Work Text:
Will doesn’t see the text at first.
It’s not really his fault. Monday mornings are busy. After morning practice at 6:30 (Will likes that better than evening practice, and as captain he’s tried to keep the practice schedule relatively consistent), he has a meeting with Hall and Murray for thirty minutes while the rest of the team filters out to their respective morning activities and routines. It’s the last he sees of Derek until the afternoon, every Monday— because after Will’s meeting with the coaches, he’s straight off to his internship in Boston for the rest of the morning, then comes back to campus for his 2:30 CS 381 class.
So when the text comes in, he’s mid-transit from Boston to Samwell, sitting in traffic on 128. As a general rule, he doesn’t check his phone while driving. Also, why the fuck is there so much traffic in the middle of the day on a Monday.
He doesn’t understand Massachusetts drivers.
Anyway. It’s when he gets back to campus that he sees it, sitting in his lockscreen over the wallpaper of him and Derek.
18m ago
Derek: do u mind if i chill in the basement
Derek: can’t focus in my room, c is playing music
Oh. Will unlocks his phone, sitting in his student parking spot. He and Derek use each other’s rooms all the time, even outside of their constant sleeping-over in each other’s. Many a time has he returned from class, internship, or other obligation to find his boyfriend hanging out in the bungalow.
They have their own spaces in the Haus, but they do their fare share of, well. Sharing.
Sry just saw this , he sends back. Was drivung. Of cuorse you can use the basment
He looks at the text thread for a second, then sends a <3 after his message, and tucks his phone away again.
On to the next thing.
Class is sort of tedious today, but what’s worse than it is the actual trek back to the Haus from the compsci building, because it’s frigid outside, a chill that gets to his bones even in his winter jacket and the beanie he stole from Derek. In typical New England February fashion, it’s supposed to snow tonight, or at least that’s what he thinks he heard from someone at his internship this morning. He spent most of his shift working out a kink in his supervisor’s code, and he was lost in the numbers and symbols for hours.
He likes it. It’s satisfying to figure out a program.
When he reaches the Haus, finally , Whiskey and Ford are hanging out in the kitchen. He waves to them on his way by, then wonders if he should bake tonight. Maybe after his homework, he can make cookies. The pie he made this weekend is gone already, because all three of the freshmen were here yesterday, nothing he bakes lasts long in their presence.
Will heads straight downstairs, and the door to his room is closed; the lights inside look like they’re off. He eases it open, reaching for the light switch. Derek must have finished whatever he was doing.
Or— not.
Derek is here, and he can tell because he hears Dwayne Johnson singing. He freezes with his hand on the light-switch before he can turn it on, and steps all the way into the room instead, where he catches sight of him— or at least catches sight of what he knows is him, under several layers of cover.
Derek has burrowed himself into Will’s bed with his laptop, and he’s watching Moana , the light of the screen on his face the only source of any light in the room at all. He’s wearing Will’s Samwell hoodie, the good one with Poindexter and 24 and C on the sleeve, and its hood is pulled over his head, strings drawn to make his face look like a blue-lit mask poking out of it. He looks only half-invested in the movie, because he’s resting his face on his arm, scrunched up to the pillow.
Will’s stomach turns. Bedridden Derek in his stolen sweatshirt and Moana are a combination that can only mean one thing.
He closes the door, gently, behind himself. “Der?”
It appears that this is the first Derek actually notices that someone else has entered the room. Will hears the click of the space bar, and the Rock halts mid-chorus. “Oh,” comes Derek’s voice from his blanket cocoon, and it’s small and drawn, the opposite of his loud bravado. “Hey, babe.”
“Hi.” Will drops his backpack at the door, then goes directly to him, crouching on the steps that get him to the loft bed. “Hey,” he says, across the laptop. “Are you okay?”
Derek pauses. He purses his lips at his computer screen, then sighs and lowers it. “Ch’yeah,” he mumbles. “I’m alright.”
With the laptop closed, Will reaches for his face. He cups his stubbly cheek in one hand, runs his thumb across his cheekbone. Derek looks blank, drained. Will knows this demeanor well by now.
“No, you’re not,” he whispers. Without the light of the laptop, it’s nearly dark inside. The slivers of gray daylight from where Derek pulled the shade on the window are all that remain.
Derek breathes in like he wants to say something, but nothing comes out. He nuzzles his face into Will’s pillow a little more.
“Der,” Will whispers. He kneels on the steps, pauses his thumb by Derek’s ear. “Gray day?”
Derek whimpers a little, like it pains him to admit it, but nods. “Yeah.”
Will keeps gentle. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks. “This morning?”
Derek bites his lip. “Didn’t feel it this morning.”
“Oh.” Will pauses. “When did it hit you?”
He closes his eyes. “When I got back to the Haus.”
Will frowns. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—”
Derek’s eyes are still closed. He shakes his head. “You couldn’tve known, babe.”
For a moment, the room is quiet. Will pushes Derek’s laptop aside a little. “What can I do?”
Derek takes his time, answering. Will is patient. He knows how to do this. He slides his hand into his curls under the hood; they’re matted, and they’ll be worse if he just lays in bed for the rest of the day. “You want to tie your hair?”
Derek takes a long breath.
“You don’t have to,” Will adds. “But if it’ll help you for later…”
“My scarf’s upstairs,” Derek mumbles, weakly, like upstairs is a continent away.
“It’s okay,” Will tells him. “I can get it, baby.”
Derek’s face contorts a little, like he’s about to cry, but he doesn’t; he just opens his eyes. His eye contact is distant, like he’s staring more into space than back at Will, but he’s trying, and Will knows that. “I love you,” he whispers, and then, “I don’t feel well.”
“I know,” Will hushes. “It’s okay, sweetheart. I’m here.”
“I’m sorry,” Derek groans.
“Never be sorry,” Will says. “Ever.” He kisses his forehead, feather-light, and then tells him, “I love you too. And I’m gonna go get your scarf, okay? I’ll be right back.”
Derek winces again, like something hurts. He nods, though, slowly, and rests his cheek on the pillow again. Will pulls back to go, but God, it’s hard, because he knows how much Derek hates being alone when he feels like this, and he’s already been in here by himself for God knows how long—
Okay, he’ll only be gone a minute. But even so, he feels the need to fill that space. He climbs down to his bookshelf, reaches onto its center shelf between Derek’s poetry books, and grabs hold of his oldest friend.
“Here,” he whispers, bringing Cromwell up so Derek can see. “Do you want a friend?”
Derek eyes the plush lobster, and though he doesn’t look like he has an ounce of energy to smile, his eyes soften. “Yeah,” he mumbles. “Please.”
Will hands him over, and Derek engulfs the little red thing in his sea of blankets, resting him right under his nose. The visual would be cute, if Derek weren’t in such a bad spot. Will caresses his cheek again, then smooths the few curls that are poking out of the hood. “Be right back, baby,” he says. “Do you know where your scarf is?”
Derek pauses, then shakes his head.
“It’s alright,” Will assures him. “I’ll find it.”
This was hard, at first, being so new to this side of him, and not knowing how to help him. But they’ve been together for eight months, and Will knows Derek’s gray days by now, knows the tells for when he’s feeling down, knows a few remedies that help to ease the numbness.
He makes a beeline for Derek’s room upstairs as fast as his legs can carry him. The space itself is even evidence that Derek isn’t feeling himself; there are more clothes on the floor than usual, and the bed is unmade, and his desk looks like his notebook exploded. Will sifts through his dresser drawers, between Samwell shirts, pairs of gym shorts, random articles of Will’s own clothing that’ve been stolen, but there’s no sight of the green headscarf he wears sometimes to bed. He moves his search to the desk, and then to the actual bed, and he’s about to give up when he finds it tucked between the down comforter and the sheets.
Success. He heads back downstairs.
“Hey, Dex, is Nursey in your room?”
“Oh—” Will halts in the kitchen doorway. The question came from Ford; she’s still at the counter. “Yeah,” he replies, poking his head around the corner. Tango has now joined the kitchen gathering. “He’s just watching a movie.”
“Oh, cool.” Ford nods. “I just didn’t know if he was in the Haus. I thought I saw him go down there, like, two hours ago.”
“Yeah,” Will says, “he’s with me.”
Tango waves. “Hi, Dex!”
“Hey, Tango.” Will opens the basement stairs door.
Chowder knows this version of Derek as well as Will does, but the rest of the team doesn’t. It’s what’s buried under the chill, what he could never stand to let people know about himself.
Derek’s brain is awful to him sometimes.
Back in his room, he finally takes off his winter jacket and closes the door behind him, then climbs up the steps to his bed again. Derek is still snuggling with Cromwell, but his laptop has moved; he’s pushed it to the pouch adjacent to Will’s headboard where he keeps his phone, occasional book, and other random stuff while he sleeps.
Will unfolds the scarf. It’s silky smooth. “Gave up on Moana ?” he hums.
Derek rolls over and nods. Will kicks his sneakers off, then crawls onto the mattress, which squeaks a little under both their weight. He slides a hand under his back— Derek is very, very warm, but that’s the way he likes to be when he’s like this— and eases him up into a sitting position. “Sit up for me, babe?”
Derek moves with his touch, nice and easy, and when Will has him sitting up, he slots himself against his back, lets Derek lean on him. “You want me to talk?” he asks as he pulls the hood off his head. “Or do you like the quiet?”
Derek hums a little. “Talk. Please.”
“Okay.” Will combs through his curls, then pulls the scarf tight around them. He learned this on YouTube, after his third time hearing post-funk Derek lament that his depression was ruining his hair. “It’s supposed to snow,” he tells him. “Five inches.”
Derek groans. “Fuck that.”
“I know,” Will mumbles. “But if classes get cancelled, I’ll make cookies.”
“Mm.” Derek hums again, as Will pulls the knot at the back of his neck tight. “What kind?”
“Still deciding.” He hooks his arms around his neck, pulls him close, and kisses his cheek. “You can file a request, if you want.”
“Snickerdoodle.”
“Done.”
“Thank you.” Derek pauses. “For tying my hair.”
Will noses into his neck, drops a kiss there, and then moves back up to his face. “Of course, Der.” He turns him a little, cups his face in one hand. Derek still looks gray, and he looks, God, he looks so tired ; he always does when he’s like this, but it pains Will every time.
He wants to take every ounce of hurt away from him.
“What can I do?” he asks.
Derek takes a long breath while he thinks about it. His words, on these days, come slowly. “Um.” He nods to himself, like he’s thinking about it. “Do you have homework?”
Will shakes his head. “I have plenty of time to do it.”
“Okay.” Derek pauses, then, “Lay with me?”
“Yeah.” Will nods. “Ayuh. Of course.”
They wind up curled into the blanket pile, with Derek pressed tight against Will’s chest, a little further down the bed than him so he can tuck his face into his shoulder. Will presses a kiss to the top of his scarf, holds him as close as he can. He knows the pressure helps him, eases his brain a little. Cromwell rests on the pillow, somewhere near the both of them. He’s a little extra moral support.
“Thank you, Will,” Derek says, with an exhale, as he nuzzles into his chest.
“You’re welcome,” Will replies. “Always.”
“Mmf.” Derek wraps himself around him, arms and legs and all. His voice is muffled when he speaks again, but Will knows the words anywhere. “You and me.”
Will nods. “You and me.”
It’s a mantra and a promise. Hell or high water. Good days and gray ones.
“I’ve got you,” he tells him, and he’ll never let go.