Scott and Stiles are each other’s first kisses.
It happens in Stiles’s bedroom, about a week after Scott’s fourteenth birthday. (Mrs McCall took them to Laser Tag, where she soundly trounced them both by about twenty kills, and then Cheesecake Factory, where she let them eat as much as they wanted.)
“Man, I am never going to get kissed,” moans Scott. Apparently turning fourteen has made this a genuine problem that requires a solution rather than just a passing concern; this didn’t happen when Stiles turned fourteen a couple of months ago, but Stiles is still so wrapped up in figuring out whether he likes girls or boys or both that worrying about the lack of kissing in his life is kind of a non-priority.
“You don’t know that,” says Stiles. He’s lying on the floor shooting nerf darts at the ceiling and waiting for them to fall back down onto his face.
“Yes, I do,” says Scott. “I am going to die un-kissed and unloved.”
“Well, your mom loves you,” offers Stiles. “And I love you, man.”
“Okay,” amends Scott, “just un-kissed, then.”
“I can change that,” says Stiles. He sits up so that he can see Scott where he’s sprawled on Stiles’s bed.
“What?” says Scott, raising his head.
“Just to try it,” says Stiles. “It doesn’t have to be weird. But we can be each other’s first kisses. And then at least we’ve done it.”
Scott just looks at him, eyebrows furrowed like he’s thinking hard, and then he sits up and says, “Okay.”
Suddenly Stiles’s palms are clammy and he’s regretting the way his mouth often moves faster than his brain, because he hasn’t told Scott yet that he might like boys as well as girls, and what if he tells him later and Scott is weirded out when he remembers that Stiles was his first kiss? This is way too much pressure.
“Are you sure?” squeaks Stiles, curling his fingers into his thighs and rubbing his palms into the denim. “I mean—we don’t have to…”
“I want to know what it feels like,” says Scott and he sounds determined now. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and slides to the floor so that he’s sitting next to Stiles. He looks just as nervous as Stiles feels, which is only mildly reassuring.
“Do we just—”
“I guess we—”
Scott moves closer, close enough that Stiles can feel the heat from his body. Stiles jerks his head in a little, then stops, terrified. His heart is pounding. This is a terrible idea. This is Scott, Scott is his best friend. Stiles has complicated feelings about Scott. He doesn’t need to complicate them more—
And then Scott’s lips are on his and Stiles freezes.
He doesn’t know what to do with his hands.
In the end, Stiles just holds them in his lap. When he remembers, he closes his eyes. Scott’s lips are soft and warm and kind of chapped, and after a moment of just pressing their mouths together, Scott parts his lips; Stiles jumps like he’s been electrocuted at the tentative slick slide of tongue against the seam of his mouth.
They pull apart and Stiles feels hot all over, skin prickling, a flush settling in his cheeks. “We didn’t say anything about tongue,” Stiles says shakily.
“Sorry,” huffs Scott, his face softening into a sheepish smile. “I was curious. Do you want to try again?”
“Um,” says Stiles. He does, kind of. “Yeah, man. Lay it on me.”
So maybe they’re each other’s second and third kisses, too. Who’s really counting?