Chapter Text
The ground opened out less than a metre from where Derek’s feet were. Dark, rain slick rocks tumbled down the jagged sides to where the sea furiously swept into the narrow gorge, sharpening the rocks to surgical precision. When the waves retreated before launching their counterattack, the darker dashes on the deadly rocks were just visible. It would be easy to trick his brain into thinking he’d made it up, but he knew what it was. Blood. Iron and lingering like an unwanted friend. Dark clouds made a gash in the sky. Derek supposed it looked painful. Especially with the wind bleeding through the wound at both ends, screaming like it wanted death.
Derek didn’t have any delusions; he was here to die. At least something would be gratified at the end.
God, he was so tired. So tired of staying afloat in his nightmares, where the rising blue threatens to down him. A small bird struggling to fly when the blue of his nightmares clogs its feathers, seeps down its throat. Of course his nightmares were in blue and cold like icy fingers holding his heart. But now they were sometimes in red and burning like pokers twisted into his gut.
For the first time in a long and empty six months, Derek felt numb. Normally, he either felt cold, which was bad, or he felt hot, which was worse. The numb was good. It was white noise and looped charcoal eights on white canvas.
He knew his fingers were cold, from where they hung out of his long sleeve shirt. His jacket, his worn and beaten leather jacket, was folded on the fence that was meant to keep people back. The only reason he wasn’t wearing it was because Laura, his irritating, beautiful sister, would kill him if he damaged it. She had constantly coveted it, stealing it to wear or just to pester him. She of the tiny pointy fingers which prodded and bothered, but were also kind and smelled of gingerbread, home and snowball fights in the middle of the night when they were meant to be asleep.
His eyes were not stinging; they should be. From watching his therapist, he knew he wasn’t reacting normally. He should be curled into a ball, fervently trying to piece himself together, to stop tears tumbling out his eyes, to hold his chest tight so that the sobs don’t shake him apart into chunks of meat and bone and skin. But he couldn’t. His mother would lean on his back, knuckle his head and tell him to use your words, Der. And he would try, because she asked. Derek was just better with pictures. He could draw the pain, the sadness and the emptiness.
Circles of true dark blue would overlap on the white paper. Red and black would shadow his grief circles, leaving the centres empty and hollow, like his insides. Jagged lines would crisscross the sheet, no order and no plan, just plain aching fury, while brutally thick lines of bruised purple would keep it contained in a chest. In Derek’s chest, a hollowed out cavity, needing something, anything, to fill its gaping depths.
Derek took a deep breath and prepared for the ache to leave, for it to be filled with family and laughter.
One thing that Stiles had learned was that salt water solved anything, be it tears, sweat or sea water. So he was out here looking for his easiest fix: running. He liked the wind whipping his hair, the sound of his feet rhythmically hitting the ground, even his breath rasping in his lungs and that, finally, his head was quiet. His head wasn’t a bad place to be when it was quiet. His brain was less demanding and it was easier to ignore his body’s almost constant urge for razor blades. He’d been clean for nearly six months – in a row, not just 181 days in general. If it wasn’t in a row it didn’t get counted, because that was cheating. Stiles hated cheating. On tests, on people, on life. For two years of his life he’d cheated himself, which is the worst because he knew how cheating made himself feel. It was like the worst kind of betrayal.
So he was over that. Moving on. Sometimes, like now, a little faster than anticipated. Stiles wanted to see the gorge today. Tonight. No, this cool in-between dusk that used to make his gut hurt. Now he just wanted to see the angry, vibrant colours, feel the biting wind and maybe, maybe if he was alone, he’d take of his shoes and just be.
It had taken Stiles a long time to learn how to just be, but now he knew how, it was easier to reach. Easier, not easy. It took a lot for his brain to shut up for long enough. His best friend, Scott, had said it was because Stiles was twitch-fibre, easily fired up, like a whippet. Stiles had whined because leave it to Scott to compare him to a dog. He was more of a cat, anyway, if they were going to get really technical about it.
He wasn’t really fussed about what animal it was, though. It was good that Scott cared. Wait, he would be fussed if it was a badger. Badgers were evil. They raked through his bins, peed on his porch and attacked him whenever possible. In the last year alone, Stiles had to go into to the hospital for rabies shots eight times. He really had to learn to watch where he stuck his fingers. Stiles shook his head as he Usained up the hill, keeping a watchful eye out for the predators.
Up ahead, Stiles saw a tall, broad shouldered figure standing on the edge of the gorge, the sky a magnificent turbulent background to the stranger’s life crisis. That guy really has an eye for the dramatic, Stiles thought, his long fingered hands twisting because he would love to take a shot of this guy about to-
About to jump. Into the gorge. Well, this night certainly got interesting, very fast.
Derek had his eyes closed when a yell broke through his hazy thoughts. He couldn’t jump then. He wanted too, but he had figured this way would have the least amount of clean up and emotional trauma for the few that still cared. Jumping in front of a spectator kind of ruined his whole justification.
‘‘How about you take a few steps away from the edge, dude? Okay, nice and ea-sy,’’ the male behind Derek dragged out the word like he was a nervous dog, ‘‘Look, I can promise you that no matter how hard it seems right now, it will get better. I’m not going to give you a time frame, because those are completely relevant to each person and how they deal with grief. I can offer you a listening and non-judgemental ear, and I just want you to know, it’s not your fault.’’
Not his fault. It felt like his fault. There were no words in the English language that can describe how he felt. There is one word, in Portuguese. He’d learnt Portuguese when he did a year abroad for school. Derek had loathed and loved it in equal turns. He missed his parents, his brothers, his sister; it was too quiet all the time and he had wanted to kick something. He had loved the crazy nights, dancing in the streets, the vibrancy of the culture and the way the language had dripped of his tongue like honey by the end of his trip. The word he wished English has a translation of was saudade. There is no perfect definition of the word. It’s an expression of feeling, a terrible sadness. The feeling when you realise that something you lost is lost forever, and there’s no getting it back ever again. That’s how Derek felt. Because it was his fault. His fault that his family were gone gone gone, his fault that he became infatuated with a manic (psychotic) girl and that went and burned his house, along with all his family inside, until there was nothing but ashes that clung to his lips like rose petals.
Derek was smoke twisted behind thin glass, so close to shattering
Responsible
Shattered
Broken
Stiles held his hands cradled in front of him as if he could catch the words he needed, if only they’d fall into range. The tall man turned around slowly and Stiles realised with a shock that the man wasn’t much older than himself. At first, he just looked angry. Strong jaw, thick dark eyebrows over blue eyes, dark hair tousled by the wind. A scarily hot serial killer. There was something about the set of the guys’ jaw, the tilt of his head that suggested Stiles’s death was on the horizon. Stiles was surprisingly okay with the hot guy killing him, you know, as long as he got a feel of those crazy hard biceps. A thought popped in his head that the guy probably never had to assert his dominance over badgers. Badgers probably took one look at his serial killer eyes and ran.
That was wrong, though. The man was angry, but he was also… fragile. The curve of his shoulders suggested mourning and, his eyes. His eyes were heart-breaking, gut-wrenching and it made Stiles want to cry and curl up into a ball to try and protect himself from the agony.
He felt his own face change in response. Eyes softer, shoulders twisted to not imply threat, eyebrows relaxed and his jaw slightly tilted to bare his throat. Non assuming. Safe.
Derek wanted the younger man to go. Everyone else was gone and why couldn’t this man just go too? His insides were all twisted yellows and sickly greens, the blue twist of nightmares and sorrow and he wanted to be alone! He never asked for the man with the long, gangly yet graceful limbs that flail and curve in interesting lines he would like to draw. With the big brown eyes of a hurt puppy, and it just reminded him so much of Laura that it hurts.
The man somehow has his fist curled into Derek’s shirt and is gently but firmly dragging him away from the edge. Derek follows, studying the pale long fingered hand that displays such an interesting contrast to the dark of his shirt. When Derek is safely over the fence line, he is handed his jacket and is firmly guided away from the gorge.
‘‘Why?’’ He whispers, the word catching in his throat like a swallow trying to take flight. He doesn’t think the other man hears him and he’s okay with that. He glances down at the arm gently propelling him forward and for the first time can see the silvery scars lining the wiry forearms and bruised thumbprints on his wrists that look like wanting. He gets the impression of old battles from the scars and fresh skirmishes from the bruises but when he meets the guy’s eyes, he can only see clear whiskey.
Derek only gets a small, understanding smile, which is so much better than the pity smiles he’s being getting so often that he wants to be sick.
Stiles is unsure what to do with the attractive man when he gets to his car. His is the only one in the parking area, so the guy must have walked here. The silver jeep wasn’t the best looking car, even when it was the only one there, but Stiles loved it like he would love his child. Or maybe more, because his car would never throw up on him.
The car is not just a car. That car is his home away from home; in fact, Stiles spent more time in the car that his other home. Which is why Stiles halts a few feet away from the dully shining car. It doesn’t feel right to invite a stranger into his home. But a quick look at the man standing next to him solves his internal issues. The guy just looks so lost, like now he was going to have to live, he didn’t know how to.
Stiles whips around to face him fully and sticks out his hand. “My name is Stiles.”
Derek looks at the hand in surprise. It is strangely formal considering that he, Stiles, had just stopped Derek jumping of a gorge.
“Derek.” He clasps the hand offered. Stiles, grinning, giddy, pumps his hand enthusiastically before bouncing over to his jeep.
“Derek, huh? Good strong name,” Derek instantly feels like he should say something about Stiles’s name, all he can think is 'what kind of name is Stiles?', but luckily the young man is still chattering away, “See now that we know each other, I am so okay with you coming inside my car. It’s not just a car, you know? I live in this car. And not in a seventeen year old boy kinda way – I literally live in this car. I’m big on my traveling - itchy feet and all – but I think I’ll stick around for a while. Keep you on track. Is that okay with you?”
Stiles pauses from where he is half in the car, desperately trying to find that pair of dirty underwear he is certain he left in there, and looks over his shoulder at Derek. Who frowns at him like he hasn’t heard a word that Stiles said.
Derek’s hands clench in his jacket and he stares at them for a second before meeting Stiles’s eyes. He feels like tightly looped dark greens, a spring wound to breaking point. “You can stay at my house.” He is very sure that Stiles’s answer might break him.
Stiles slides out the car, walking lightly over to Derek, searching his eyes. Then he smiles, achingly bright, so big it must hurt his face. “I’d love to.”
The green spring releases and Derek can breathe.
His house is so different with Stiles there. Already it feels fuller. Although it is barely a house, the apartment that he rents. He gathers bedding for Stiles as Stiles follows him around. Stiles is talking, almost constantly, and it’s a relief to hear life in the house.
Derek figures that when he draws Stiles, his mouth is going to be open. Even with Stiles standing right in front of him, he can hardly picture what he looks like with his mouth closed.
Stiles bounces over to look out the large east facing window, his hands dancing excitedly across the surface. Derek turns to the sofa and is surprised to find it already out. To be honest, it shouldn’t surprise him – Stiles moves so fast that it would be more of a shock if he hadn’t already unfolded it. Quick hands tug the sheets from his hands and Derek watches as Stiles efficiently makes up the bed. Once finished he stands back, his hands on his hips.
“Want a coin to bounce?” Derek asks, staring at the taut sheets and folded corners that he would never have been able to replicate even with diagrams and step by step instructions.
Stiles turns to Derek, a grin sitting easily on his open mouth. “When you make beds according to my dad’s rules,” he jokes and then starts to talk about the light from the windows.
Stiles doesn’t focus on what he is saying, preferring to watch Derek’s face. When he had first invited Stiles in, his shoulders had been drawn in like he was expecting a blow. The apartment was sparsely furnished, only a few pictures of a large grinning family. Upon closer inspection, Stiles discovered Derek, arm around a younger female version of him and an equally attractive brother. Derek was covered in mud, they all were, and was wearing a fierce grin and the look of delight in his eyes was so powerful that Stiles felt that he was beginning to understand what had driven Derek to the gorge. To lose what he had… it would be devastating.
Derek doesn’t look so tense now, his face relaxed and interested as he listens to Stiles. He winds up his point about the room having great light in the mornings and then grins at Derek. He receives a small grin, nothing like the one in the picture, but a softer, less brittle one than the one Derek had given in the car. It make Stiles hopeful that he did the right thing by Derek.
It takes exactly thirty three days and five hours for Stiles to start to feel the urge. It was the wind snapping at his heels, a restlessness in his sleep and the shaking in his fingers. He sits at the breakfast bar, his fingers tapping a jarring rhythm on his coffee mug. Stiles’s suspicions had been correct about the window. When the sun was shining the light burst into the room, turning reflective surfaces into blinding weapons. So when the sun was up, so was Stiles, because it was impossible to hide from the light.
“You could always close the blinds,” groans Derek when he stumbles in, heading straight for the coffee Stiles had already made, his hands blocking the light from his eyes.
Stiles stayed quiet, his brow furrowed. True, closing the window solve his early morning problem, but it’s not like he was sleeping anyway. Also, he wouldn’t be able to bear it if the windows were close. To be contained, with no air… Stiles fights down a shudder.
A warm hand covers his, where his fingertips are pressed into his wrist hard enough to bruise. “Hey. You okay?” Derek’s mighty brows are pulled together in concern. Stiles smiles weakly.
Derek realise that he may not be the best at talking, but he can be pretty observant. He observes a lot about Stiles, with his high energy, dancing fingers and quick eyes. He can see that the dark circles under Stiles’s eyes are deeper and the way that a part of Stiles is always moving, his legs shaking the table. He can see that Stiles is a little more distracted, a little more internal, and a little quieter. He’s drawn this is his version of diary, each day told by images. And he’s been drawing Stiles’s fingers pressed into his wrist for a couple of days now.
In the time Stiles has been here, Derek’s learnt a lot. Like, he really can’t stand badgers, he likes his coffee so weak that it’s milk and sugar with a hint of coffee, and he’s more of a sprinter than a jogger. Halfway through the tales of travel Stiles was describing, Derek realised that Stiles had wanderlust. The compulsion he spoke of when he started to move, the sleeplessness. The signs were all there.
Derek didn’t know what he would do if Stiles wasn’t there. Stiles was brilliant; he understood with Derek needing to explain that words were not his favourite thing. He understood that sometimes Derek would sit and stare at a blank page for hours and, most importantly, would let him. He also held on to Derek when he had finally snapped apart and spent the next couple of days carefully piecing him back together again. Derek thought that if Humpty-Dumpty had Stiles instead of the king’s horses and men, he would have been better than before.
Stiles’s fingers were pressed into his wrist again, touching the black bruises he had made yesterday. Derek sits opposite him, hands cupped carefully around his mug.
“When are you going?”
Stiles jumps guiltily even though he hadn’t planned anything. He stares at Derek, who watches him calmly, the only show that he was nervous in the tightening around his eyes.
Genuinely, Stiles wasn’t even thinking about that. With some other acquaintances he had left rather abruptly, but Derek was different. Derek was a shattered vase that he was slowly fixing, although Derek was the one putting himself back together; Stiles was his personal cheerleader.
“I don’t want to,” he mutters, but the shaking in his leg only increases. It makes Derek’s lips quirk in a quick lift. He sighs and rubs his face, feeling like two tectonic plates are grinding along inside his chest. The thought of leaving Derek makes him slightly terrified, like he’ll be letting something precious slip out his fingers. “Do you want to come with me?” The words explode from his lips without checking in with his brain first.
They both freeze. Stiles closes his eyes.
“Yes. I think it would be good for me.” Stiles’s eyes lift to Derek’s and a slow smile lights up his face.
“Really?” His voice is so painfully, obviously, hopeful.
Derek nods and a tiny fierce grin curves his lips.
Being on the road is something else. Stiles is back to the self that Derek met first – fast chatter and wild movements. Stiles insists on taking him to Paris and spends most of the ferry journey standing at the prow and belting out Celine Dion lyrics while Derek cries with laughter.
Then they drive and Derek draws snap shots of Stiles trying to stuff his food in his mouth while driving; the sunlight golden on his face while a warm wind blows his hair back; Stiles grinning at him; a small bakery that made the best cinnamon buns.
They sleep in the car, Derek in the back and Stiles curled in the front. One night in the middle of nowhere, when they stop to sleep, Stiles throws the blankets and pillows onto the roof instead of into their spaces.
“Come up here.” He calls over his shoulder as he fixed the bed. Derek climbs up slowly to see Stiles on his back and gazing up.
Lying next to him, Derek can’t contain the small sound of shock he makes. So many stars were out that it was actually brighter than when the moon was there. Stiles starts to point out the stars: Orion, Ursa Major, Cassiopeia and more. Eventually he runs out of stars and they lie in silence, just watching the stars. Derek closes his eyes and imagine that his family are up there. He hopes they forgive him for his weakest moment. He feels that he were to sketch this feeling, he would draw a dark blue bird in the centre with it wings spread wide. Reds, oranges and yellows would leak out the wings like his uncontrollable happiness. Lighter blues would wind though the edges, still there but manageable. Gold, the colour of Stiles’s whiskey eyes, would be the twisting colour that connects everything together.
He turns his head to Stiles and traces the shape of his nose, sloping to his brow with his eyes.
“Why?” He asks softly, repeating his first words to Stiles.
Stiles meets his eyes, whiskey warm and clear. “Because part of surviving is moving on. I didn’t want you to miss that.’’
Holding his gaze, Derek stretches out his hand and finds Stiles also reaching for him.
Derek’s picture changes. It’s a golden, burning red bird, in the still strong blue twist, but the bird isn’t drowning in it. It’s flying. It feels like hope.