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“I would say I’m sorry if I thought that it would change your mind!” Stiles belts out, swaying on his feet, holding the mostly empty bottle of Absolut to his naked chest. It’s late, way past the time that Stiles should’ve gone to sleep, especially considering what he’s sure tomorrow will bring. He’s been up since six this morning and the last time he glanced at a clock he thought it said three AM. He doesn’t really care, not in his (more than) slightly intoxicated state. He hears a bang from the ceiling and looks up at it, all but screaming along to the chorus when it comes on. “I try to laugh about it, cover it all up with lies. I try and laugh about it, hiding the tears in my eyes. 'Cause boys don't cry! Booooys dooon't crrrrry!”
He does a little dance that is more him attempting to move to the beat of the music than actually anything that involves proper coordination. He raises the fifth to his lips and throws back a couple shots, barely even grimacing anymore at the burn of the alcohol. It helps to keep the tears burning behind his eyes in check. He’s not gonna cry though. If Robert Smith says boys don’t cry, than he’s certainly not going to.
His head feels fuzzy and the dancing is making him a little dizzy, the loud music had started to hurt his ears after he turned the sound up the last time he heard the neighbor in the apartment next to him yell at him through the wall. But at least it’s all a sufficient enough distraction to drown out the thoughts in his head—thoughts of Derek, of how he’s been so distant lately, not wanting to spend time with Stiles when he’s not working. He’s just been feeding Stiles excuse after excuse in the last few weeks, saying he’s too tired to come over, or that he’s got to put in extra hours because one of the night-shifters is on vacation. Stiles knows the truth, though. It’s obvious.
Derek is going to break up with him.
“I would tell you that I loved you if I thought that you would staaaaay!” He sings along, suddenly feeling sad, lost in the thoughts he’s been trying not to think about all night. There’s a reason he’s drunk and dancing around his living room clad only in his underwear. He brings the bottle back to his lips and closes his eyes, listening as the song restarts once again—it’s been on repeat since he got the bottle out of his liquor cabinet two hours ago—when he hears a knock on his front door.
He yells something toward the door before he continues to sing, even louder this time, dancing around a little bit more. He’s convinced himself he’s just going to ignore the person at his door, until there comes another knock, louder this time, with the words “Police! Open up!” accompanying them.
Stiles freezes. The words make his blood run cold. He thinks in his drunken state that he knows the voice that said them, is almost positive he knows who is on the other side of the door. He takes another large gulp of the vodka before he makes his way to the front door, stumbling over nothing as he goes. He feels the dread even as he’s reaching out for the doorknob, fumbling with it one handed, the other still firmly clutched around the neck of the bottle.
He feels himself flush as he opens the door to none other than Derek, dressed in his deputy’s uniform with a scowl securely set on his face. His fist is in the air, like he was going to knock again, and he drops it with a sigh when he sees Stiles. He shakes his head, mouth turning down into a severe frown, and he pushes right past Stiles, letting himself in and heading toward the iPhone dock to turn the music off.
Stiles doesn’t know why Derek’s reaction hurts, but it cuts him deep. It’s like Derek always knew that Stiles would turn out to be a disappointment and now that it’s finally happened, it’s the last straw. Maybe this is it. Maybe this is the part where Derek will end it, where he will tell Stiles that he can’t pretend to be in love with him anymore.
Derek turns to look at him, arms crossed, hip cocked to the side, highlighting his gun. Stiles knows his eyes are wide, knows he probably looks like a hot mess, standing in the middle of the still-open doorway, wearing his most worn pair of briefs—the ones with the holes in them that Stiles dug out from the very back of his underwear drawer—obviously drunk off his ass, holding onto his bottle of alcohol like it will save him from what’s about to happen.
Derek opens his mouth, but Stiles can’t bear to hear him say anything, not right now, not yet. It’s been almost two weeks since he’s seen his boyfriend and he doesn’t want the first words out of his mouth to be ‘we’re over’ so he takes a couple stumbling steps toward Derek, opening his mouth. “Der’k, this isn’t wha’ you th’nk! I prom’se. I was—I was jus’—I—The Cure, man. I was jus’ listenin’ to The Cure!”
Derek closes his eyes and sighs, lifting a hand to pinch at the bridge of his nose. “I figured that one out, Stiles. Four different people in the complex called with noise complaints.” He sighs again, heavier this time and opens his eyes, throwing his arms out at his sides. “What the hell were you thinking? You’re lucky I was on dispatch otherwise you might’ve been arrested.” Instead of the anger in Derek’s words like Stiles expects, all he hears is disappointment and resignation.
It kills something inside of him to have to hear that, to have to hear Derek speak like that to him. He’s such a fuck-up, he knows. He can never do anything right. Derek’s going to leave him—and he should. Stiles doesn’t deserve anyone, especially not Derek. He feels his eyes sting, but this time, without the mantra of ‘boys don’t cry’ filling his ears, it’s harder to hold the tears back. He feels the fight go out of him all at once and he drops to the floor in a heap, letting the vodka bottle fall from his fingers, spilling out over the carpet.
The first bit of tears catches him off guard and he sniffles reaching up hastily to wipe it away, hoping to god that Derek didn’t see.
“S-Stiles…?” But that’s Derek’s voice again, so soft and sweet, like he actually cares. And he saw, of course he did. “Stiles, what’s wrong?”
Stiles lets out a sob that hurts his chest, hurts his head. He doesn’t think he can keep everything he’s feeling inside, not anymore, not with Derek crouching down in front of him and cupping his jaw to bring Stiles’ eyes up to meet his own. Stiles sniffles again, “I don’ wan’ you t’ leave me.” He whispers miserably. “Ever’one always leaves me.”
Derek shakes his head, his eyebrows drawing together. “Stiles. What are you talking about?”
Stiles closes his eyes, fights back more tears. “Don’, Der’k. Don’ pretend like you don’ know wha’ I’m talkin’ about.” He fights with himself, but eventually forces his eyelids open, letting out a shaky sigh as he pushes Derek’s hand away from his face. “I know you’re gonna break up w’th me.”
The apartment is completely quiet for one infinite moment, until Derek sighs quietly. “Stiles…” He clears his throat and stands up. “Let’s get you to bed, hmm?”
It’s not a question and the next thing Stiles knows, Derek’s warm hands are helping him up from the floor and his strong arms are wrapping around him to help guide him toward his bedroom, only stopping them by the front door so Derek can close and lock it. Derek knows the way—of course he does, there are weeks when he spends more nights here than at his own place. Derek sets Stiles on the edge of the bed, moving to turn on a lamp and close the bedroom door. Stiles just sits, blinking at the other man as he folds back the blankets, the sheet, as he fluffs the pillows and arranges them just like how he knows Stiles likes.
Stiles suddenly feels so tired. He feels exhausted—weather from the drink or the emotions still roaring inside of him. There’s a part of him that realizes this may be the last time Derek is here to take care of him—and that thought makes him so, so unbelievably sad.
Derek helps him into the bed. The last thing he’s aware of before he drifts off to sleep is Derek tucking the blankets over him and pressing a warm, light kiss to the top of his head.
~
The first thought that filters through Stiles’ mind the next morning is that he hates the light. He especially hates the bright sunlight that is streaming in through the open blinds, falling directly onto him and blinding him. The second thought he has, as he attempts to roll over to avoid the light, is that his head feels a little like someone is beating at it with a sledgehammer and his entire body seems to ache.
The third thought is that Derek is in his bed. Derek, who is in his complete uniform, is lying atop Stiles’ covers, playing what looks like Candy Crush. Stiles makes a surprised sound, but it’s a bad idea. Sound is almost as bad of an idea as light.
Derek looks over at Stiles, locking his phone without even trying to finish his level. “Stiles, we need to talk.” There’s no ‘hello, how do you feel’ or jokes about how Stiles probably smells like a dive bar. There’s no preamble or segue into the conversation. Stiles doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry at Derek’s dedication to get this over with as soon as humanly possible. He feels his eyes sting again, but he’s not sure if it’s from the pain of the hangover or because he knows what’s coming.
Stiles lets out an unsteady breath and lifts himself into a sitting position. His stomach rolls with the movement, but he forces the bile down. “Derek—” His voice is rough and it cracks on the word. Stiles licks his lip, tries again. “Derek, about last night, I—”
“Stiles, just—” Derek sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “Just let me say this, okay?” Stiles swallows hard, but just nods at the other man, taking in all of his nervous tells. “You’ve obviously noticed that I haven’t been around much lately.” Derek’s mouth twists a little. “I—I’ve been avoiding you, Stiles. I have, and I’m sorry about that. I never…I never meant to hurt you. And I’m really sorry I did.” Stiles watches as Derek looks up to the ceiling, puffing his cheeks out a little bit as he exhales. “I don’t. I don’t know how to say this. I wish—I wish I was better with words, like you.”
Stiles feels a wave of nausea so strong that it almost makes him double over. He closes his eyes and concentrates on breathing through his nose. He’s not sure if it’s a reaction to being hungover, or to the sudden, terrible pain in his chest, like his heart has actually broken by Derek’s words. He takes a deep breath, steals himself, before he looks over at Derek, looking him in the eye. “It’s okay, Derek. I know you want to break up with me.”
Derek’s eyes widen slightly, his mouth parting as if he’s surprised by Stiles’ words. He shifts on the bed, reaching a hand into one of his pockets as he vehemently shakes his head. “No. No, Stiles. God that’s not it at all. I—I don’t want to break up with you, I want to marry you!”
Stiles watches dumbly as Derek removes his hand from his pocket, a small, black velvet box clutched between his fingers. He opens his palm and holds it out to Stiles, as if it’s evidence he’s presenting to Stiles on his own behalf. “I’ve been thinking about this for weeks, but I didn’t know how to do it and I was afraid you would know somehow—because you always know, Stiles. I didn’t want you to find out and ruin the surprise.”
Derek sets the black box down between them on the mattress.
Stiles looks at it for a long moment. He briefly wonders if there’s a chance he’s still a little drunk, because he’s slow to react.
Derek…
Wants to marry him.
Not break up with him.
Derek wants to marry him.
Stiles feels his stomach flip at the realization. Happiness spreads through him, intoxicating him better than all the vodka in the world. His head feels light and a little dizzy. Tears sting at his eyes once again, but he pushes them back, because boys don’t cry.
But apparently, they do puke.
He barely manages to make it to the toilet in time—thank god he was too drunk yesterday to put the toilet seat back down—before he gets sick. Derek follows him inside and sits on the lip of the tub, rubbing his hands in soothing circles up and down Stiles’ back, whispering crooning words to him. Stiles doesn’t know how long they stay like that, but when he finally flushes the toilet and moves away from it, he feels better than he’s felt in a long time. He leans his back against the cupboard and looks up at Derek.
Derek, who is looking down at him from where he’s still perched on the edge of the tub, shaking his head a little and looking at Stiles with a soft, fond smile.
Stiles smiles back. “You should ask me.”
Derek raises an eyebrow at him. “Right now?” He moves his eyes around the small room, as if to say ‘right now, in a bathroom that kinda smells like piss and puke’.
Stiles shrugs. “I mean…if you still want to, that is.”
Derek scowls a little at him before he rolls his eyes. “Of course I still want to, you idiot.” Stiles grins and makes a motion for him to go on, settling more comfortably on the floor.
Derek looks down at him, his face losing some of the humor that was there before, taking on a more serious expression. “Stiles, I—I love you. I can’t imagine the rest of my life without you. Will you—will you do me the honor of—”
“Yes!” Stiles breaks in, laughing at the offended look that crosses Derek’s face.
“You didn’t even let me finish!” The other man complains, crossing his arms over his chest like a petulant toddler.
It’s Stiles’ turn to roll his eyes. “You were taking too long. Besides, I know how much you hate giving rehearsed speeches. I was doing you a favor.”
Derek’s expression softens and he uncrosses his arms, reaching a hand out to cradle the side of Stiles’ head. “I love you.” The words are quiet, whispered like Derek is telling him a secret meant only for Stiles’ ears.
Stiles turns his face into the touch, closing his eyes and reveling in the fact that Derek is still here, that Derek is still his. Stiles had never been so glad to be so wrong about something. “I love you, too, Derek. I love you so, so much.”