Work Text:
A Burst of Vibrant Colours
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He didn’t expect to see them, bursts of vibrant fuchsia and scarlet in a forest of dark green and gray. Which means he has to stop and take a closer look. The sweet scent awakens memories that he didn’t even know he possessed, and as if moving by its own volition, his hand grabs one of the large, chiffon-like petaled flowers and plucks it off the shrub.
“This is private property.”
The voice, like tires on gravel, startles Stiles into immobility. He drops the flower and looks up, a made-up excuse ready on the tip of his tongue. The words get stuck in his throat, however, as he recoils from the most judgmental stare that has ever been directed at him, the kind that would draw an impressed whistle from his friend Lydia who, at the age of six, mastered the art of making people reevaluate all of their life choices with a simple glare.
Where the hell did he come from? How is it possible to move so quietly in a forest full of dead leaves and brittle twigs? But Stiles’s questions never cross the barrier of his lips as his eyes rake over the man, probably a couple of years older than Stiles, who’s just caught him red-handed.
With his muscular built and razor-sharp, stubbled jaw, the man wouldn’t look out of place on the cover of GQ if it weren’t for the serial killer vibe coming off him in threatening waves. Stiles takes a cautious step back. He’s learned from experience that his limbic system tends to react quite inappropriately to people who are equal part gorgeous and scary.
“What do you think you’re doing?” the stranger asks, standing a few feet away from Stiles with his hands buried in the pockets of his leather jacket, scowling like it’s going out of style.
“Pruning your plants?” Stiles blurts out, the lie so flimsy it makes him cringe a little.
The stranger lifts a bushy eyebrow, his expression dubitative. Quickly, Stiles removes a yellowing leaf from the shrub to validate his claim, and the stranger’s mouth twists into a small, lopsided smile.
“Oh. You must be our new gardener, Mr. Stuart Twombly, is that right?”
“Please call me Stewie,” Stiles replies without missing a beat, before thinking, No, wait, what the fuck?
“Please forgive my brusquerie, Stewie. I didn’t expect you until tomorrow. I’m Derek Hale,” the stranger says, extending a hand that Stiles shakes limply. “My sister Laura speaks highly of your work, says you can transform the wildest swamp into an authentic jardin à la française in just under a month.”
“I’m afraid my abilities have been generously exaggerated,” Stiles says, smiling nervously. Good Lord, what has he gotten himself into? Why couldn’t he just shut the fuck up and run the opposite way like a normal person who’s been caught doing something they weren’t supposed to?
“Oh, I’ve seen pictures, Mr. Twombly. You’ve made quite a name for yourself and you’re not even thirty yet. I must say, I’m impressed. What do you think of my peonies?”
Derek buries his nose into one of the pink blossoms, inhaling deeply, all the while without breaking eye contact with Stiles. Stiles doesn't know whether to laugh or to scream.
“Ah, they’re lovely. Very, um, healthy," he manages to respond, his voice a little strangled. He knows that the situation is rapidly and inevitably getting out of hand, yet he can't help but watch the train running toward the precipice with morbid fascination.
“I’m glad. I follow your blog religiously, you know. I exclusively feed my plants fair-trade, free-range, and organic manure, as per your recommendation. I also occasionally play Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos for them late in the evening. I can tell it definitely speeds up their growth.”
Is that even scientifically accurate? Stiles wants to ask, but instead, he just says, “Your commitment is admirable.”
“Thank you. Can I overshare a little with you, Stewie? Ever since I was a child, I’ve felt, deep in my bones, a powerful spiritual connection to Nature. I must have been some sort of tree in a past life, a melancholic baobab perhaps.”
Stiles just nods along, desperate to find something to add on without giving away what he really thinks of Derek’s ‘powerful spiritual connection to Nature’. He stops trying, however, as soon as he catches the mischievous gleam dancing in Derek's eyes. “You giant troll,” he grumbles, yet he’s unable to conceal a grin.
“I was wondering how long it would take for you to catch on,” Derek replies with a smirk.
“I was trying to be non-judgmental.”
“A considerate thief, now that changes everything,” Derek says flatly.
Rubbing a hand at the back of his neck, Stiles looks down at his shoes, colour spreading across his cheeks. “Yeah, sorry about that. I swear I had no idea those flowers belonged to you.”
“This whole section of the Preserve is part of my family’s estate.”
“A sign or something would’ve been kinda helpful,” Stiles mumbles sullenly.
Derek lets out an inelegant snort. “Like that?” he asks, pointing at a wooden sign standing at eye-level and clearly visible against the greenery, a couple of feet behind Stiles, that reads ‘Private Property. No Trespassing.’
“Um. Must’ve missed that, heh,” Stiles says with a little shrug. Lame, his brain points out, loud and unhelpful.
Derek chuckles, eyes lit up with amusement. “Trespassing had never been an issue before, because no one ever ventured this far into the Preserve. So, what makes you so special, Stewie?”
“Stiles. That’s my name. Where the hell did you come up with ‘Stuart Twombly’, anyway? Personally, if I had to think of a name off the top of my head, I’d go with something simpler, easier to remember. Something like ‘Miguel’.”
“Miguel,” Derek repeats, tone flat.
“Uh huh. And I was just passing through. Well, obviously, since I’m not carrying, like, camping equipment or anything. Do people even go camping in the Preserve? It must be super creepy at night around here.” Realizing what he’s just said, Stiles bites down on his bottom lip, mortified. “Shit. Sorry, this is, like, your backyard, right? I didn’t mean to insult your backyard. Um. You know what? I have places to go. It was nice meeting you and all, Derek. Sorry again for the flowers.”
Given the circumstances, a hasty retreat seems to be the best course of action, Stiles decides, before the hole he’s been digging himself into gets too deep for him to escape. Sounding like an idiot in front of an attractive guy who also happens to have a wicked sense of humour wasn’t exactly part of his plan for today. Or ever.
“Stiles, wait,” Derek calls after him when he turns around, intending to make a run for it. “Were you planning on giving the flowers to someone?”
“Actually, yes,” Stiles answers, looking down in embarrassment, feeling shitty about the fact that he almost brought her stolen flowers, albeit unknowingly.
“Good. I’m coming with,” Derek says casually, taking a step forward.
Stiles blinks at him. “Excuse me?”
“I want to see if she’s pretty enough to warrant flower thief.”
“Are you serious?”
Derek nods, the corners of his mouth twisting into a little smirk. Now, look who’s a giant weirdo. Stiles hesitates for a second before he accepts, repressing a smile of his own. Derek even helps him pick the most beautiful flowers for his bouquet, expertly cutting them off at the base of the leaves with secateurs he’s produced from God knows where.
“So, are they for your girlfriend?” Derek enquires while they walk side by side like old pals.
“Oh God, no, not my girlfriend. But I do love her very much.”
“A good friend, then?”
“She used to be my best friend.”
“What happened?”
“Oh, you know. The vagaries of life,” Stiles says with a shrug. It still hurts though, thinking about her, but it’s more like a dull pain that’s almost comforting. He fears the day when conjuring up memories of her no longer elicits any feelings in him.
“Yeah. Anyway,” Stiles continues, unwilling to put a damper on the easy whatever-it-is that they’ve got going on between them. “You seeing anyone?”
Damn, that sounded more nonchalant in Stiles’s head. But Derek just lets out a chuckle.
“Nope,” he answers. “You?”
Stiles fails to fight back the goofy grin that spreads across his face. “Nope.”
“Good.”
If possible, Stiles’s smile grows even wider. “Good,” he repeats.
Derek’s gaze lingers on Stiles’s face, as if he’s trying to commit every single mole to memory. Something inside Stiles’s stomach flutters ever so briefly, and he looks up at the vibrant cerulean sky with a nervous chuckle.
“So, what were you doing lurking in the shadows back there where we met?” Stiles asks, and, as if complying with some overused rom-com trope, his foot ineluctably trips over an exposed tree root.
Derek catches him with ease before he crashes face-first onto the ground, wrapping an arm around his waist to effectively steady him like this is something he’s been doing his whole life.
“My hero,” Stiles croons, his arms thrown around Derek’s broad shoulders for support.
Derek rolls his eyes and lets go of Stiles. “You’re ridiculous. And I wasn’t lurking. I was tending to my plants when I saw you coming over and proceeding to yank off my peonies like a savage.”
Oh, the peonies! They flew out of Stiles’s hand when he lost his balance, landing a couple of feet away on a bed of soft moss. He inspects them carefully as he picks them up, worried that they’ve been damaged.
“They look alright, Stiles,” Derek says.
Stiles nods, then brings the flowers to his nose and breathes in the sweet fragrance. “She used to wear this perfume all the time. I knew it was floral, but I’d never figured out what type of flower exactly it was. Until I came across your peonies and caught a whiff of their scent.”
Derek stays silent, but there’s something warm and soft in his eyes that seems to communicate that he understands. Feeling suddenly overwhelmed, Stiles looks away and notices they’ve reached the outskirts of the Preserve.
“Come on, it’s this way,” Stiles says, quickening his pace.
“We’re heading toward the cemetery,” Derek observes.
“I know a shortcut.”
The afternoon light cascades through the foliage of the tall trees surrounding the graveyard, casting fleeting shadows against the thousands of austere-looking steles. A warm breeze rustles Stiles’s hair, carrying with it the smell of fresh dirt, moss, and oddly enough, caramel. He lets himself bask in the serenity of the place.
They keep walking in companionable silence, only to stop before a semi-circular headstone decorated with intricate carvings of books and birds. Stiles kneels down and replaces the withered flowers that were there with his fresh bouquet.
“Hello, mom,” he says, a hand on the cold granite. “Tall, dark, and broody over there, that’s Derek. I just met him today, but I think we’re gonna become really good friends. He’s the type of weirdo you’d totally approve of, I’m sure.”
Looking over his shoulder, he catches the expression on Derek’s face, a mixture of sadness and affection that makes Stiles’s heart clench a little. Deciding that it’s best not to dwell on this right now, he asks, tone teasing, “So, pretty enough to warrant flower thief?”
“No, not pretty,” Derek replies, and, before Stiles can get indignant, quickly adds, “As your mother, she must have been beautiful.”
“You smooth talker, come over here,” Stiles enjoins, patting the ground next to where he’s now sitting cross-legged.
After a brief hesitation, Derek gives in and settles down beside Stiles, his left knee brushing against Stiles’s right one. They easily pick up the conversation they were having exactly where they left it at the entrance of the cemetery.
Stiles didn’t expect to meet someone like Derek, a burst of vibrant colours in a forest of dark green and gray. Which means he has to stop and take a closer look, right?
---The End