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“Stiles, are you serious?”
“Yes! Derek Hale said he likes me! Well, not in any starry-eyed sense, but he likes me. He likes to spend time with me and he likes me being here with him. Can you believe that?!”
“That’s not what I meant, Stiles! What I meant was: Are you seriously calling me to gush about Derek, like some lovestruck, 14 year old girl?! Do you even know how worried we all are about you?! How scared we are?! How guilty we feel about not seeing that there was something wrong with you?! You finally call and it’s to gossip about your stupid crush on Derek?!”
“Lydia—”
“Your dad was so upset, and Scott has been trying so hard to keep it together, but he’s freaking out and you don’t call! You don’t answer your phone! You just send those stupid postcards! We just wanted to know if you were okay!”
“Lydia…” He can hear her crying on the other end.
“I am so mad at you! This is not a joke! We care about you! We love you and you just… Malia went feral for a week! Jordan and Melissa had to pick your dad up and drive him home from a bar three days ago! Do you give a shit about that, Stiles?!”
“Of course I do! I give a shit about everything! That’s the problem! I feel everything and see everything and remember everything and it kills me, Lydia! It fucking kills me! All I want to do is to not feel this way and for my dad and the rest of you to be safe and to not feel terrified every goddamn second but that’s not going to fucking happen!”
“So you runaway with your boyfriend? Oh, that’s going to solve everything, Stiles.”
“That’s not what I did. That’s not what I’m doing.”
“What are you doing?”
“…Trying to fucking breathe. Trying to stay sane and keep at least my head above water.”
“You could have done that here. With us. With people who love you.”
“No, I couldn’t. I was drowning in Beacon Hills.”
“Maybe. Or maybe Derek was leaving, and you couldn’t let him go.”
She hits something deep in his chest. He didn’t even know it was there. Something soft and bruising, like an open wound. It hurts and causes him to shudder.
“I don’t need this. I don’t need this from you.”
“Stiles, don’t—”
He hangs up on her and tosses his phone on the bed.
Lydia’s face and name light up his cellphone. He hits ‘ignore’ then turns the phone off. He shouldn’t have called. But he wanted to talk to someone. To tell them about what Derek said and how funny it was that he actually wore the pink flamingo swim trunks Stiles bought him to the water park. He wanted to tell someone about them talking easily as they floated down the lazy river. About how good Derek looks lying in the bright, hot Texas sun in dark shades with a beer in his hand. About the little fat kid that canonballed into the pool and splashed so hard Derek turned over on his inner tube, and how Stiles laughed uncontrollably for 20 minutes. He wanted to tell someone about how they went to dinner that night at a TexMex place and the bartender thought they were a couple and Derek didn’t bother to correct him, so Stiles didn’t either.
Derek couldn’t sleep that night so he went for a run. Stiles took a shower while he was out and jerked off thinking about dark, wet chest hair on hard, tan skin.
I didn’t leave because Derek was leaving, he reminds himself. And he didn’t. It’s the truth… But it somehow feels like a lie.
Derek walks in with styrofoam containers of crispy, salty smelly French fries and cheesy roast beef sandwiches. “They didn't have curly fries. Sorry.”
Stiles runs in the bathroom to throw up.
»»»
It’s a nice hotel. Really nice. With its own spa and Indian casino. Derek even sprung for a suite. There was only one bed, so they’ve taken turns sleeping on the cushy sofa for the last two nights.
There’s an actual pow wow happening at a local park tonight that Stiles was excited about.
Was.
“What happened?”
Stiles pushes his take-out away from him. His food smells like a landfill. He feels nauseous. “Nothing.” He sips at his ginger ale, avoiding eye contact with the wolf.
“How do you expect me to open up if you’re not going to?”
He swirls his straw around in his glass, watching the bubbles float in his drink and listening to the hiss they make. “…I called Lydia. She made me feel like shit.” Stiles looks up at Derek. His jaw is tight and eyes murderous. “Don’t be mad at her.”
“She had no right to make you feel that way.”
“Yes, she does. I just up and left. I didn’t say a word and just left. I freaked everyone out.”
“What did she say?”
Stiles breaks. His face flushes and tears run down his cheeks before he even knows he’s crying. “She said my dad’s drinking again.” He wipes his face with the back of his hand. “If I’m there I feel like I’m killing myself. If I’m not there I feel like I’m killing other people. There’s no fucking end,” he sobs.
Derek wordlessly pulls at Stiles’ arm, tugging him closer. Stiles wraps himself around Derek and lets himself be held against his chest. Derek rubs his back in soft circles. His other hand gently cards through Stiles’ hair.
“There is an end, Stiles. I swear there is. She was just upset. She thought making you feel guilty would make her feel better, or bring you back home.”
“I can’t go back there. Not yet.”
“I know.”
“I don’t know how to make them understand that.”
“Your dad does. He gets it. He’s a sheriff. You think if he didn’t understand a little that he would let his underage son just take off to nowhere with a grown man? He’d have every cop in the country looking for you, to bring you back. Your face would be on billboards and milk cartons.”
Stiles pictures his goofy mug on the side of a milk carton at the grocery store with his real name under it and his dad’s cellphone number: Have you seen this boy? If so, please contact Sheriff John Stilinski.
He chuckles against Derek’s skin. He’s warm and smells good. Like the cucumber melon body wash in the hotel bathroom. Stiles presses his ear against his chest, listening to his heartbeat as Derek continues rubbing his back…
It’s easy, sliding slowly into that calm, dark silence like this; tucked under a strong arm with a soft touch. He does it so fluently. It happens so naturally he doesn’t even notice.
Not until it’s the next morning, when he’s wrapped in silky sheets with the press of an agreeable body against him does he realize it.
He slept. All night. In bed. With Derek.
Derek who’s still asleep. Looking peaceful and breathing gently from his slightly open mouth.
Against his better judgment, Stiles lifts his hand, fingers hovering right above Derek’s lips. He just wants to touch. To know what they feel like against his own flesh…but he knows himself. He knows he couldn’t stop there. Wouldn’t want to. He’d want to taste, too.
And he can’t. Derek may like him, definitely more than he likes Scott (and Lydia right now), but he doesn’t love him.
Not how Stiles loves him. So he brings his hand to his own chest, trying to will the rapid beat of his heart to a steady rhythm.
I didn’t leave because Derek was leaving. And he didn’t. It’s the truth.
But he can’t deny it’s one of the reasons he won’t go back. Not yet at least.