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“It’s quiet here. And everybody is friendly,” Stiles says as they enjoy a peaceful breakfast on the porch.
They’re staying at a bed & breakfast, sitting on the large, white wrap-around porch of an antebellum house, with the largest early morning meal Stiles has every seen (scrambled eggs with cheese, grits, biscuits, bacon, corned beef hash, home fries, fried chicken, sausage patties, flapjacks, and a ham steak). Derek’s halfway done, but Stiles has decided to take a break from the gargantuan feast, choosing to sip his coffee as he looks out into the nice neighborhood, listening to the birds singing sweetly.
Derek puts his fork down long enough to answer. “It is. Hot though.”
“Very.” It’s sweltering, but livable. The heat in New Mexico on the other hand… Stiles believes hell must be a real place. And somewhere in New Mexico.
“You like it,” Derek asks.
Stiles shrugs. “It’s okay. I’m just surprised.”
Derek chuckles wryly. “Me, too.”
“I mean, I by no means believe Mississippi is a progressive place, but there’s a lot less turned heads at us as we walk down the street than I thought.”
Derek nods…then pauses, turning to look at his breakfast companion. “Wait? What?”
“Derek. Really? You hadn’t noticed? Dude, we asked for just one bedroom. With one bed. And we may not hold hands but we do walk pretty close together. No one here thinks we’re just friends, sourwolf,” he smirks.
Derek looks a little stunned; his face shading into a nice pink in light on his cheeks before he picks his fork back up and pokes into his home fries.
“Does that bother you,” Stiles asks, sounding more vulnerable than he wants.
Derek shakes his head.
Stiles nods. “Cool. It’s good to know you’re…you know…okay, with people assuming things about you—us.”
“Its fine,” Derek says, scooping grits into his mouth. “People can assume all they want; doesn’t bother me.”
“Awesome,” Stiles smiles, squinting in the sunlight.
“It’s not like I haven’t been with another guy either, so…”
Stiles’ vision whites-out at the corners and all sound dissipates, leaving the world in silence, because Derek Hale just told Stiles he’s “been with another guy” before.
Stiles is no stranger to fantasy, and he has spend many a night, and plenty of showers, thinking about Derek Hale with another guy. Particularly him…and sometimes Deputy Parrish for some reason, but always with him. And now the werewolf is sitting casually beside him on a warm Sunday morning, eating biscuits and gravy, nonchalantly mentioning how he used to sleep with another guy.
Guy? Guys? Fuck. Has Derek been with a lot of dudes or just one? Were they dating, or just fucking? Was there a relationship? Did they cuddle and spoon at night? Watch Netflix and go to brunch together? Or did they just hook up? Did they text each other to meet at their ‘usual spot’, or was it like a one and done in the men’s room at— Wait. Where was this? Oh, my God. Was it in Beacon Hills? Or New York? Was this other guy (guys?) from somewhere else? Was he a werewolf? A kitsune? Jesus! Was he (they) human?!
“Stiles!”
“Huh?”
“You okay? Where’d you go? You…drifted off.”
“No. I… I was thinking about…nothing.”
“You’re never thinking about nothing. You alright? You ate. A lot.”
He did. He may not have taken down half the food on the table like Derek did, but he ate a lot. A lot more than he has been lately. He ate…normally, for the last 3 days, and kept it all down. It didn’t taste like cement, feeling heavy and thick in his mouth. For the first time, in a long time, it tasted like…food.
“I know,” he says. “It was good. Really good.”
Derek nods, fighting back a happy smile.
Stiles loves his smile. All his smiles. Especially all the ones he’s only been allowed to see.
Maybe.
What if that other guy saw them, too…?
»»»
“Oh, my God! No! No!”
Derek comes out of the bathroom in a panic, dripping wet with a towel around his waist. “What? What’s the matter?”
“Freddie Smith,” Stiles answers with a frown on his face.
“Who?”
“Sonny. From Days of Our Lives. He’s leaving the show. How did I not know this? His last episode is next week,” Stiles tells Derek, eyes glued to the screen of his laptop as he scrolls through webpages, flipping back and forth through various tabs.
“He’s leaving? What happens to him and Paul then?”
Stiles shrugs. “Maybe they’ll replace him. But it wouldn’t be the same, you know? Freddie Smith made that character. He was Sonny Kiriakis and—” Stiles stops, finally looking over at Derek standing just two feet from him, wet, and partially naked, save for the tiny, white towel he has hugged around his hips. His hair his flat and limp, free of product, and the water on his chest makes the hair there look soft.
Stiles wants to run his hands up and down his pecs, drawing the tips of his fingers down his taut stomach and past his belly button—
“Stiles?”
“Huh?”
“You okay,” Derek asks with a small, knowing smile on his face.
Stiles flushes red on his neck, cheeks, and ears. “Yeah. I-I was thinking about how they’re going to wrap up the whole Sonny, Paul, and Will story if Freddie Smith leaves.”
“Well, maybe they’ll just do what you said; they’ll replace him.”
“Y-yeah. Probably,” Stiles responds, nodding and staring blankly at his computer screen. He swallows hard, willing himself not to look over at Derek. “You, uh, done in there, big guy? Kind of want to wash up before bed, too.”
“Yeah. Just have to brush my teeth.”
“Okay. Uh, sure. …You…should…go…do…that.”
Derek snorts. Like the asshole he is. “Alright.” Derek returns to the bathroom, closing the door behind himself.
Stiles groans, flopping back onto the bed, and buries his face into a fluffy pillow, silencing his muffled scream.
The rest of this trip is going to be interesting. To say the least.
He’s so fucked.
»»»
On our way to Louisiana. Mississippi was pretty nice. Or at least the part we were in. I’ve been eating and sleeping better. I still can’t talk on the phone, but I’m working up to that. Promise. Love, Stiles
Stiles places a stamp in the corner of the postcard with a picture of the state bird on the other side. A mockingbird. He opens the mail slot and slides the postcard inside the metal, blue box.
He rounds the corner and reaches the B&B within a few short steps, taking the porch steps two at a time. He quietly enters the foyer, nodding to the caretaker, Ms. Webster, before heading upstairs to he and Derek’s room.
Derek’s in bed with a book in his hands. Some paperback crime thriller Ms. Webster pulled from her library and gave him two days ago that he has yet to put down, except when to eat.
Stiles toes off his shoes and tosses his hoodie onto an armchair. He slipped out to the mailbox in his pj bottoms and a T-shirt, so he simply climbs in the bed beside Derek after kicking his Vans to the side. “You’re halfway done that book and we’ve only been here for 3 days.”
“I’ve seen you devour whole text books in a matter of hours,” Derek says, a little distracted as he turns the page.
“Adderall overdose.”
That gains Derek’s attention.
“When I don’t take it, I’m all over the place and can’t focus, and when I do take it, I’m too focused.” He shrugs.
“…When you take too much I can smell it.”
“Really? What do I smell like?”
“A little medicinal. Like a pill. Like chalk and iron.”
“I haven’t taken any since we’ve been on the road.”
“…I know.”
“I feel fine though. I’ve felt fine. As far as my medication goes. What does that mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe I just…needed to leave. Maybe Beacon Hills is toxic, making me sick, like I needed my medication.”
“Beacon Hills is toxic, Stiles. That’s why we’re here and not there,” Derek says bitterly, returning to his book.
Stiles stares at his profile. His hands. The rise and fall of his broad, muscular chest. Derek’s beautiful. So beautiful it hurts to looks at sometimes, Stiles thinks. “You’re really not going to come back. Are you?”
He already knows the answer. He just needs to hear it.
The older man shifts his eyes to him. “I don’t know.”
Stiles rolls his eyes, annoyed at Derek for being indirect.
Derek puts his book down on his lap. “I really don’t know, Stiles.”
“Yes, you do. Why would you stay? What’s there for you? What good thing is waiting for you there? I don’t blame you. I’d leave, too. I just wish… Doesn’t matter what I wish—”
“Yes, it does,” Derek says with nothing but absolutism in his voice.
Stiles wants to believe him. That he matters to Derek like his tone suggest, but… He knows better. He’s the goofy, best friend. He doesn’t get the girl. Or guy. He’s not Scott. It’d be nice if he was, but he’s not. Yet, he still can’t help himself. “…I just wish there was something important enough, something you care enough about, to make you come back.”
Derek’s eyes stare hard and deep into Stiles’ own. They’re quiet for a long while, looking at each other. Really looking at each other…
“You’re right,” Stiles says finally. “Beacon Hills is toxic. You probably should leave.” Stiles twists round in the sheets, turning his back toward Derek. He reaches up and clicks off the light by his side of the bed before hunkering down into the bedding.
“Goodnight,” he says, voice shaky and low.
He knows Derek knows he’s crying, but he still doesn’t want the werewolf to see. So he turns his face into his pillow, stifling the sobs threatening to wreck through him and destroy the small bit of happiness he’s had over the last few days.
Derek’s not coming back when this is all over. He accepts that, but it still hurts knowing it.
And it hurts even more that he didn’t bother asking Stiles to stay with him.