Archive of Our Own

This is a story of a boy with brunette hair and pale skin, chocolate brown eyes and adorable dimples. This boy is awkward and clumsy, but has a heart of gold and looks out for his friends. He is funny, talkative and easy to get along with. His name is Stiles Stilinski, and he is 22 years old.

Before his 22nd birthday Stiles has never thought about moving from Beacon Hills. He has thought about going on a long trip, sure, because he has always loved traveling. He thinks about going to places like Singapore, Moscow and Barcelona. He plans going to all these different places, seeing all the different cultures and tasting all the different foods. He doesn't plan, however, for his best friend Scott to change his mind completely.

"LA? An apartment? Scott, are you okay? What about Allison?" he asks and places a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Yes, LA! Think about it, Stiles. Los Angeles, us two, an apartment and loads of hot chicks and dudes! Chicks and dudes, Stiles! And even Allison said it's fine, I promised to Skype her everyday and go visit every other week, so everything totally perfect! Perfect, Stiles!" Scott seems hyper as he throws his hands in the air and smiles the widest Stiles has seen in a long time. The brunette has to chuckle, shake his head and brush his hand through his hair. He doesn’t even have the hurt to burst Scott’s excited little bubble; he wouldn’t get to do anything with all those chicks and dudes because of Allison. (Stiles was actually terrified that some day Scott would screw up so bad that it would end up in Scott getting hurt. Physically.) "I admit, it's not the worst idea, but I'm not giving you my final answer yet, I have to think about this."

And so he does, he thinks about it every night for ten days to the point of seeing dreams about it. He decides he is ready to make the choice and calls Scott over for some pizza and video games. He wants to be vague about telling Scott, and he doesn't seem to get a chance to slip in nonchalant a "yes, let's just move to Los Angeles, why the heck not" at any point, so he just waits. He keeps making these awkward side glances at Scott, but he waits.

Stiles has to wait until it is almost midnight and Scott is at the door, putting his shoes on and texting Melissa that he's on his way. Stiles stops him, and says he could stay over and they could buy another pizza, play some more games. "Alright, I mean I could just come over tomorrow but I'm up for another round of pizza and kicking your ass, so okay," Scott chuckles and sits back next to Stiles.

That is when the window opens and Stiles turns to look at Scott. "Uh, yeah well. I thought we could practice spending time with each other, like, 24/7. You know, uh, because, we're moving together soon. To Los Angeles. Yay, roommates," he says and finishes with a nervous laugh and he swears he can see the gears turning in Scott's head before he finally understands.

The next thing Stiles doesn't expect happening and suddenly he is on the floor with Scott hugging him, and all Stiles can do is smile.

It doesn't take as much time as Stiles had thought to arrange moving to Los Angeles. It takes much more time for him to assure his father that they're going to be fine there with Scott, that he promises to call every week and visit Beacon Hills every damn holiday he can think of, but eventually sheriff Stilinski allows it. That's when Scott says they need to start calling it "Scott and Stiles' humble abode". Stiles thinks it's quite ridiculous, but he doesn't argue.

The next month is a blur of signing contracts and paying for things and Stiles' father being clearly more attached and affectionate—and then he is suddenly at the airport with all the things he is taking with him in a huge suitcase and his arms start to ache as he pulls it behind him, trying to catch up with Scott who is practically running ahead of him, bumping into a lot of people. Stiles calls for him multiple times—even holds his inhaler in hand and warns about getting an asthma attack, but he doesn't stop.

Stiles takes a deep breath when he finally reaches Scott and lets go of his suitcase. He is panting, and a bit sweaty as well. He knows he is out of shape, but he is still surprised to be that out of breath. "Could've waited for me, you know," he sighs. Scott waves a hand in Stiles' direction and starts lifting his suitcase on the belt at the check in. He chats with the woman at the counter and then takes Stiles' suitcase as well (which Stiles is kind of grateful for, he doesn't want to tire his arms further) and then thanks the woman after being wished to have a great flight.

Suddenly Stiles is being pulled by the wrist behind Scott. Next they're at the gate, and Scott tells Stiles to take his backpack off. Both of them go through the gate without problem, which Stiles finds to be one kind of a miracle, since he usually is a magnet for trouble. Everything seems to be moving so fast, suddenly their plane is called to be boarding and then they're on the plane—and oh my God Scott and Stiles are going to be in Los Angeles soon, they're gonna live in LA. Stiles isn't sure if he's ready to fully come to terms with that yet.

It is nice, the apartment is really nice and at a nice location. Also the bed, the bed looks nice and soft. All Stiles wants is to go to bed. He needs sleep, he got none on the flight. Or the night before, really. He is so tired and Scott keeps going on about going clubbing and getting to know their way around the city. "But I'm so tired," Stiles whines, drawing out the last syllable. "Yeah, I can see that. But, think about all the Cali girls out there! And the surfer dudes."
"Shut up, Scott. I'm going to bed," Stiles says and falls face first on his new, oh-so-soft bed.

"No!" Scott exclaims and Stiles gets hit in the head with a pillow. He whines, rolls over and casts an ugly look at Scott. "Why can't it wait for tomorrow?"
"Because I'm impatient, now come on! Let's go clubbing or something," Scott urges Stiles on and throws another pillow on his face. He sighs, rolls off the bed and gets up. "Fine, bossy-pants. But you're definitely buying me a drink," he mumbles.

Somehow, Stiles ends up with a very drunk girl trying to flirt with him at the bar with no idea of the whereabouts of one Scott McCall. Asshole owes me a drink, Stiles thinks and glances around the club quickly to see if he could spot the idiot anywhere, but no luck. He turns his attention back to the stranger who's offering to buy Stiles a drink for the third time, but he turns it down politely again. She places her hand on Stiles' knee. "I don't bite, I promise," she slurs and leans closer. "Uh, right—excuse me," Stiles jumps down from the bar stool he was sitting on and walks away without looking back. The girl looks very offended when Stiles does that, but he doesn't bother to care. He just wants to find Scott.

Stiles spins around, trying to catch a glimpse of dark hair and brown eyes, but he doesn’t, instead he bumps into someones hard—(ow)—chest and almost falls backwards. He stumbles back and grabs the strangers arm, which he doesn’t think makes the situation any better. Neither would falling down on my ass right in front of them, he decides.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going. Totally my fault, trying to find my friend,” he yells over the music. The stranger huffs, and Stiles looks at him for the first time. He lets out a hitched breath and almost falls again. Okay, well maybe Stiles needs to thank Scott because oh my God he is hot.

“Whoa, easy there, try to keep still,” the dark haired stranger laughs drily. “Wouldn’t want you falling and banging your head on the floor, eh?”
“Are you like, Canadian?" Stiles laughs. "First of all, no, that's racist and second—stop shouting, I can hear you just fine," the stranger shakes his head and smiles at Stiles, though it looks like he’s trying to fight the smile down. "Oh, I'm sorry, I'm not always this awkward. Or—well, yes I actually am, but—“ he gets interrupted by the stranger’s hand over his mouth. "Alright, alright! Stop talking, my face is hurting. Haven't smiled like this in a long time," he smirks that heart melting, stomach flipping smirk and Stiles totally isn't daydreaming about anything. Nothing involving himself and the stranger specifically. "I'm Derek, hi. May I offer you a drink or have you had enough already?"
"Oh, I uh, haven't actually been drinking, but I'd love a drink, thank you," Stiles stammers. "Oh! Yeah, hi, I'm Stiles."

They smile at each other and Derek is about to say something, but then the one and only Scott McCall comes stumbling away between them and grabbing Stiles' shoulders. "Stiles!" he exclaims. "Hi, buddy, great to see you. Bit of a bad timing though, so could you just, catch me later?" he laughs nervously and tries to push Scott away. "NO! Stiles! Need to leave!! Right now! Come on!" he grabs Stiles' hand and pulls him outside the club and down the road until they're at least a block away and even if Stiles had been yelling at him the whole way, when they stop, Scott just laughs. "Dude, whoa! I saw something crazy in there!"
"Scott. McCall. I fucking hate you, don't talk to me ever again, I regret moving to Los Angeles with you, I fucking—ugh!”

Scott chuckles, with actual amusement and grabs Stiles' shoulders again. "I saw a chick with claws and fangs and she had like a lot of hair on her face and I thought it was a little weird so I had to tell you, it was crazy, dude," he spoke unbelievably quick and made crazy hand motions. Stiles struggled with the part of himself that wanted to punch Scott square in the face, but he ended up just laughing.

"Are you high, Scott?" he asked, jokingly, but as he started to walk in to the way of their apartment and the other didn't move—he turned around to see Scott looking like the guiltiest person in the world. "Oh my God, you are, aren't you?" Scott snickers. "Maybe a little," he snorts and soon the two are doubling over themselves in the middle of the street at two am. Stiles figures it was a first night in LA well spent.

Stiles wakes up to his phone buzzing twice with text messages. He groans and complains about his empty stomach and how dirty he feels, God I should’ve showered. He rolls over and grabs his phone from the night stand. He figured it would be his dad, but the message is from an unknown number. His eyebrows furrow in confusion.

From: Unknown
To: Stiles

Hi, Stiles.
I hope you're actually Stiles.

From: Stiles
To: Unknown

God?? Is that you????

From: Unknown
To: Stiles

Okay it's you. Definitely you.

From: Stiles
To: Unknown

Uh yup okay haha, yay! Who this again????

From: Unknown
To: Stiles

Oh, it's Derek. Do you always use so many question marks?

Stiles jumps up and runs out of his bedroom. "What?!" he can’t believe it. How the hell did the Hot Non-Canadian Walking Wet Dream get his phone number? “Oh. My. God.“ Scott is sitting in the kitchen but Stiles doesn't notice him. He quickly saves the number in his address book.

From: Stiles
To: Wet Dream Derek

Oh, whAt. God.

From: Wet Dream Derek
To: Stiles

Wow, it's only 10 am and I've already been called God twice. By the same person.

From: Stiles
To: Wet Dream Derek

Lol, you're not funny. How did u get my nmbr?

From: Wet Dream Derek
To: Stiles

I have my ways. You text like a teenager, by the way.

"Oh my God," Stiles repeats and jumps up on the sofa. Scott is really starting to find amusement in Stiles' weird happy freak out when he starts jumping up and down on the sofa in his boxers, so he fishes his phone out of his pocket and starts recording it.

From: Stiles
To: Wet Dream Derek

Wtf is that sppsd to mean??

From: Wet Dream Derek
To: Stiles

It means you text like you don't know what the word grammar stands for.

From: Stiles
To: Wet Dream Derek

Ok whoa, mean. What exactly are your ways?? I mean my real name's def not Stiles so you didn't like look it up in a phone book.

From: Wet Dream Derek
To: Stiles

Okay, stop with the question marks. Just, do you go to that club often?

Stiles actually audibly squeaks and trips on the armrest of the sofa, tumbling down to the floor and grunting when his back connects with the floor. Scott snorts and starts cackling like a hen. "God, Stiles. Who are you even texting with? The prince of England or something?" Stiles stumbles off the floor and glares at Scott, opens his mouth but is interrupted by his phone buzzing and his own squawking. Scott shakes his head and takes a sip of his coffee.

From: Wet Dream Derek
To: Stiles

Just wondering if you left your wallet last night—or some other night. My sister owns that place and when I helped her close last night I found it. Weird to have your phone number written on your wallet, by the way.

From: Stiles
To: Wet Dream Derek

Oh! I didn't even realise I'd lost it.
Erm, no yeah yesterday was my first time there.
And I mean it worked, you texted me me and I'm getting my wallet back. Don't question "my ways".

From: Wet Dream Derek
To: Stiles

I could bring it back to you, if you were comfortable with giving me your address. Would that be okay?

Stiles doesn't hesitate for even a moment before texting Derek the address (which makes him a bit embarrassed, he could've waited for at least a minute before replying. What an idiot). He decides to save the phone number, in the hopes of getting to use it one day. Which, even if he really hopes he does, he doesn't actually believe in himself that much.

"Soo, are you gonna tell me what you were freaking out about?" Scott elbows Stiles in the side and tries to peek at Stiles' phone. "Derek. His sister owns the club we went to yesterday, and I left my wallet there. He promised to bring it back to me." Scott looks at him suspiciously for a while before gasping and pointing at Stiles like a little kid at a toy truck in a display window. "He's the one you were flirting with yesterday! That's why you're all giddy and shit, jumping all over in your underwear."
"Shut it. I was just—happy he found my wallet?" Stiles tries to lie, but what with his squeaky voice and grimacing face he knows it won't work. Scott continues to annoy him the rest of the morning. Even when he’s in the shower.

Stiles is cooking dinner (if taking a pizza out of the freezer and putting it in the oven counts as cooking) when the doorbell rings. He doesn't remember that he's expecting Derek to come by and retrieve Stiles' lost wallet to it's owner, so he just walks to the door and half expects some kind of salesman. When he opens the door, there's no hiding his surprise and giddiness after gasping very audibly at the sight of Derek. "Hi," he greets quietly. Derek smiles in response, a quick smile that doesn't reach his eyes but yet that manages to do something to Stiles' insides. Derek reaches inside his pocket and pulls out a familiar looking leather wallet with superhero stickers all over. Suddenly Stiles is cast over with embarrassment, he must seem like such a man-child.

"Take better care of that," Derek prompts and huffs out a dry laugh. Stiles nods furiously and thanks him. "I hope it wasn't too much trouble," he mumbles, suddenly feeling guilty that the man had to bring it over by himself. "No it’s—it's fine, I was around here anyways," Derek waves his hand dismissively and looks into Stiles' eyes. They stand like that, in silence, just looking at each other for a while, before Derek hurriedly states he needs to leave, go back and help his sister. "Right, okay," Stiles shakes his head and coughs—he was really deep in… thoughts. "Thanks again."
"Bye," Derek mutters as Stiles slowly closes the door after whispering a farewell of his own. After the door's closed he slides down on it, leaning his head back against it and grumbling under his breath something about a Greek God.

He’s doomed.

—

It's been a week since the whole club-wallet-ordeal and Stiles hasn't stopped thinking about Derek, but there also hasn't been any interaction between the two. Stiles has written out numerous texts to send to Derek, but he's always just deleted them, because he's a pussy—Scott’s words, not his.

Anyways, he's at the point of just giving up trying to forget the guy and accept his fate of eternal pining for a certain man who reminds him of a Calvin Klein model. He's already thought of circumstances when he's telling a story about Derek to his grandchildren in front of a fire, all grey and wrinkly and old. Scott's had enough of Stiles' stupid behaviour though, so he suggests what he thinks is the only logical solution.

"Let's go back to that club, Stiles. We'll dress you up all nice and he'll be all over you. Trust me on this, Stiles," he exclaims enthusiastically, and even though Stiles knows Scott means good, he's very aware a part of the reason he wants to go back to that club is the weed. He wants to get high.

It's not the worst idea though, and Stiles considers it. Or pretends to, how could he ever say no. He argues with Scott for a while, whines about the cons and waits for Scott to give him three pretty similar pros—which, okay, would totally convince Stiles even if he didn't want to go. "Well, Stiles—you have the hots for this guy, he clearly has the hots for you. There's a big chance you could get some."
"Okay," Stiles quips, nodding his head wildly and then proceeds to make a dash for the bedroom.

When they’re standing in the line, about to get let inside Stiles feels horrible. Maybe he should’ve put on those ripped jeans instead of these black ones, or the white t-shirt instead of this plaid one. He starts fiddling with one of the buttons on his shirt, nervously looking around. “Stiles, you look like you’re about to bolt right out of here. What’s the matter?” Scott scoffs beside him, elbowing him in the side and ruffling his hair. “Hey! Leave the hair, it took ages,” Stiles mumbles. He looks up at the bouncer who’s currently asking for the ID’s of a group of girls in front of them. “Remind me again why we even came.”
“Oh come on, bro. You’ve been moping around all week! Trust me, he likes you and he totally won’t be able to resist you,” Scott smiles at him, but honestly; that doesn’t help at all. Stiles is freaking out because he doesn’t know what to talk about. The last time they saw Stiles spent the whole time staring at Derek when he spoke. How does one flirt again?

“ID’s,” the bouncer’s low, monotone voice breaks Stiles’ thought. He scrambles to fetch it from his wallet in his back pocket, but he doesn’t feel it there. Did he forget his wallet? He’s at the same time confused, relieved and disappointed, and about to tell the bouncer to forget it and just walk back home—but low and behold, Scott pulls Stiles’ wallet from his own pocket. He grins. “I know you too well, dude. You leave this thing everywhere.”

It’s almost exactly the same as last time. It’s almost completely full, it doesn’t look like there’s room to breathe on the dance floor and there are hardly any places to sit. The boom of the music is quite overwhelming, as well as the lights flicking around all over the place. God damn, if Stiles is going to get through this he will need a drink. Or ten.

Fortunately, that’s exactly what Scott intends to do as he pulls Stiles with him to the counter to order drinks. Stiles just wishes he won’t disappear this time when a drink is pushed into his hand. “What even is this?” he asks Scott and stares at the weird, vibrant green substance. “Absinthe, Stiles,” he winks and takes a large gulp of the one in his one hand. Alright, Stiles thinks. I’ll down like a hundred of these and hope I don’t throw up on Derek, if I ever even find him.

“I don’t think you should drink a hundred, one or two ought to be enough. Actually, considering, maybe just one. Don’t actually want to be throwing up on your crush,” Scott laughs. “Wait, did I—“
“Yes, you did. Didn’t you say he worked here? If so, you’ll find him easily,” Scott assures, and okay, maybe it won’t be that hard, but what if Stiles isn’t really even sure he wants to find Derek? And what if—whoa, hey, wait a second.

Stiles scrunches his brows together and opens his mouth, as if to say something, then closes it again and—oh my God. The thought that Derek didn’t actually work here didn’t ever even cross his mind. He remembers now that Derek never said he worked at the club. He only said he’d found Stiles’ wallet because he was helping his sister tidy up. God, what an idiot. He throws a hand over his face and starts grumbling “stupid, stupid, stupid idiot” over and over again. Scott is confused, but he leaves him alone with his self-mocking. Only for a while though, because after about ten more “stupid idiot”’s Scott interrupts him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Stiles,” he hisses and squeezes his shoulder. “Leave me alone, Scott. Go get high or something and let me drown in drinks until I can’t remember my name. I did a dumb, bro,” Stiles whines dramatically and tries to shrug his friend’s hand off his shoulder. “No, Stiles, seriously, get your head out of your ass and listen to me,” Scott voice is barely a whisper and Stiles can just about hear every word, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t totally confused. Because, what? “I think your crush is right there, kind of staring right at us.” OH, holy hell.

Stiles is up and alert in a nanosecond, a flush spreading across his face for over reacting. But jeez, this feels even worse now, that he’s turned his face to look where Scott implied and sure enough, yep, there he is. Wet Dream Derek in all his bad-boy-with-leather-jacket glory. “What do I do?” Stiles squeaks and tries to grab Scott’s shirt or something, he just doesn’t want to go. But he also does, and parts of his brain are at war, screaming at each other to just do something, but nothing happens—until his so-called best friend pushes him forward by his shoulders, and then his feet start to move him towards Derek, and then he can’t stop it anymore. And there he is again, Derek (who’s totally secretly a super model of some sort), right in front of him. “Hi,” Stiles bites his lip and curses at himself in his head, you sound like a schoolgirl, moron. Derek’s face doesn’t really show any emotion, he tilts his head to the side and studies Stiles’ face. “Hey there.”

His voice, Jesus Christ his voice. “Back here again, huh?” Derek’s eyebrow raises, his voice betraying his surprise and confusion. “Yep. My friend liked it last time. Dragged me out with him like always,” he answers with a dry chuckle, which really just comes out because he’s nervous. Like, really nervous. “Mmm, clearly,” he mumbles like he doesn’t believe Stiles, who is about to defend himself and make Derek believe but suddenly there’s a warm hand over his and his heart skips a beat or two. Or ten. “You go sit down, I’ll get us some drinks,” and then the hand leaves his and again Stiles’ feet move him forward to a table in the corner on their own accord.

“Now, mind actually telling me something about yourself? I don't even know your last name," Derek asks as he sits down with the drinks in his hands. “My whole name’s Stiles Stilinski. Don’t question it, I know it’s odd. What’s yours?”
“Hale,” he answers with disinterest and sips his beer. “What’s your real name?” Stiles laughs and starts shaking his head. “I don’t really even know how to pronounce it, and you wouldn’t do anything with that information. You might laugh, but that’s about it because you won’t be able to pronounce it,” he says and draws circles on his glass with his middle finger.

“Ah, but I’d like to try,” Derek smirks and quirks a challenging eyebrow. Stiles only rolls his eyes and shakes his head again. “So, you work here?”
“Yes and no,” he answers and tilts his head again, looking at Stiles intently. “You are so different, in the best kind of way,” and then he smiles, which almost makes Stiles combust. He takes a deep breath and hides his face behind his drink. Derek breathes out a laugh and immediately Stiles’ eyes flick back up to his face. “Learn to take compliments, Stiles.”

Stiles just blushes, he really doesn’t know how to respond to that so he just drowns himself in his drink. Derek grins and shakes his head, but thankfully gets the hint and drops the subject. “So, what do you do for a living?” he asks, honest interest in his eyes. “I don’t,” Stiles blurts out. “I mean—well I’m unemployed at the moment. I’ve just moved to LA, and honestly… I don’t think I’m really fit for any job,” he bites his lip and realises his glass is empty, and also that he really needs more alcohol to get through this. That way, maybe he won’t remember how embarrassing he was. It’s like, intentional temporary amnesia. “Can I get another drink?” he quips, lifting his gaze up to Derek’s.

Derek looks absent-minded for a while before he nods and gets up to fetch Stiles a new drink. When he sits back down, he has a friendly smile on his lips. “You could always work here?”
“What?” Stiles squints his eyes and tilts his head a little. “Laura always complains there’s not enough staff. You could get a job right here,” Derek clears and hands Stiles his drink. Stiles scoffs and starts waving his hands in front of his face. “No way, dude. I’m in no way fit for working at a nightclub. Would never work,” he claims and smiles in silent amusement, just thinking about himself having to make drink, or worse yet, deliver them to customers. Absolute chaos.

Derek is silent then, for a long while, staring at Stiles’ face—who pretends to ignore the way his gaze stays on Stiles’ lips for a beat or two more than the other parts. Stiles hates it that his face doesn’t reflect any clear emotions, he’s like a statue for crying out loud. But he is glad, that Derek is pretty straightforward and will say what he’s thinking. “I’d like to dance,” his eyes flick up to Stiles’, his hand reaching for his. “May I?”
“Please,” Stiles whispers and downs the his untouched drink in one go, taking a hold of Derek’s hand and following him to the dance floor.

It’s somehow relaxing dancing with Derek. Normally Stiles would probably be too embarrassed to dance, because he really doesn’t know how, but somehow, with Derek’s hands holding his, he doesn’t even look half bad bouncing around to the beat of the music. He smiles, an honest, happy smile which Derek responds to with a lopsided smirk. Really, it’s weird how okay Stiles is with all of this. There are sweaty, grinding bodies all around him and not a lot of air to breathe, but he doesn’t feel panicked or even slightly uncomfortable. Definitely not when Derek suddenly lets go of Stiles’ hands and grabs his waist instead.

That touch, even over the fabric of his shirt, sends sparks of electricity flying through his body and he shivers, the hairs on his neck standing up and his lips parting in surprise. His hands automatically fly up around Derek’s neck, and they’re chest to chest then, actually touching and dancing and—Stiles can’t believe it.

Derek leans in to whisper something, and the warm breath on Stiles’ ear is amazing. “You’re a good dancer.”
“You sound surprised,” Stiles replies in mock hurt and tightens his hold around Derek’s neck. “A little,” he chuckles, which sends wonderful vibrations through Stiles’ body. It’s that voice and the closeness all together that makes arousal spike in his blood and suddenly he’s sporting a semi—not even ashamed of it, because come on. Who really could resist Wet Dream Derek?—and being happier than he has in what feels like forever.

Stiles isn’t sure if Derek feels it, but suddenly there’s a hitch of a breath next to his ear and Derek pulls back enough to look at Stiles in the face. His eyes are dark with something, something Stiles wants to make Derek experience again and again.

They stand there, still, their breaths mingling in heavy pants and heated looks. Derek’s eyes flick down to Stiles’ lips again, his grip tightens—and then they almost kiss, it’s so close, so damn close before Derek abruptly backs off and coughs. “Look, Stiles,” he starts, trying to avert Stiles’ gaze like it would burn him, scratching his neck and looking anguished. “I don’t think… I’m just not the person to do this kind of stuff with. I’m—I’m not good for you,” he finishes, and Stiles actually can’t believe what he’s hearing. What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Not good for me?

“What are you talking about?” Stiles asks, honestly more than confused (the alcohol in his blood probably has something to do with that). “Don’t you like me or…?”
“I do! I really do, but I guess I… just can’t be dating anyone right now, or anything like that. It wouldn’t be good for either of us. Trust me on this, okay? We’re… different.”
“That sounds stupid,” Stiles frowns. “So do you, and I still like you!” Derek smiles and drops his hands from Stiles’ waist. “Wait, if you like me, then why can’t we just—“
“No, Stiles. We can be friends, but nothing more. Now promise me you won’t bring this up again,” he gets interrupted again, and huffs in annoyance. He doesn’t understand, Derek’s said he likes him but it wouldn’t be good? It’s annoying and kind of depressing, but if Stiles could still see Derek, then maybe it wouldn’t be that bad.

It takes ages for him to answer, but he agrees, and Derek looks, well—not happy, but not terribly sad either. “It’s getting late, you should probably head home,” Derek mutters and grabs his hand. “Yeah,” Stiles sighs, disappointment so clear in his voice a deaf person could hear it.

Something like hope flashes Derek’s eyes when they back off from a goodbye hug outside the bar. Honestly, Stiles has to use all the willpower in himself to extract himself from Derek’s warm embrace and turn his back to him.

So, the night doesn’t end in Stiles’ favour and he walks home, alone, cold and confused. He falls into bed with aching limbs and a throbbing head.

Scott barges in Stiles’ room at ten am, flicks the lights on and jumps on his bed next to Stiles. Stiles grumbles in annoyance and sits up. “So did you get some? Where is he? Getting you breakfast, I assume,” Scott laughs. “How was it? When did you get back? Are you sore? How dreamy is—“

“Scott, nothing happened,” Stiles interrupts and swing his legs over the bed. “What?” Scott sounds like he can’t believe it, he’s very confused. “But I was so sure!” he whines and falls backwards on Stiles’ bed. “I’m sorry buddy,” he mumbles.

And so life goes on, not exactly how Stiles envisioned it in his fantasies, but it’s alright. He and Scott go to that club at least every other weekend, so Stiles sees Derek. They also randomly text each other, never anything important, they just like to talk about each other’s days and when Stiles gets a job he sends a really over-enthusiastic text to Derek.

From: Stiles
To: Wet Dream Derek
Got a job! Not a loser anymore!!!!!

When he presses send he glances at the name he still hasn’t changed (why would he? That fact hasn’t changed, and never will) and bites his lip hard enough to draw blood. He’s still frustrated, Derek is a frustrating, complicated person—and Stiles has the biggest crush on him. He sucks, you could do better, Stiles tries to convince himself, but honestly; he doesn’t suck, he’s perfect and Stiles could never find someone better. There is no better, for Derek is the best, and Stiles can’t even tell him that. He sighs and throws his phone on his bed. He doesn’t feel like texting Derek right now.

—

Okay, Stiles is starting to get a little annoyed by now. It’s been almost a month of tell-tale looks of mutual attraction, late night texting and secret flirting. Neither of them have made a move, because they decided so together, but honestly—Stiles is tired of it. He is so sick of that stupid damn rule, he can’t even get drunk around Derek because he might blurt out something inappropriate, so he really just goes to the club to sit down and talk with Derek for a while, then help his drugged, giggling best friend (traitor) back home. Every time he pushes Scott to bed and brings a glass of water and a painkiller to his bedside table, he swears he’s never going there again. And he knows he won’t be able to keep that promise the moment he mumbles it under his breath, but he wishes he could.

This one night though, he decides to get drunk. He needs to get drunk. He is so frustrated at Derek, and he’s in desperate need of some good sex. He wants to get so drunk that he wakes up wondering where his other shoe or underwear went in an unfamiliar apartment with an unfamiliar person next to him in the bed.

He chooses his clothes with care, going with ripped jeans and a fishnet tee. He struts straight over to the counter when he gets let in and orders a shot of vodka and a margarita. He looks around, and can’t see Derek. Sometimes he isn’t working when Stiles and Scott come around, and for that, Stiles is grateful. Right now, he doesn’t think he should be seeing Derek. With the blurting-out-inappropriate-things problem, it’s best like this.

He downs the shot and takes the margarita in his hand, eyes scanning over the dance floor. As always, it’s full of people bouncing around and making out. Stiles realises he can’t really flirt, he doesn’t think he has the courage to ask anyone to dance. So he waits, he waits for someone to come to him. He is hot enough, right? Someone will see him and like him and come over and ask him to dance, there are so many people in the club it can’t be possible that no one would like some of Stiles.

An hour and a half later, it seems it is possible. Someone bought him a drink, but he doesn’t even know who they were and doesn’t really even care. They didn’t come up later to talk, so it counts as a fail, too. At this point though, Stiles is so drunk he can’t remember where he lives, he can’t remember why he came or how many drinks he’s had, he can’t remember he should be avoiding a special someone. He doesn’t remember that he’s totally lost track of where Scott is. He hasn’t moved from his spot himself, but Scott must’ve disappeared some time ago.

Stiles takes a large gulp of the drink in his hand and then realises he really needs to piss. He hasn’t in like, two hours and he’s drank almost half a gallon of liquor—his bladder feels like it’s about to burst. He jumps down from the barstool he had been sitting on and makes his stumbling steps toward the restrooms with hurried movement. Somehow, by some miracle, he makes it into the toilet, and it’s the right one. He feels like a champion when he leans on the wall while peeing into a urinal.

His head swims when he exits the room. His balance is suddenly gone and he feels himself falling forward and braces for the contact with the floor—but it never comes. His fall halts and he is being lifted back up, held by his waist and shoulder. The hand on his shoulder leaves, and his chin is being lifted up by it seconds later. His eyes focus slowly in the dim lighting of the hallway to reveal scrunched up eyebrows and hazel green eyes. He knows perfectly well who the owner of those eyes are, and giggles. He just has to be the knight in shining armour, saving Stiles from a possible concussion.

Derek doesn’t seem amused at all, though, he looks really worried. “Stiles,” he speaks softly. “Are you okay?” Stiles giggles again and bites his lip. “I’m fineee,” he draws out the last word really long and smiles afterwards. He really does feel good, but he certainly doesn’t look the part. His legs are wobbly and he smells like vodka and lemons. Derek can’t help but shake his head at the man. “You are a calamity.”
“And you,” Stiles pokes Derek in the chest. “Are hot,” he giggles and puts his hands on Derek’s chest. Derek figures it’s best to just ignore him. He lets go of Stiles’ chin and tries to keep him in balance with one arm still circled around his waist. “Are you here with Scott?”

Stiles snorts. “He left like, five years ago,” he states and stares at Derek right in the eyes. “I wanna dance with you,” he whines. Derek rolls his eyes and sighs. “But—“ he is cut short by Stiles’ finger on his lips, his face serious and concentrated. “Shhhhhh! No but’s, I really like you and you really like me. Let’s just dance,” Stiles states in frustration, his words only slurring a little. "Stiles, I’m—I don't..." he starts but stops with a sigh. His mouth opens, then closes and reopens, but he can't get any words out for a long moment.

"Okay," he gets out eventually, sounding defeated. Stiles is just about to jump out of his skin, no big deal. "Yaaaay!"
"Don't get too excited. I definitely need a drink, and you," he pokes Stiles in the chest like the other did to him earlier. "Need to keep your distance."

Stiles is dizzy and his hair is sticking to his forehead. He looks at Derek, observes his face. Derek doesn't look drunk as he stares back at Stiles with a smirk on his face. Stiles recognises the song, but doesn't remember the name and can't, for some reason, distinguish the lyrics. Time seems to slow down and suddenly all Stiles can hear and see is Derek. He doesn't hear the music anymore, his vision gets blurred. Derek looks right back at Stiles, his expression slowly changing to confused. Or was that... concern? Suddenly Stiles realises that Derek doesn't really seem to be drunk at all, which is, weird. He stills then completely and tilts his head to the side a little, and just —thinks.

"Why'd you stop dancing, Stiles? Everything okay?" Derek pulls him back into reality, he hears the music again and he almost laughs at how ironic it is that the song is Love Somebody by Maroon 5. Or did he actually laugh? Stiles doesn't know, but it doesn't matter. He looks at Derek, straight in those mesmerising eyes and as he gets the urge to kiss Derek, he thinks he might have some feelings for him—or maybe because he is incredibly intoxicated... No, wait—fuck that, Stiles Stilinski definitely has feelings for Derek Hale, how serious he doesn't really know, he is very drunk. What he does know, is that he wants to kiss the man, badly. Fuck their stupid agreement. And so he does (thank you, alcohol, for the confidence).

Stiles lips land on the corner of Derek's mouth, and they only stay for a short while. Stiles frowns as he pulls back, that didn't go as planned. Derek looks like an actual statue made of stone and his eyes don't leave Stiles' lips as he swallows and inhales deep through his nose. “Stiles—what?" is all he manages to croak out.

"'m sorry, 'm drunk. Tripped," Stiles giggles. "Why aren't you drunk when I am, Derek? Not fair."
"You're a lightweight. But don't even try to change the subject on me," he answers with a low voice. "Did you just try to kiss me?" Stiles hates that he's drunk right now because if he didn't just blurt out what first comes to mind then maybe he could still escape this situation. But no, of course he has to say "Would you believe me if I said no?" Derek inhales deep again and shakes his head a little. He grabs Stiles by the waist and growls into his ear. "Did you, or did you not?"
"Yeah," Stiles whimpers and he can feel the hairs on his neck standing up as Derek's breath hits his ear. Derek's grip tightens around his waist and then he's speaking again. "Can I kiss you properly now?"

Stiles let's out a shaky breath and nods his head furiously. Derek grips his shoulders and kisses him, all tongues and teeth and fighting for dominance, so passionate. He bites Stiles' lower lip, to which the boy responds with a shiver and a sigh. The dark haired moans quietly and the sound makes Stiles shake. Suddenly, the club is too hot and Stiles can't breathe. He pulls back, and Derek almost whines. "We're leaving," Derek grits through his teeth whispers and grabs Stiles by the wrist. Stiles nods and stumbles after Derek in the crowded nightclub, accidentally bumping into people here and there.

The cool outside air hits Stiles and he feels like every hair on his body stands up. He still can't breathe and Derek is studying his face with scrunched eyebrows and worrying eyes. He steps in Stiles' personal space again and takes his face between his hands. "You still have your keys, right?" he asks softly. Stiles thinks for a moment and then reaches into his pocket. "Ah, yes! Right here," he grins and waves them in the air. "Good," Derek smiles. He nuzzles his nose into the nape of Stiles' neck, and quietly asks, "Let's go to your and Scott's? I'll pay the taxi."

"Sure," Stiles' agrees, maybe a bit too enthusiastically.

The taxi driver looks like he's about to give up when he asks for the address for the third time and Stiles still slurs something that doesn't sound like English. Derek sighs and tells the driver the address, to which the (clearly tired) middle-aged driver responds with a sigh of what sounds like relief and then the taxi starts moving.

Derek slowly turns his head to Stiles who giggles drunkenly and shifts closer. The dark haired is about to open his mouth and say something but his throat closes when Stiles suddenly straddles his thighs and climbs into his lap. Derek shivers and puts his hands on the man's chest, trying to push him away but he won't budge. He bangs his head on the window he's pushed up against and bites on his lower lip. "God damn it, Stiles. Get off me," he manages to choke out. He tries to hold his breath, because Stiles' neck is dangerously close to his face, and he has trouble containing his vocal cords just when Stiles is a couple feet away and Derek sniffs the air.

Stiles whines, "Are you sure you want me to stop?" Stiles is exposing even more of his neck by craning it back, and all Derek can think is how annoyed the driver must be and he feels some sympathy for the poor fellow who has to watch a drunk asshole in the lap of another not-so-drunk asshole.

It takes only a half a minute for Derek to give up trying to push Stiles away, because a) he doesn't actually want Stiles to get off his lap, he was just thinking about the tired driver but he's over that now and b) because he really wants to kiss Stiles' neck, totally right there in front of his face. He inhales, groans and starts mouthing on the soft—and clearly very sensitive—skin.

When the taxi finally comes to a stop Stiles doesn't know if he can walk or talk and his lip is bleeding from the place he has been gnawing on to keep quiet. Derek finally releases his neck then and throws two 50 dollar notes to the driver, which was clearly too much, but Derek doesn't seem to care as he pulls Stiles out of the taxi with him. He doesn't think he would be able to move if Derek wasn't dragging him by the wrist again.

Between getting in the lift and getting in Stiles and Scott's apartment is a haze of teeth on Stiles' neck and his vision blurring and focusing and then blurring again, and he thinks he might have passed out for a while until his back hits a familiar bed and Derek crawls on top of him. I didn't realise I was that drunk, he thinks.

And then he can't think anymore, because Derek kisses him.

Stiles wakes up feeling warm and fuzzy all over. As he blinks his eyes open he feels the sun hitting his face and groans a little. He hates being hungover. He brought that upon himself, though.

He rolls over, in a search of a warm body he fell asleep next to, but instead he rolls off the bed and jumps up with sheets around him as he realises Derek wasn’t in the bed next to him. Something inside him panics and he stumbles out of the bedroom door, the sheet falling off his hips in the process, leaving him completely naked.

He thinks he has definitely messed up, ruined everything between him and Derek before anything had really even started. Stiles pulls his hair between his fingers, making it even more messed that it was already from last night. It's sticking up in every direction when he walks into the living room, faces the window. The sun hits his face and body through the gap of the blinds and he thinks he might go to into a full on panic attack any minute. Pathetic really, what did he expect? For Derek to actually like him, Stiles, the most awkward person on the planet? No way.

He jumps a little as he suddenly feels strong arms wrap around him from the side and turn him facing toward a concerned Derek. "Stiles, are you okay? You smell like—I uh, I mean you're breathing really fast—are you alright?"
"Derek," Stiles' voice comes out high pitched and he blushes scarlet red and averts Derek's gaze while trying to cover his private parts even a little. "I'm alright," he peeps.

It's quiet for a while, but then Stiles feels Derek's hands on his cheeks and he's looking straight back at blue eyes that still, for a moment show concern, but that concern turns into amusement. "No need to be embarrassed, Stiles," he chuckles and then his eyes lower down to somewhere that makes Stiles blush even more for a while, and he smiles. "You know, I had quite a close encounter with that guy last night, there's no need to be embarrassed," he turns around and walks in the direction of the kitchen. "You should probably put some clothes on. At least for a while, I made some breakfast,” they smile at each other, and all of a sudden Stiles is completely at ease.

Then it just hits him like a brick in the gut, he's a little deprived of air and he knows his heart rate is growing rapid again. His name is Stiles Stilinski and he is probably (okay, definitely) in love with Derek Hale.

—

When Stiles' dad hears about his son's dating situation he commands to meet Derek right after freaking out for about five minutes. Stiles promises to bring him home in two weeks for 4th of July. Lydia and Danny scream over the phone at him for ten minutes after Stiles sends a picture of Derek to them. "How the hell did you catch that, Stilinski?!" Allison hears through Scott and congratulates Stiles over a Skype call. Scott makes it worse by exaggerating the first time they met.

Derek's remaining family members take it really well, Cora and Laura squee and start to giggle. "So happy for you, Der," Laura declares. After the girls' freak out Peter speaks in a low, monotone voice. "Good for you, Derek. Wish you would've told this in person instead of on the phone. But, I expect to meet Stiles before the end of the month, and I trust you to promise me that."

Laura actually purrs the first time her and Stiles meet a week later. Cora just squints her eyes and checks him up and down (it also looks a little like she's sniffing the air, but Stiles decides that the second glass of "confidence-wine" he had was a little too much and he's imagining that part). Anyway, Stiles is a little intimidated and Derek's grip around him gets a little stronger when he reaches out his hand to shake Laura's.

"So nice to finally meet you," she beams at him and then looks at Derek. "Why didn't you tell me about this cute little thing earlier, Der? I could eat him he's so cute! And he smells really extraordinary," she chuckles, punching him in the arm. Stiles' eyebrows rise to his hairline, he doesn't usually get compliments on his smell. And people definitely don't describe it extraordinary. Derek coughs and mouths something to Laura, but Stiles doesn't catch it. Laura giggles and nods towards the dining room.

“The dinner’s ready. Shall we?” she smiles and when Derek and Stiles pass her she whispers something to Derek. Stiles just knows they’re talking about him, which just makes him wish it’s all positive things—he hates making a bad impression. And these are the last people he wants to make himself look like a fool in front of; they’re Derek’s family.

Dinner goes by great, Stiles doesn't stutter his words too many times and he doesn't really have to answer any too embarrassing questions. He did get a bit confused when Cora reached for his hand and said "It's okay, Stiles, we won't bite" out of nowhere, even though Stiles thought he was acting perfectly okay (emphasis on the word acting, inside he was still panicking). He's just glad he survived without acting like an idiot.

Towards the end, though, when they were finishing dessert Derek started caressing his thigh in a very distracting way and what looks like whispering something to him from time to time, when he actually is licking the shell of Stiles' ear. Stiles only squirms a little, and he's proud of having such self control.

That being until Derek starts nipping at his ear as his fingers brush gently over Stiles' crotch, and he just can't stop the whine that comes from deep in his throat, all loud and clearly indicating sexual frustration.

Stiles flushes and drops his spoon in a clatter on his plate. Derek looks smug when Stiles turns his head to him. Stop grinning idiot, this is your fault. "You okay?" he dares to taunt and brush one finger over Stiles' now hard bulge again, which makes the latter take in a shuddering breath. His eyes dig holes in Derek's when he glares at his boyfriend with warning signs flashing in his eyes. He's about to open his mouth and scold Derek for being indecent, but Laura and Cora's laugh interrupts him and his focus is suddenly taken to the two bodies doubling over the table.

"Come on, little bro. You can tell us when you're getting tired of us," Laura squeaks between fits of laughter with a bright, sincere smile on her face. "Yeah, not like we can't sense it anyways!"
"It's still kinda rude to touch your boyfriend under the table when two of your sisters are literally metres away," she shakes her head. "Oh, Der. You're so smitten." Cora and Laura both stand abruptly, almost exactly at the same time.

"Wait, no, you don't have to leave! I don't want to—" Stiles starts to apologise, he actually doesn't want them to leave, Derek's sisters are super nice and they seem to like Stiles as well. But Laura clearly doesn't want to hear his explanations, only lifts her hands up to stop him from continuing. "It was nice meeting you," they hug. "But your boyfriend here reeks of arousal and I think he might burst." Cora giggles and Derek growls.

They walk out the door and Stiles turns to Derek. "Why did you have to do that?! God, Derek, contain yourself for a moment. This is Laura's apartment."
"They don't mind," Derek rolls his eyes and pulls Stiles into his lap—and honestly; that's all it takes to stop Stiles from arguing any more.

Three days later Peter Hale, an intimidating businessman—with a suit that doesn't look a penny cheaper than 500$—steps inside Scott and Stiles' apartment with no emotion on his face, nose sniffing around and eyes studying Stiles. Then he turns his head to Derek and his lips twitch up a little. "Derek," he offers and straightens a hand for him, who proceeds to crack a smile and shakes his hand. "Peter, nice to see you." The conversation between the two seems awfully formal for some reason, and Stiles doesn't know what to do apart from stand there like a statue, eyes flicking between the two.

He is taken out of his trance when Derek properly introduces Stiles to Peter. "Nice to finally meet the man who won over my nephew's heart," Peter smiles and they shake hands. Again, it feels really formal. Stiles has to cough to be able to trust his own voice. "Hello, Peter. And trust me, that wasn't easy," he tries a light joke, which works great for him. Peter chuckles and glances at Derek. "He's never been easy to handle," Peter shakes his head. "I'm sorry I couldn't make dinner on Saturday. I would've preferred it that way, but I have a very unforgiving work schedule. Besides—I can't really stand Laura and Cora in the same room for a long time. I bet they were even worse meeting you. I'm sorry if they were any trouble."
"That's okay," Stiles assures with a smile. The tension suddenly flows away from his body and the rest of the evening goes swimmingly.

It's the first time Stiles is back in Beacon Hills since he moved, and he is nervous as hell. He really does love Derek (though he's yet to tell him) and wants his friends and dad to approve. He's sitting in a taxi with Derek, on their way to the Stilinski house, and even without werewolf senses it would be clear to Derek that Stiles was anxious, and basically on the verge of running off and jumping off the first bridge he'd come across.

"Stiles," he speaks softly into his ear. "Calm down. It's gonna be fine." Stiles snorts. "Well, yes, if we're lucky. If not, it might end with you running out of the house because my dad didn't like one of your jokes and got his gun out," he laughs nervously. Derek quirks and eyebrow at him. "Are you scared of your own dad?"
"I'm scared for your safety, not mine," he mumbles and slumps back against his seat. Derek snorts next to him and Stiles' heart skips a beat when they make a turn that's already so close to his childhood home.

"I'm sure I'll be fine."
"But he's got a gun!"
"I'm not worried," Derek smiles.

God, Stiles is so relieved. His dad seems to really like Derek, and honestly, he doesn't know why got so worried anyway. Everyone loves Derek, how could they not? Danny and Lydia definitely did. Stiles still remembers their faces when they burst into the Stilinski house during dinner. Apparently, they thought Stiles was playing a joke on them—which, understandable, because Derek; everyone's fantasy. Totally.

He feels so content, lying on a blanket, head on Derek's chest. Fireworks light the dark sky beautifully, the flashes of light making Derek look gorgeous. He can hear screams of celebration in the distance, can see sheriff Stilinski sitting up ahead, gazing up at the sky just as he and Derek are. Or well, Stiles is mostly just gazing at Derek, but he's certain it's just as beautiful as the sky, if not more so.

He never wants to lose Derek.

—

So. Stiles and Derek are going steady, as Scott very much likes to put it every time he talks about the two in a same sentence—honestly Scott, it’s getting kind of ridiculous! It's nice though, how they instantly fell into a relationship, with no awkward first dates, they just—skipped right into the best part. And they’re both happy. Like really happy.

They see each other almost every day of the week, which almost doesn't feel like enough sometimes. They talk, they eat, they cuddle, they make out. Once Derek's taken Stiles to a fancy restaurant with white tablecloths and hundred year old wine, and afterwards they have mind blowing sex in the back of Derek's Camaro because Stiles was "so fucking distracting with your noises, asshole". And man, Stiles isn't complaining.

Stiles is so content with everything, kind of still a little confused by everything; the dates, the talks the kisses. (That isn’t the biggest surprise ever, because Stiles fantasised about all of those things and sort of made himself believe that none of those things would ever actually be a reality in this universe.) He doesn't even realise that maybe he'd like to take the second step before Derek basically makes him.

This leads to Stiles being woken up at four am on a Sunday, from persistent banging on his door. He groans, falls out of bed and pads his way to the door lazily. He opens it to reveal Derek, looking angry with his judging eyebrows and narrowed eyes. Stiles can't help but feel like he's done something. "Oh, hey."
"I'm staying the night," Derek grumbles and passes Stiles, kicks his shoes off and drops his leather jacket to the floor. Stiles lifts an eyebrow in clear confusion. “Oh—kay?” he mumbles and follows Derek's stomping to his bedroom.

"Is everything okay?" Stiles asks softly when he finds Derek in his bedroom, his brows till scrunched together, narrowed eyes twitching as he stares right back at Stiles. Derek nods stiffly, and puffs out a breath through his nose. Stiles steps forward with a questioning eyebrow lifted again. "You certainly don't look the part," he states slowly.

Derek stays quiet for a while, just stares back at him with the same scrunched up face. His face slowly seems to relax, back into his resting bitch face, which makes him look only slightly pissed off. "It's just—I haven't seen you in almost four days now," he says quietly, which is true. They'd talked over the phone and texted—sexted. The start of the week they had both had work and couldn’t meet due to stupid overlapping work hours and the day before yesterday Derek had had some kind of emergency that included flying to South America to save Cora from something—or someone? Stiles didn’t press further, he understood and texted Derek by the hour to make sure he was safe.

"Yes, that's right," Stiles nods. "And I really missed you. Why didn't you call? It's kind of weird to find your boyfriend at you door in the middle of the night glaring at yo—“
"Let's move in together," Derek suddenly blurts out, averting Stiles' gaze. Okay, so; they've been going out for, what, a month? I'm dreaming, aren't I? "What?" his voice squeaks, obviously surprised by the sudden request. Derek doesn't repeat, but he meets Stiles' eyes and worries his lip between his teeth. It's silent for maybe a minute or more, and Derek starts to get nervous, fiddling with his fingers.

"Yes," Stiles breathes out, laughing nervously. "Yes, okay. I'll move in with you," he clears. Derek's eyes flash and he smirks, and in a blink of an eye Derek is holding Stiles in his arms, face buried in his neck and a sigh of relief passing his lips. "Thank God—I can't stand a second away from you," he confesses. Stiles chuckles at that, because he understands.

After a minute Stiles tries to extract himself from his boyfriend, but is denied the movement with a groan and a mischievous look. Derek suddenly grabs Stiles by the hips and pulls him flush against his body, and oh my God does Stiles knows that look.

He's not surprised to be pushed down onto his bed with Derek on top,  kissing his neck and slowly urging up the hem of his Star Wars t-shirt, until he pulls it off Stiles completely.

Every skin on skin touch sends electricity zapping through Stiles’ whole body, making him tremble under Derek’s hands. His body has clearly been craving that familiar, soft touch in the four days they didn’t see by the way it makes Stiles’ vision explode behind his eyes and draws small, choked out whines from his lips.

It feels like hours, Derek just touching him, slowly making him squirm with frustration, and he begs, whines and Derek seems to enjoy it. In a while e seems to have had enough of teasing and finally he's bottomed out inside Stiles and he can't control his vocals anymore.

They’ve never gone this slow or intimate, they haven’t… made love before. Only now does Stiles understand why people say sex with the person you love is the best, because this? The best, definitely. He feels euphoric.

Derek grabs Stiles’ hand, slots their fingers together and kisses him, forehead against forehead. ”I love you,” he sighs against Stiles’ lips when they separate, both too out of breath to make the kiss last long.

It's more like a breath than actual words, but Stiles can hear it loud and clear, booming through his head, repeating over and over again. He shivers, he can't fully concentrate because Derek doesn't slow his movement at all, making his brain a mush of happiness and pleasure and most importantly—love. He scrunches his eyes shut, barely able to form words but he wills his mouth open and forces his vocal cords to form sound and push words through his closed throat. "Love you too," his voice is shaky and quiet, but he knows Derek picks it up by the way he groans immediately after and his hips jut forward a little harder.

It should feel stupid, how this is the moment they declare their love for each other, but Stiles isn't sure what else was to be expected from himself and Derek.

—

"Oh my God," Stiles sarcastically gasps. "Are you pregnant?!" Derek rolls his eyes so hard he probably sees the back of his own skull and chuckles. "Stiles, please, this is serious."
"Well what do you expect me to think? It's our three month anniversary, everything's going perfectly and suddenly you get all broody and the next thing that leaves your mouth is 'please don't freak out'. Use your words, explain yourself!" he laughs. Derek smiles, but he can't help the nervous twitch in the corner of his mouth.

"Look, Stiles. I honestly don't want you to freak out about this, and try not to laugh either because I'm being very serious, okay?"
"Alright, then. Go ahead, I'm 'very seriously' listening," Stiles tilts his head to the side and waits silently for Derek to go on.

“So—I don’t know how much you know about supernatural creatures. I do think however, that you— hum, you know what a werewolf is. You know, fangs and claws and all that. And you know... there's talk about how werewolf's have these—these mates. That are essentially the one for them," he pauses and let's out a whimper, and when he continues his voice is louder and his words roll off his tongue faster, ”and they smell exquisite to you and they're the most gorgeous thing in the world and every second away from them is torture, and that's why you kept showing up at their door unexpected in the middle of the night before you finally moved in together, and you have to will yourself not to push your nose in their armpit 'cause they'd probably find that weird, and though this all sounds so unbelievable it's so very real, Jesus—so real—and—“ he sighs, catching Stiles' confused face at some point and stopping. "Ok, maybe I should just—show you."

Derek turns his back to Stiles and takes his shirt off. The other is just about to make a joke about surprise stripping when suddenly Derek's human form... transforms, changes into a crouched, hairy shape and with a blink of an eye there's a big, black wolf in front of Stiles. He tries not to whimper, but he can't help it, and he must have backed away a few steps because the Wolf approaches him, whining and bowing its head.

There's a lump in Stiles' desert dry throat, he attempts swallowing but the lump only grows in size. The Wolf—that’s supposed to be Derek—has worked it's way next to him and has one of it's big paws on his lap. He realises he's on the ground, but doesn't remember sitting down. He really tried to not freak out, but he clearly failed at that. Now though, when the Wolf is nosing and sniffing his neck just like Derek does, his heartbeat has slowed back to regular. Stiles slowly reaches his hand to the Wolf's head, petting it gently. He breathes out a nervous laugh. "Am I on acid?"

The furry head he's petting starts to change, and then Derek is there again, head in Stiles neck—in all his naked glory. "So I'm your mate?" Stiles ask softly. He feels Derek nod and his fast breath on his skin, hears him huff in pleasure. "You took that pretty well," he mumbles into the boy's neck, licking at it carefully, softly. "Yeah that was—that was something," Stiles laughs and grips onto Derek's biceps when there are fangs nipping at his neck. "Oh, God," his whole body shivers. "Nope, just me."

They're still lying on the picnic matt hours later, only now totally naked and both covered in a sheer layer of sweat, sprawled over each other. Stiles sighs in content as they continue to gaze up at the starlit sky. He shifts his head a little so that he can see Derek's face. Derek has his eyes closed, a happy smile playing on his lips. Stiles smirks at that.

"Hey, Derek," he starts quietly, poking the other in the side. "Hmm?"
"About that werewolf thing—is that what Laura and Cora were talking about? When we first met. Like, all the 'you smell extraordinary' and the—the 'your boyfriend reeks of arousal'?" Derek peeks one eye open. His smile widens, and he nods. Stiles scrunches his eyebrows together. “So—wait, you know they would sense it?" Another nod. "Can you.. always smell when I'm turned on?" The cheeky grin that spread on Derek's face tells Stiles the answer. He blushes and buries his face in his boyfriend's chest. Stupid werewolf with stupid werewolf senses, he thinks as he closes his eyes and slowly falls into blissful sleep.

Stiles later learns much more about werewolves. He learns about pack dynamics, Alphas, Betas, Omegas. He learns that Peter has been the Alpha of the Hale family since Talia, Derek's mother, died, and that Derek is a Beta. He learns about werewolves' eating habits, werewolf stamina, full moons, marking, the whole package. It's really confusing at first, to find out that a childhood fairy tale you used to watch movies and read books about is an actual thing, and it's much more complex than betrayed in all those cliché horror movies.

It isn't as scary as Stiles first assumed, to see Derek change into a wolf out of nowhere and flash his yellow eyes at him. Then again, he doesn't think he'd be capable of being scared of Derek. He quickly makes up a nickname for Derek, and his phone number in his phone book will now forever be 'Sourwolf'.

He asks Derek whether it's normal for a werewolf to have a human mate, he asks many things and gets answers, but there's one question he doesn't dare ask, and Derek sees. Derek can sense it, something is bothering Stiles and it doesn't take long for him to catch up.

"Stiles, I don't want you to become a werewolf, ever," he tells with a stern expression on his face that tells Stiles 'this is not discussable', and Stiles drops the subject with a nod of his head. "Do you want to mark me?" he asks, because that was the second thing pestering his mind, nagging in the back of his head. Derek's expression turns into a softer one, and one side of his mouth twitches with a smirk. "I'd really like to," he admits. "But I won't. Not yet at least, I think Scott and John would be quite confused to find fang marks on your neck." Stiles tries to hide his pout and keep the disappointment from his voice, but it's not effective.

—

It sounds so stupid, but Stiles is fucking ready to get bitten. He’s already talked to Scott—who took the werewolf thing quite well, by the way—and he’s cool about it.

Okay, well Stiles didn’t really talk to his dad yet. But does he really have to try and get John to understand werewolves? And then after that the mate thing, and then the biting… that just doesn’t really appeal to Stiles. It would probably be easier to explain after it’s already happened, right?

And most importantly; Stiles wants to be marked and Derek wants to mark him. Win—win situation right there.

Stiles falls asleep thinking about that, and he wakes up absolutely determined. He skips shower, doesn't bother with deodorant or cologne. He wears a v-neck tee and walks around with his head tilted slightly up—because that must be getting on Derek's werewolf nerves—and maybe he'll just pounce Stiles and not think twice about what he's doing before sinking his teeth in Stiles' nape. That's what Stiles would call an accomplishment, but his life doesn't work like that. He never gets anything the easy way, so of course Derek doesn't even notice at first.

Derek's completely focused on the book he's reading at breakfast, occasionally sipping his coffee but not paying much attention to Stiles. Eventually Stiles gives up, Derek wins round one. But it's not over, oh no Sourwolf. It has just begun.

After breakfast he falls onto their couch, craning his neck and whining a little too much because “there’s nothing good on the TV”. Alright, okay, it’s a shit attempt at seeming nonchalant and like he’s not trying to achieve something mischievous, but Stiles is never good at anything like that.

He tries to peek at Derek innocently, but the ever-so-broody werewolf only scowls at the book in his hand, not even blinking an eye at Stiles. He might pout like a five-year-old for a while, almost giving up the whole thing already because apparently his stupid werewolf boyfriend isn’t interested in him the way his werewolf senses should make him be… But he is not having it, Derek will simply not win the battle between getting and not getting the mate mark, because Stiles wants it that bad. So he is a little desperate, whatever. Time to go overboard.

His whines and moans are seriously so obvious. No one makes noises like that because Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie are acting too cute for his “fanboy heart”. Derek looks at him a few times because of that, but doesn’t seem too phased. Maybe Stiles should consider trying to act a little more normal in general, because this—it almost looks like it seems completely normal to Derek.

He huffs and scrunches his face up. He doesn’t really even want to watch TV anymore, but what can you do.

After about twenty minutes of not watching the TV and whining about every—even slightly—irritable thing he almost stomps over to Derek and rips that dumb book out of his hands.

An honest moan of frustration leaves his lips as he throws his arm over his eyes and leans back on the armrest of the couch, which twists his neck in an uncomfortable position, but he’s too far gone in self-pity and desperation to care.

“Stop that,” Derek speaks with a strained voice after a beat of silence. Stiles’ eyebrows perk up. “What?”
“Stop doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Fuck you, Stiles.”
“No, honestly! Stop what? What am I doing that you want me to stop doing? Am I—“

Derek shifts on his chair as soon as Stiles starts chattering, discards his book and is looming for Stiles’ still body in a blink of an eye. His nostrils flare steadily, as now—even closer to Stiles than before—all he can smell is the man’s personal smell, all macadamia, cream and freshly cut grass with a hint of the musk of his sweat mingling with those. His wolf hums, demands him to bite that gorgeous neck so everyone knows Stiles is his.

“This,” he growls. Stiles blinks under him after removing the hand covering his eyes. “I—you noticed?” Derek scoffs and shakes his head. “Are you kidding me, Stiles? If you want me to mark you, just ask me,” he smirks playfully. “You don’t need to try and seduce me. I’m already seduced, you’ve ruined everyone else for me, forever.” Stiles grins an honest smile and bites his lips. “Uh huh?” Derek nods and trails a finger down Stiles’ face, all the way to the spot on his nape that is always covered in hickeys.

“But what about my dad? And Scott? Well, Scott I’ve told, but telling dad will definitely be like a totally different level of awkward. That talk might end with bullets in you, just so you know. And like, you said yourself you wouldn’t mark me yet, so don’t try to make this totally my fault! Also, I am the King of Awkward Situations and I think that talking about that with you—would’ve been downright terrible,” Stiles goes on while Derek just stares at his lips, eyes and neck. He doesn’t really concentrate on what he is saying, because it probably isn’t anything too important. Stiles tends to ramble when he is excited or embarrassed.

“So try me,” he interrupts, narrowing his daring eyes at Stiles. “Ask me.” He follows the movement in Stiles’ throat as he swallows nervously. He does it several times before eventually finding his voice to speak in a squeaky, high pitched whimper. “Will you—will you mark me?”

When Derek sinks his fangs in the spot that is already bruised, he growls in satisfaction at the feeling of the bond thrumming through his body. He doesn’t even hears Stiles’ ear-piercing keen or feel the way he pushes up into Derek’s body or the way his breath stutters and his body trembles in delight while his nails dig into his shoulders.

Derek doesn’t take his teeth away from Stiles’ neck for a long while, and when he does; he starts licking at it, lapping up the trickles of blood around the two puncture wounds. Stiles pants somewhere near his ear. “Jesus.”

They stay in bed all weekend and maybe Stiles receives another mark on his inner thigh.

—

Derek comes home, and for the third time in the span of a week finds the apartment empty. Stiles always tells him if he’s leaving somewhere—and all of these three times he must have meant to be home before Derek so he wouldn’t know he was gone in the first place.

So, Derek wants to know what this is about. What would Stiles be hiding from him? Why the hell was he out this late and didn’t tell Derek? He knows how protective Derek gets, after all. He paces around the living room, glancing at the door every time he hears the faintest sound indicating somebody is in the stairway. Stiles finally gets back thirty minutes later.

“Oh, you’re home. What’s up,” he smiles as he walks through the door. Derek’s nostrils flare and his eyes threaten to flash yellow at the greeting, but he just huffs hard through his flared nose. “Where have you been?” he spits when Stiles approaches him in the living room. Stiles looks clueless as to why Derek is so angry, eyes blinking and mouth slightly agape.

“I—just—out?” he swallows and flinches when Derek grabs his wrist and crowds his space. He sniffs the air, and finds an odd smell he doesn’t distinguish, along with a faint smell of some other person and… sanitiser? Has he been with someone, Derek thinks. And tried to cover the scent?

He almost roars, but holds it back to a loud growl and his eyes are blazing yellow and his hold on Stiles probably painful. He stares at the other in the eyes, breathing so hard through his nose it’s almost all he can hear. “With who?” he grits out and Stiles’ eyes widen in shock. “No one! I was alone, well not alone—there are quite a lot of people out, it’s Los Angeles—but there wasn’t anyone with me!”

Derek turns away from him then, digging his own claws into his palms in order to stabilise his breathing and the way his blood is boiling with anger. He doesn’t want to lash out, because he would never want to hurt Stiles, so he is standing away from him—trembling until his claws retract and he calms down a little.

“Hey,” Stiles whispers, and a hand lands on his shoulder. “Hey, look at me.” And he looks, straight into concerned brown eyes and he almost whines. “Where were you then? Why do you smell like other people and sanitiser?” he mumbles and looks down at the floor, because he can’t stand the way Stiles’ gaze pierces his eyes and sees straight into his soul; like he always has.

“I can’t tell you,” he hesitates with his answer, which makes Derek angry again. “Not yet, sweetie. I’ll tell you soon, I promise, but I can’t yet.”

Derek turns and shoves Stiles’ hand off of him, gritting his teeth again but this time, containing his wolf. “Why can’t you tell me? If you’re not cheating on me, what is so serious you can’t tell me where you’ve been?” he shouts in frustration and pulls at his hair.

And suddenly there is an elephant in the room. Stiles hasn't said anything yet, but Derek can see from his face that the reason for his behaviour in the past week is far more serious than he had originally expected. The silence feels ever-lasting, until a soft voice breaks it. "Derek, I don’t know what to do, what to say. I—it sucks so much. I'm so sorry, babe. I suck, 'm sorry," he hears Stiles' voice. It's weak, and it cracks multiple times, and he smells like sadness. It's the most overpowering smell of sorrow Derek has ever smelled on Stiles, so he immediately takes a few steps closer to him. Stiles collapses on the sofa and starts bawling his eyes out.

"Stiles, it's okay," Derek assures and sits next to him. "Everything's alright, babe." He pulls the boy into his embrace, brushes his fingers through his messy hair and keeps whispering, "It's okay, I love you, it's fine,” into his ear.

Derek wakes up with the sun hitting his eyes and making him feel warm, sprawled out on the living room floor. He lifts his head up and sees the back of Stiles' head. He is by the stove, making breakfast. The apartment smells delicious.

He is about to get up and pour himself a cup of coffee before he remembers the events of last night. He remembers staying up late, comforting Stiles. He remembers that Stiles never told the reason for his odd behaviour. He remembers the brunette falling asleep. He doesn't remember falling asleep on the floor.

Derek frowns. He doesn't want to ask about last night, he doesn't want to see Stiles cry again. He never wanted to see Stiles cry. He figures he'll wait until Stiles is ready to tell him as he gets up and stretches his back, grumbling about something inaudible. Stiles turns around and smiles. "Come get some breakfast, idiot."

After that night, Stiles has many times attempted to tell. Derek knows that because he can smell the nervousness in Stiles, and something else, too. That scent he hasn't figured out yet. He's smelled it once or twice before, but he isn't sure what it is. Stiles has also been acting even more awkward and squirmy at random times.

Derek has tried to ease the question in the conversation they're having, but every time he asks what Stiles is daydreaming about, he locks up and clearly tries to find the right words for the answer. "Oh, j—just thinking about the global warming and all the forests, you know? We're killing the earth, and that—that’s just not right," is what he ends up with almost every time. Or something about homeless dogs. Derek snorts at that one. Stiles really isn't the best with words—and is the worst liar.

And Derek understands, he understands it's some sort of a big deal. He gives Stiles time, because even though he clearly wants to tell, he can't bring himself to. He gets nervous and fidgety when he's alone with Derek in their apartment, because he can tell Derek's waiting for him to explain. Stiles frequently excuses himself from the table to take a five minute toilet break, to return with a determined look on his face. "Right," he'll start, but never get to the actual subject. "Movies tomorrow?" or "How was your day?" are questions Derek's grown accustomed to expect after the word “right”, among others.

It suddenly comes, at the most unexpected moment. Derek's just got home from food shopping, and he's quickly shoving all the contents of his bags into the fridge. "I got you some Skittles, Stiles," he declares proudly, waving the bag around in his hand and then placing it on the kitchen counter.

He doesn't hear Stiles answer with "oh, sweet!" or "stop spoiling me" like he usually does. Instead, Stiles sighs and the scent of sadness is clear in the air. "Derek, I—hum. I—ah, fuck. I don't know what to say." Oh, no what's wrong? Derek instantly stops filling the fridge and closes the door with a slam. He turns around, faces Stiles.

Derek sniffs the air. Stiles smells weird again, like musk, salt and something dark, sad and… revolting. Derek can't really think of a better way to explain the smell, he just knows he hates it, and that Stiles has been smelling like that for the past month, and Derek can't get his head around it. He doesn't know the reason Stiles smells like that and is growing tired of it. Even if the smell is just faint and if Derek wasn’t really paying attention he wouldn’t smell it, he still hates it.

But now, when Stiles can't get the words out of his mouth and his eyes are pooling with unshed tears, Derek knows something is very wrong, Derek knows this smell. He can't fathom it, he doesn't understand how he couldn't distinguish the smell, he is familiar with it after all. He doesn't want to believe it, this must all just be a really bad dream, but it isn't, this is life, life kicking Derek right in the gut and shouting "whoopsie, my bad" after.

"You're... no, Stiles you—you’re not, please tell me I'm wrong about this. There's something wrong with my smell, it's not that, it can't be," Derek whispers, he doesn't trust his voice enough to raise it, he averts Stiles' gaze because he can feel the tears flowing down his face, but he has no choice when Stiles takes his head in his hands and wipes every tear he can catch with his thumbs. "Don't you cry, Sourwolf. You're supposed to be big and strong, it's me who's supposed to be crying, stupid," Stiles sniffles and bites his lip.

Derek breathes deep and pulls Stiles close by the waist, dips his head so he can but his nose on the nape of Stiles' neck and just—breathes. "What do you have?"
"Frontotemporal dementia. My, uh, mother had it. There—there’s no cure." Derek takes a deep breath again and squeezes his eyes tight shut. "How long?" his voice cracks and he holds Stiles like he thinks the answer will be something from a minute to an hour. "Don't ask me that kind of questions, Der," Stiles stutters. "It's only in the early stages, don't worry. I'm fine," he cracks a half-hearted smile.

Derek nods, but still doesn't let Stiles go. He wonders how far gone a person has to be to smell like death.

Nothing really changes, even though Stiles told everybody about his… situation. Granted, his father calls him more often, Scott wants to hang out almost daily and Derek—well, he won’t leave Stiles alone for more than thirty minutes a day, but otherwise, everything is just fine and positively normal. Scott still tackles him, keeps him as his own personal punchbag sometimes, the only thing that changed is that if Derek spots a bruise somewhere on Stiles, he’ll go all "how dare you injure my mate”—finish with glowing yellow eyes and bared fangs—on Scott the next time they see. But; life is beautiful, Stiles is doing just fine, no complaints.

“Does Derek know you’re here?” Scott breaks Stiles’ train of thought and Stiles smirks. “No, but if I told him he would probably be here already,” he chuckles and lifts the coffee cup to his lips to take a sip. “Don't you think you should've told him? He's been all... territorial around you. He protects you like—like he plans on impregnating you. It's a little weird." Stiles scoffs and shakes his head. He doesn't want to say anything aloud, but Derek has been quite into Stiles' genitalia lately. And Stiles has enjoyed it. A lot. (Of sex). "I think he legitimately wants to have like, puppies with you," Scott jokes with a grin on his face, which slowly turns into a confused expression. "Aaand there he is."
"What?"

"Stiles, thank God," Derek suddenly gasps from behind them, making Stiles jump a bit. He turns around and Derek's arms wrap around him and his nose pressed against the spot on Stiles' neck with white scars from puncture wounds, scenting him like he'd been gone for weeks. "I was so worried," he whines, clearly worried for his mate. He cries out slightly, still feverishly nuzzling his nose across the other's skin. "Oh, wow Derek, baby. I'm sorry I didn't tell you I was leaving. Calm down, okay? I'm fine," he mutters in his ear and puts the Wolf's hand on his chest to feel his heartbeat. Derek whimpers and licks a stripe up Stiles' neck, making the one in question shiver.

Scott coughs next to them, but Derek doesn't seem to sense anyone or anything besides Stiles, so there's no reaction from him. Stiles casts Scott an apologetic look and reminds his boyfriend they're in public—which only leads to Derek picking up Stiles bridal style. Derek growls. "We're leaving, then."
"I'll call you!" Stiles quips and waves to Scott, apparently he really can't stay.

"Der, you alright?"
"I'm okay," Derek doesn't whine anymore, but his voice still wavers and he can't let go of Stiles, even when driving. "I'll just need to get scent drunk on you when we get home. It's the—my wolf, I swear it's going crazy. I can't fight it," he mumbles, probably somewhat embarrassed by his behaviour in the cafe. Stiles chuckles. "God I love you, you silly wolf."

—

It's only three months later when Stiles' condition worsens. He gets nightmares more frequently, he starts sleepwalking, he's paranoid somebody's watching him on his trip to the supermarket and he sometimes forgets things, like why he went shopping or why he wrote a phone number on his palm. Derek realises then that when Stiles really gets sick, he won't be able to take it. He won't be able to live with himself when Stiles will have to stay in hospital. He doesn't think he can bear seeing his boyfriend in immense pain, but he tries to push those thoughts away and hold, caress and kiss Stiles as much as he can.

He hasn't been sleeping much. He's tried, but it's hard when he has nightmares of his own, and on nights he doesn't dream about a dead body in a hospital bed Stiles wakes him up with ear piercing screaming. Both times he leaps up and cradles the boy in his arms, kisses him all over and assures they will be alright, that they’ll get through it—mostly to himself.

It's one of those nights when he wakes because of Stiles' ear-piercing screams and rushes to wake him. "Shh, it's okay, you're okay. I'm here, it's okay," he hushes and Stiles calms down bit by bit, tears still streaming down his face. He whimpers quietly. "It was—you, Der, you," he pants and grips the arms embracing him like he can't believe they're solid and actually there, holding him. Derek tries to shush him, but he wants to finish the explanation. "That was the first time—I thought it was real, it felt so real," he sobs. Derek grabs Stiles' chin kisses him tenderly. "Hey, it's okay. It didn't really happen. No need to explain, just get your breathing under control for me, okay? Listen to my breathing, try to match it." Stiles shakes his head, ignores the orders and lifts a shaky hand to Derek's cheek. "You were dead." The werewolf doesn't know what to respond to that, he freezes, clutches Stiles harder because somehow he know what's coming next.

"It felt like the worst panic attack ever, when you wouldn't answer when I called your name, wouldn't open your eyes," Stiles sniffles and shakes his head again, a few tears spilling over his watery eyes. "Derek, I know it's gonna suck when I... when I die," he swallows, and Derek tenses. He inhales and closes his eyes. Stiles grabs his face with both hands then and coaxes his boyfriend to open his eyes, to look at him and really listen. "Listen, I—I understand, okay? I don't think I could be able to cope," he chokes on a sob and bites his lip. "And I don't want to make you go through that pain, honestly I don't. But promise me, you promise me that you'll get through it. You can't shut down, you have to keep going, okay? For me, for Cora, for Laura, for Peter. Hell, even for Scott. You have to. You hear me, Derek?" he asks, fully crying now, eyes puffy and words choked out with the sobs that continue to leave his mouth. Derek nods to assure Stiles he understands, tears flowing down his face too.

"You can't give up, okay?" Stiles sounds broken and battered, and that's the point Derek can't help releasing the sobs that start to rock his whole body. He shakes his head and leans his forehead on Stiles'. "I won't, I'll try my best, I promise," he captures Stiles' lips in the most emotional kiss ever, all wet with their tears mingling and dropping in symphony on their bed.

—

He’s… in the hospital. Scott just called him and Stiles has been hospitalised. Derek almost doesn’t want to go, he doesn’t want to see Stiles hooked up to all those machines that make the stupid noises. He doesn’t want to remember Stiles like that, he wants to remember Stiles as the lively, awkward person he really is, not the pale and tired one lying in a hospital bed in a hospital smelling stupid hospital gown.

But of course he has no choice, he couldn’t do that to Stiles, he’s promised to be there and so he will. He’ll be there all the time for Stiles, so he ends up in his Camaro, speeding through the dark roads. He didn’t have time to tell Laura he was leaving, but she’d understand. He wasn't supposed to stay much longer anyway, he wanted to stay home with Stiles. Because like right now; he wasn't, and Stiles is in the hospital.

He runs through the doors and straight for the front desk, where the woman on the computer looks at him under her glasses. “How may I—“
“Stilinski,” he almost screams, worry lacing his voice. “Where’s his room? I need to go see him.”
“Uh, alright, sir. Calm down,” the woman mumbles and starts tapping Stiles’ name in the computer. She lifts her head up and smiles. "117, sir. Are you a fam—“

Derek doesn't bother listening to the rest, he takes off in a sprint immediately. He's at the door in a second, and he crashes in, already smelling Stiles and Scott and hearing both their heartbeats. Stiles is awake, but looks dead tired. Scott's standing next to him, worry etched on his face. Derek strides over and grabs Stiles' hand immediately.

"Hey," he coos and caresses Stiles' face softly. "What happened?"
"He passed out," Scott mumbles from the other side of the bed. "The doctor said because he's dehydrated and because he hasn't slept. He's gonna have to stay at least the night, to make sure he gets some sleep and liquids." Scott's voice is edging on angry, because Stiles had said he was fine enough to go out for dinner, but as it turns out; clearly wasn't.

Derek's eyes furrow as he looks at Stiles. He brushes brown hair out of the way of brown eyes and tilts his head. "I got really worried," he mutters. Stiles grins crookedly and reaches his hand out for Derek's face. "I'm fine," his voice sounds raspy and his eyes droop in exhaustion but otherwise, he doesn't seem in pain. Derek chuckles then, relieved Stiles isn't seriously hurt, shaking his head but still caressing Stiles' face over his cheekbones.

"Idiot," he states. "From this point on I'm going to make sure you drink something every thirty minutes and sleep at night." Stiles smiles and pulls Derek forward with a hand behind his head. "Nurse Derek Hale," he whispers huskily and giggles. Scott groans beside them and rubs his eyes. “Please, no awkward sexual innuendos while I'm in the room, guys?"

Stiles gets released after four days, when the doctors are assured he's had enough sleep and will remember to drink a lot of liquids. He certainly looks better when Derek drives him home. He's lost the under eye circles and all the paleness by then, and seems much more like himself.

"I'm not going to work for a while," Derek tells Stiles when they walk through the door to their apartment. "Laura said it's okay. I just want to be with you right now." Stiles hesitates, because he doesn't want to make Derek quit work because of him, but he does understand. That's what he would probably do, too. He smiles and nods. "I'm fine though, you know that right?"

Derek smiles and turns around to pour a glass of water for Stiles. "I know."

He isn't though, he isn't fine. God, how didn't Derek realise that? Two days later Stiles passes out again, while doing dishes. This time Derek's there to catch him—thank God—but this clearly means something is wrong. He dials 911 while setting Stiles down on the couch and trying to wake him up. It takes about ten minutes for the ambulance to get there after he's explained what happened, and the  he's holding Stiles' hand while the paramedics check his vitals and inject him with something that's supposedly meant to take Stiles' pain away.

Derek still drains it out of him, he doesn't really believe in medicine.

For a while, Derek feels helpless. After arriving at the hospital, Stiles was taken into a room Derek was not allowed in, and he growled, making the paramedics frown in question. He's pacing in the waiting room. He texted Scott already, and is thinking about calling John, because this is probably something way more serious than just exhaustion.

He doesn't register Scott arriving, or asking him questions. It's all blocked out, because he's just trying to hear Stiles' heartbeat. It's distant and faint, hard to focus on but Derek feels calmer listening to the thump of it.

The doctor finally snaps Derek from his trance as he walks into the waiting room with some papers in his hands. He and Scott rush toward him. "You're Mr. Stilinski's family?"
"No, we're his friends. Or, I am, Derek's his boyfriend," Scott stammers, pointing at Derek. "His dad lives in Beacon Hills. I called him, but it will take some time for him to get here." The doctor nods and extends his hand for Scott to shake, then Derek.

"Dr. Alan Deaton," he introduces himself. "Mr. Stilinski is—“
"Stiles," Derek corrects, the first word he says to the doctor. Dr. Deaton looks at him with raised eyebrows and nods. "Stiles' condition is stable as of now, but the reason he fainted is not simply just lack of sleep or dehydration. He's awake, but quite out of it at the moment. We took an MRI and from what we saw there, we'd like to take Stiles in and run a few more tests," he offers an apologetic smile.

"Can I see him?" Derek swallows and runs his hand through his hair, a nervous tick. Alan nods and turns to the side. "Of course. I'll show you to his room."

The moment Derek lays his eyes on Stiles, he has to fight the urge to whine. It's even worse than the last time, he looks so fragile and hurt. His eyelids droop over his eyes and he's leaning back against the pillows on the hospital bed. He's hooked up to a heart monitor—which worries Derek—and there's an IV cannula on his wrist. Derek notices it's attached to a bag of morphine.

He scrambles for Stiles’ hand when he reaches the bedside. "Alright? Any pain anywhere?" he whispers with a small tremor in his voice. "I'm fine. My head hurts a little. This thing a little, too," Stiles whines quietly and indicates to the needle under the skin of his wrist. Derek runs his thumb over the spot and frowns, mentally cursing at the nurses and doctors for causing Stiles pain. He drains as much of it in away, which makes Stiles smile at him lovingly. "Thank you," he breathes before his eyes flutter closed slowly and he falls into a heavy slumber.

Derek doesn't leave his side.

Scott looks at Derek with one brow lifted. He’s got his hands crossed over his chest. “Honestly, Derek. I don’t think this is healthy, you know.” Derek frowns at him from the other side of Stiles’ bed and quickly glances at Stiles to see if he’s still sleeping soundly.

“What do you mean?” he then questions, not quite understanding the reasoning behind Scott’s judging look. Scott just chuckles and shakes his head. “Don’t be silly now,” he gestures to Derek’s attire and—well, Derek in general. He’s a little dirty, he hasn’t shaved, nor has he changed his clothes in five days. Fair enough, he’s a mess at the moment. But what is he supposed to do? Derek grumbles under his breath and hides from Scott’s menacing stare.

“I want you to answer one question honestly. One. Can you do that?” Scott asks and though Derek keeps his eyes on Stiles he nods stiffly and listens carefully. “When was the last time you showered in an actual shower?” Derek’s whole being freezes and he slowly turns his head to Scott. “I… am not entirely sure,” he answers a little abashedly, and flushes a little—but he wouldn’t admit that to anyone, even if offered photo evidence. Scott growls, because that is exactly the answer he was expecting, but he still doesn’t approve. “One more question,” he demands and sits in a chair next to Derek. “When was the last time you ate something? Because even if your weird werewolf quirks allow you to fast for days more than humans are able to, it’s still not healthy. Plus, you look like shit. You need to go home, take shower, eat something and sleep. He’ll be fine,” Scott states seriously, seeming actually worried for Derek.

Derek opens and closes his mouth, and then growls because he doesn’t know what to say. Scott gives him a stern look, and then Derek is about to tell him that okay, he’ll do that—but suddenly the beeping of Stiles’ heart monitor becomes more rapid and he wakes up with a scream.

While Derek and Scott assure Stiles he’s fine, the latter gives him one look that tells him he’s still going to have to go home and freshen up. Derek pouts the remainder of the evening.

A month of hospitalisation later and the doctors don’t want to let Stiles go home. They say they’re worried, because he’s starting to get progressively worse, which Derek is trying to ignore so hard.

But it’s still there, the way Stiles has terrible days when he’s just—pale and exhausted. He has also started to have weird spasm and shakiness. The first time it happened, Derek almost jumped out of his skin while Stiles just looked down at his shaky hand with a puzzled expression. (Derek almost hit him in the face for going “huh”.)

He also gets random pains, wakes up to those instead of nightmares some nights. He describes it as a severely extreme migraine. They don’t usually last for long, Stiles assures, but Derek is still sceptical every time Stiles hisses under his breath and tries to act like nothing happened afterwards.

It’s hard to stay away. Not that Stiles wants him to, or that he thinks he should, but he honestly can’t. He has been scolded by nurses more than five times for sleeping in Stiles’ bed. They really can’t do anything about it either, though, because Stiles sleeps a little better if Derek’s there with him.

But his inability to leave is hard to cope with when he needs to go for a change of clothes, a shower or a shave. His eating habits are also kind of out of control, since he doesn’t have the patience to go into a supermarket or wait in line at a fast food place when he knows Stiles is waiting for him at the hospital—even if he isn’t alone. Which, he almost never is. Derek refuses to leave if neither Scott or John are there, he doesn’t want Stiles to feel alone. Derek doesn’t want to feel alone.

Cora and Laura have tried to cheer him up, but it’s not that easy after the doctors have already told him that it’s not looking good, and that Stiles probably won’t be getting out of hospital, that he will probably stay for longer than intended. And though they haven’t mentioned it, Derek knows it’s because he doesn’t have long.

And fuck—he wants to have all the time in the world.

Honestly. Derek is starting to hate God or whoever is fucking his life up completely with no remorse. Actually, he is starting to flat out hate life in general.

Derek thought it was awful seeing Stiles shake and unable to control it, but it turned out that was bearable when Stiles started having trouble breathing. They put a nasal cannula in his nose again. But even that’s not the worst, since Stiles totally starts confusing his words sometimes. And it’s like he doesn’t even realise, and though Derek would like to correct him, he doesn’t have the heart to. He just listens to Stiles tell a story about how he “totally had a huge crush on Lydia in high school” and ignores the way Stiles uses the word animal instead of dog in his explanation about how he once walked Prada every day for two months to try and make Lydia like him. It really hurts, but all Derek can do is frown and hold Stiles’ hand like a lifeline.

And then come the nightmares where Stiles wakes up screaming, and suddenly stops. He forgets why he screamed or even why he is in the hospital sometimes. It’s hard to explain to him.

Cora cries over the phone, absolutely bawls. Derek definitely doesn’t though, he doesn’t.

Derek decides to give in to Cora and Laura’s begs for visiting Stiles. While talking over the phone, he glances at Stiles. It’s one of the good days, he isn’t that tired or hurt, he hasn’t dozed off during conversation or repeated his words. Those are the days he writes in his notebook—things he doesn’t want to completely forget, Derek assumes—and sometimes allows Derek to climb into the bed next to him.

“Alright,” he sighs into the phone and scratches his neck with his free hand. “Don’t talk about things you’ve done with him if he doesn’t ask. Try not to be too sad, either. He gets really upset when people cry for him.”

About an hour later Cora and Laura walk into the room, and greet Stiles enthusiastically, asking how he’s been. They seem to be controlling their urges to cry at seeing the state of Stiles quite fine.

Stiles looks up from his notebook and stops scribbling.

"Hey," he smiles, but his expression quickly falls into a confused one. He seems to contemplate on what to say, his brows furrowing before he just sighs in frustration. “I—uh... I'm so sorry, but I can't remember your names. I know I should, because I know your faces and I know we know each other quite well, but I just... can't." He whines, deflated.

Derek immediately rushes to Stiles' side, slots his fingers in between his and kisses his cheek. "It's alright, they understand. It's Cora and Laura, my sisters. They came to see you because they’ve been a little worried.”
"More worried about you," Cora mumbles, which leads to Laura striking her in the stomach with her elbow, all the while smiling at Derek and Stiles.

“It’s alright,” Laura assures and walks toward them. “We understand, Stiles.”

Derek doesn’t want to confess that he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand why Stiles has to be ill, he doesn’t understand why Stiles is losing his memory.

It’s been awhile since someone other than Derek or John have been for a visit. It’s understandable, Danny, Lydia, Cora and Allison live miles away and while Scott, Laura or Peter don’t live far from the hospital, they all have jobs and it’s sometimes hard to find time to come to the hospital before visiting hours are over.

Still, they decide they all should visit Stiles, so they figure out a date, and there they are one day. All standing in the room, greeting Stiles with warm smiles. The beep of the heart monitor fills the room when Stiles doesn’t reply. The way his eyes narrow at almost everyone in the room makes their breaths hitch and suddenly there’s a thick, uncomfortable air in the room.

“Stiles, bro,” Scott scoffs and walks next to him. “Say something. We wanted to surprise you. Sorry though, honestly—we’ve all been kind of busy, that’s why we haven’t been visiting. Didn’t forget you, don’t worry. Never could, buddy boy.” Scott punches Stiles’ shoulder lightly and smiles at him. Stiles lets his gaze wander around the room before returning to Scott. He just stares for awhile, not uttering a word, and Scott is about to say something when he finally asks, “But it seems I forgot you. Who are you?” His voice is raspy and dry but everyone hears him, loud and clear and there is no exception to what he just said.

Everybody falls silent and Scott tries to not look upset, but his face falls a little and he turns his head to look out the window instead of Stiles, who is thoroughly confused now. "What?" he looks around the room, squinting at everybody before his eyes fall on Derek. "What's going on, Derek?”

Derek’s head shoots up from where he’d been holding it in between his hands, because he honestly thought this was it, that Stiles had fully lost his memory of everybody he remembered; that he wouldn’t remember Derek in his last moments. He was honestly on the brink of a breakdown before Stiles muttered his name worriedly, making hope rise up in Derek’s guts, eyes softening when they landed on Stiles’. He swallows loudly and caresses the side of Stiles’ face—who leans into it instinctively.

“Stiles,” he starts in a small voice and glances at Scott. “He’s your best friend. You’ve known him since you were little.” Stiles turns his head to really look at Scott then. He narrows his eyes and searches his face for something—it turns out he doesn’t find that, because he then looks back at Derek and shakes his head. “I can’t remember him,” he confesses and points to Allison, Danny, Lydia, Cora, Laura and Peter. “Or them. Why can’t I remember, Derek?”

A sad sigh choruses around the room as everyone but Stiles frown at each other in concern.

Eventually—the day comes. That day comes.

Stiles has been getting progressively weaker, having to have a machine to help with his breathing and more morphine, because the pain is also getting worse. The doctors have already told John and Derek that he probably won’t last much longer, but the two refuse to believe that, because Stiles is a fighter. He wouldn’t give up yet.

Stiles is awake, but his breathing is shallow and forced, blinking getting slower by the minute. Derek’s at his normal spot, next to him, draining away his pain. They’re looking at each other, and Stiles is smiling at Derek. “I love you,” he sighs quietly, a little muffled by the breathing mask over his nose and mouth. Derek nods at Stiles and smiles back—it doesn’t reach his eyes though, nor does it last long. “I love you too, Stiles.” The expression that dawns on Stiles’ face looks relieved, and he squeezes Derek’s hand, albeit weakly. “I love you,” he repeats and then closes his aching eyes and lets his heavy head roll to the other side.

Derek doesn’t catch on immediately, but the beeping of Stiles’ heart monitor is getting slower, his breathing quiet and even shallower than earlier, his grasp on Derek’s hand getting weak—and then suddenly giving out completely, dropping to hang in the air between the bed and Derek.

Derek jumps up and puts his hand behind Stiles’ head, alarm coursing through his veins. He lifts Stiles’ head up a little and brushes a thumb over his cheek.

“Stiles?” he calls, but gets no answer, and suddenly there’s no sound of breathing, and when Derek searches for the fluttering heartbeat of the man on the bed he doesn’t hear it. “Stiles!” he screams then, louder. He repeats the scream again and again, and John bursts through the door with a Dr. Deaton and a nurse in tow, rushing to Stiles’ side. Derek’s trying to shake him awake with futile attempts when John speaks in a low voice. “Derek, he’s not going to wake up.”

Derek just shakes his head profusely, refusing to believe that, before he’s backed off against the wall, collapsing on the floor as his knees give out.

That’s the first time in his life Derek experiences a panic attack, sitting on the floor against the wall, staring at Stiles and the monitor next to him—flat lining. Derek’s vision blurs and he rubs at his eyes but he can’t see the bed clearly anymore.

Anything and everything slows down into slow motion, and though he's leaning against the wall and already seated, he feels himself drop and he's nauseated by the spinning in his head. He steadies himself with palms to his eyes, pressing against the wetness pouring down.

His breath trembles as small whines leave his mouth and an endless stream of tears drop from his lashes. His eyes blaze yellow and the sounds he’s emitting start sounding more wolf than human, because he can’t feel the electrified bond between him and his mate anymore, and he can’t contain the wolf inside.

John’s hand lands on his shoulder as he howls, not really thinking before it rumbles from his throat and echoes around the hospital.

—

Two weeks. It’s been two weeks now, and it’s the day Derek’s been dreading.

Derek’s been up since three am, pacing around his hotel room—he’s in Beacon Hills—and trying to find something productive to do. When Laura appears at seven, she looks at Derek with worry evident in her eyes and scent. “Hey there, baby bro,” she coos and places one of her hands on his shoulder. “You should probably start getting ready soon.” Derek knows, he nods and bites his lip, but can’t bring himself to go shave and change into a suit. He doesn’t want to, because Stiles isn’t really dead, he can’t be, so why would Derek go through all that trouble of getting ready for a funeral that isn’t even happening? Well, okay, it is. It is happening, but—it’s not Stiles’, it can’t be.

Laura gives Derek a watery smile when Derek doesn’t move, and she smells like pity. Derek frowns at her and straightens his back, tries his hardest to look even remotely okay. “Don’t pity me. I’m fine.” He doesn’t even attempt a fake smile, because he knows it wouldn’t work on Laura, of all people.

Eventually, Laura coaxes him to go take a shower and change into his clothes, and then he’s in the passenger seat of the Camaro. He’s even surprised at himself for letting Laura drive, but he’s in no condition to do that himself, and he’s well aware of that.

Time seems to drag on as they arrive at their destination. He doesn’t make a move to get out of the car at first, but Laura appears on the passenger side and opens the door. She’s quiet for a long moment before she just huffs and starts stammering out words. “He didn’t remember many people before he went, you know. But he did remember you, and that means something. He obviously loved you a lot. And I think—just my opinion—that the people he most cared about are the people he would most wish to attend his funeral,” she mutters the last part, and though Derek’s heard that same thing from so many other people, he slowly gets up and out of the car.

His feet drag him forward slowly, almost like holding him back. They’re trying to tell him not to go there, that it’s dangerous for him, but Laura’s hand on his shoulder encourages him to make his way up the gravelly path to the hill.

Everyone’s there. John, Melissa, Scott, Allison, Lydia, Danny, Cora. Even Peter managed to make it, which surprises Derek, he’s hardly ever a person to show up at events like this. He glances around and sees people he’s never met, presumably Stiles’ relatives. He sighs and stands between Laura and John. He hasn’t said anything to anyone, and he feels like he should, but he can’t trust himself to not snap at people, or to not start denying Stiles’ death out loud, because that’s all going through his head. He is not dead. John pats him on the back and gives him a small smile. Derek tries to smile back, but his lips only start trembling and he quickly looks elsewhere.

When everyone’s settled, the pastor starts his speech. Derek doesn’t really listen, he only stares at the white coffin in front of him with a frown. He knows Stiles is inside that coffin, but he doesn’t want to believe it. He doesn’t but during the pastor’s speech, he starts to. He starts to realise the fact that Stiles is gone, and will never be back. He spends about a minute in the second stage of grief, anger. Anger towards himself for not protecting Stiles, his mate.

He passes through that one quickly, and completely skips the third stage; and he’s hit with the nauseating feeling of stage four. Depression. His heart twists and the colours of the sky, trees and everything else is suddenly grey, dull and unappealing to his eyes. He feels sick, a tear or two streaming down his face, his breathing coming uneven. He’s gone. Oh hell, he's gone.

Derek snaps his head back up from the coffin, suddenly it feels terrible looking at it.

He notices the pastor has stepped off the podium and Scott is now getting up there with a piece of paper in his hand. He’s going to give a speech, because he probably knew Stiles the best. Derek still can't shake the feeling that he should be up there, but he knows he couldn’t even start the speech before breaking down completely.

Scott clears his throat and breathes deep, straightening out the paper in front of him. “Stiles was my best friend since I learned to walk,” he starts, swallowing during his pause and glancing at the crowd. “I remember how he used to steal toys from bigger kids and get in trouble. I remember when his mom died and I promised to be there for him always, if he needed any help, but he never asked for any help. He silently got through every problem he had by himself, never wanting to bother me with them. I remember how we played lacrosse in high school and even though we usually sat on the bench and watched the rest of the team win, he was always happy. I remember how clumsy, sarcastic and hyper he used to be.” Scott takes a small pause again when his voice chokes up in his throat, and looking at him and hearing everything he’s saying about Stiles in past tense has Derek crying. He’s allowing the tears that kept pooling in his eyes fall down now, leaving behind red streaks on his cheeks. His head starts to ache almost immediately, and he lets out a shaky breath he’d been holding since the start of Scott’s speech.

Scott pulls out a notebook from his pocket and waves it in the air. Derek immediately recognises it, and he almost runs up there to take it. He hasn’t even read it yet. Somehow that makes guilt pang in his chest. “This is a notebook Stiles wrote things down in before he… passed. I’ve read through it and I want to read just a few paragraphs from it, because I think this betrays perfectly how loving and caring Stiles was.” Scott clears his throat as he opens the notebook. “My head’s starting to hurt more. I can’t sleep because every time I do actually fall asleep, I have nightmares. I hate waking up in a cold sweat, I hate hurting.

But the worst thing about everything is watching everyone around me get hurt because of me. That hurts twice as hard as the throbbing in my head, makes me more nervous than my shaking hands and is much more annoying than waking from another godawful nightmare. I hate watching them come and sit by my bed and leave with looks of pity. I hate that they have to worry over me. I hate that I have to be sick, because that hurts them.” Derek swallows around his closed-up throat and looks at his feet as Scott breathes deep into the mic and turns the pages of the notebook to find another paragraph he wants to share.

“Today, people that I don't know anymore came to visit me. I know somewhere—in the back of my mind—that I should know them, but I couldn’t remember anyone expect dad and Derek. I looked through this notebook later, and sure enough; one of the people I couldn’t remember anything about was my best friend. I felt terrible.They all looked at me like a lost child, and though no one said anything, they were all upset. Me forgetting them probably means I’m getting a lot worse, and maybe they’re not ready for that. I’m not ready, but I’m not scared either. I’m not scared because when I’m gone maybe all the hurt I’m causing other people while lying in this hospital bed will eventually go away. Maybe it will be easier for them,” Scott closes the notebook with a sad smile and puts it back in his pocket, focusing on the crumpled paper in front of him again instead. "He was by far one of the greatest things that happened to this world. I know he was so important to his friends and family. And when he died, a part of us died too. I know there are people in this crowd who'll never be able to get over that, and I know the pain feels unbearable, but he'd want you to stay strong,” his teary eyes flick up and lock on Derek's, who's the person Scott knows most needs to hear this. "And that's why you have to try. To be strong and get over it eventually."

Derek flees then, because he knows that's what he should do but he can't. He hears Laura call his name, knows everyone's watching him, but ignores the rest of the world as he runs away, deep into the forest. He ends up falling on his knees, too tired and hurt to make his feet move forward anymore. He remembers making a promise to Stiles that one emotional night, and though he really meant it at the time, that he was going to try, he thinks he might give up now.

Every bone in his body tells him to go feral, to turn into a wolf and stay in the forest for the rest of his miserable life. His life that had no reason anymore, because the reason had disappeared, flown away like leaves in the autumn wind, sunk down to the bottom of an ocean like pebbles, slowly dripping from between his fingers like water until there was nothing left but absolute despair and so much hurt he can't help howling. Howling for his love to come back. But he won’t. Stiles won’t.

His name was Stiles Stilinski. He is gone now.