Work Text:
1.
The wind blows relentlessly against them, but Derek feels none of it when Stiles is pressing close to him, their hands entwined together in his pocket.
He is wearing his favorite plum red sweater today, the material is always soft every time Derek feels it with his face.
And it smells like them. Home. Mate. Love.
“This neighborhood is perfect,” Stiles looks over at Derek with excitement in his eyes, his cheeks flushing. “And the house is large enough for the pack if they want to come over,”
Derek smiles at him, giving his hand a squeeze.
“Yeah. It’s perfect.”
2.
Love...Stiles often thinks about that word these days.
If you were to ask him three years ago, what does he think about love, he would have a very different answer as of today. But to think about it, he was a very different person back then.
Love, he has thought to be something that shocks him, sends a shiver down his spine, and left his toes still curl up after it’s gone. Like eating a mouthful of ice cream, so afraid for someone to take it away, that you’re willing to trade the sickening flavor for the afterward freeze that seeps deep into your soul. Like something poisonous in the wild, it’s as pretty as it’s dangerous.
But as he watches Derek paint their new bedroom with the warmest blue he has ever seen, he feels a strange feeling clutching around his heart.
Love isn’t all of that. Now Stiles knows. Love is something so much softer, like scooping up a handful of clouds, treasuring it in your palms, and when you taste it, like cotton candy, it is both sweet and nothing at all. But you eat it anyway, every time, you crave it.
When Derek turns to him, paints smear on his face, with a twinkle of delight in his eyes, Stiles is grateful that he has found his.
3.
Derek doesn’t hate sweaters, he dislikes them. They’re never right.
Sometimes, they hug at all the wrong spots, too tight that he can’t even mutter out a breath wearing it, and when he takes it off, the marks stay behind, branding him.
Sometimes, they’re too big, the sleeves hanging off his arm and he would have to push it up every five minutes. He feels like a kid again, standing by the stoplight, with a shirt too big and jeans too long, waiting for a crush that will never love him back.
But when Stiles gives him that horrendous sweater and keeps going on about their first-ever Christmas Eve at the house, Derek knows he would wear a hundred more sweaters just for him.