weeps for his boyfriend’s terrible taste buds. 

Derek is strangely quiet as he pours himself a cup of coffee. He calmly stirs in his sugar, then opens the fridge and pulls out the almond milk. A very generous heaping amount of almond milk later, Derek takes a long, slow swallow that is positively orgasmic, closing his eyes and letting out a blissful sigh. 

After the second sip, he finally looks at Stiles and smirks. “If you want your 2% milk so bad, you can go to the store and buy it yourself.”

And Stiles is just so done with this asshole. He throws his hands up in exasperation. 

“Fine!” he snaps. He stomps over to the door, barely remembering to throw on his shoes (sans socks, but he’s only going to the grocery store) and grab his keys before he’s out the door.

***

  Stiles stands in front of the milk selection longer than is strictly appropriate. Local is better, right? It travels less distance, so it’s more fresh. Or should he go for the organic, Whole Foodsy milk that says their cows aren’t treated with anything and live in cow heaven? 

He shakes his head and grabs the nearest half gallon with a clearly marked 2%. Not too thick, but not white water, either. It has the perfect consistency, which is why he drinks it all the time. 

He puts back the jug for a whole gallon. Hmm, he should probably get two. Before he can think too much about dairy overdose, he pulls a second carton off the shelf and heads for the cereal aisle.

***

Stiles wakes up to someone-Derek- stoking his cheek and the smell of salty grease. His eyes roam around the room and takes stock of the four  cereal bowls, three glasses, and a mug with the dregs of crusty hot chocolate. It takes him an embarrassingly long time to realize he fell asleep clutching the empty milk jug. 

It’s really easy to not feel shame anymore when you have no dignity left. 

Suddenly, a bag of curly fries takes over his vision and Derek murmurs, “I’m sorry about the milk. I forgot.”

“Get those out of my face you’re already forgiven.”

“But you love curly fries.” And Stiles refuses to look at Derek because he just knows he’s pouting. He closes his eyes and tightens his hold on the jug. 

“Impossible. I only love milk. Milk is always there for me. I love you, milk.”

“Can milk order an all meat pizza for dinner?”

He pops one eye open. “You drive a hard bargain.” The milk carton makes a muffled thud as he throws it to the floor, exchanging the plastic for a softer, warmer, Derek.

“This is disgusting, and you’re doing  the dishes tonight.”

Stiles flicks him on the nose. “Shut up and bask in the greatness that is being my favorite.”

“Uhm,” says the kid that stumbles into him while he’s walking through the quad.

“Don’t kill me, I’m getting paid for this,” he tells him and then pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket and clears his throat.

Derek looks at him in confusion and realizes that they’re getting stares and oh, no, the kid starts to open his mouth and sing. 

Derek’s face turns bright red and he takes a step back, towards Laura and Lydia, but Laura is laughing and Lydia is smirking, and the kid just keeps singing, and walking towards him, and this is the worst thing ever. A few people laugh, and some cheer, and Derek wants to be anywhere but here. 

He turns around and keeps walking, expecting that to be the end of it, but no, he keeps singing, and follows him, despite the way Derek’s shoulders hunch to cover his ears and how quickly he’s trying to escape. 

“Love was made for me and youuuuu,” the kid warbles and stops, because Derek is standing in front of his classroom now.

“Uh, I was paid for another song to sing,” he says. 

Derek scowls at him and the kid starts to take a step back. “If I pay you to not sing the next song will you stop?” 

The kid opens and closes his mouth. “I - yes? It’s just you have to pay me 5 dollars at least, because that’s what, well she signed a nondisclosure agreement, so I can’t say her name but I have to pay her back if I don’t sing to you.” 

“Great,” Derek says, and sighs with relief as he digs through his pocket and produces a ten dollar bill. “Keep the change.” 

The kids face lights up and Derek takes a minute to study him.

“So uh, yeah, thanks for that,” he says. “Uh,” he scratches the back of his neck. “You might get more of these? She was uh, she paid a lot of money, so if you see anyone you don’t know run? Or you know you could pay them as well? Sorry, its a fundraiser and we really can’t turn away anyone.” 

“Seriously?” Derek asks and groans. 

The kid wets his lips and then bites them before smiling at Derek, and shit, its a really nice smile. 

“I have an idea,” he says, and grabs Derek’s wrist and tugging. Derek freezes and stares at the kids hand. 

“Oh, uh, just follow me I guess? You can pay the director up front? That way we don’t lose any money and you don’t have to get embarrassed.” 

“Right,” Derek says, raising an eyebrow at the hand still attached to his wrist. 

“Oh, shit, yeah,” the kid drops his wrist and runs a hand through his hair instead. “Uh, anyways I’m Stiles, and the music department is right through here.” 

“What sort of name is Stiles?” Derek asks, eyeing the mussed up hair. 

“Well its more of a nickname, but trust me, unless you’re majoring in Polish you couldn’t pronounce my real name,” the kid, or Stiles tells him. 

Derek quirks an eyebrow at that but follows him anyways.