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It's been four years, now, and things are okay. Stiles got a job at a diner; he works afternoon to closing shifts, mostly. Gets out of his morning classes, eats lunch with Derek, and then heads to work. About seventy-five percent of Stiles' free time is spent at Derek's apartment, a tiny one-bedroom deal with the kitchen and the living room practically on top of each other, the bathroom one of those fuckeries where the fan and the light are attached to the same switch. Derek hasn't opted to tie Stiles up in a while, and he outright refuses to let Stiles nail him at the diner (even though he's generally the only one there in the evenings), but things are okay.
Except that Derek has a boyfriend.
Okay, back up, okay, so Stiles is Derek's boyfriend, a fact that Stiles sometimes gets really smug about ("I know, Stiles," Scott says, rolling his eyes; "you call me to remind me of that at least once a month. You nabbed Derek, congrats."), but Derek has a different boyfriend, and Stiles hates his guts.
His name is stupid, too. It's. It's, like, Roy, or something. Toy. Something.
"Stiles, this is Jerry," Derek says after midterms, gesturing to this dumbass-looking kid with eyes bluer than the ocean and perfectly tousled blond hair. Jerry. Toy. Whatever. "Jerry, this is Stiles," Derek finishes awkwardly.
Derek and introductions don't go well together. He doesn't remember it, but the very first thing he ever said to Stiles, back when Stiles was fourteen and taking a sophomore-level algebra class, was "Uh. Whoa, that's my seat."
"Der and Jer, isn't that precious," Stiles says, smiling thinly, and then he shakes Jerry's hand as an afterthought. It's perfectly warm, and Stiles wants to lob his entire arm off now that the guy touched it.
Toy is Derek's new favourite friend, ever since Boyd got that internship and moved across town. Derek and Toy have two classes together, and they both have this weird history-buff boner for their professor Kleinfelter, (which Derek insists is strictly nonsexual because she's a woman and in her 70s, but Stiles still teases him about it now and then. Maybe that's why he's going to leave Stiles for Toy), and they both played baseball in high school, so it's like a match made in awkward, closet-geek heaven. Never mind that Stiles knows just as much about history as Derek does, and he watches Derek play baseball with his friends on weekends with a captivation usually reserved for the curing of cancer. Never mind the fact that no one else knows exactly what Derek wants for breakfast just by looking at his bleary 7am face. Never mind the fact that Toy is a plebeian who doesn't deserve Derek's attention!
Stiles never knew it until Derek, but Stiles is most definitely the jealous type.
::
Stiles also never knew he was the insecure type. Because that's what he's being: insecure. It isn't like Derek will see the merits in Toy and leave Stiles. That would be ludicrous. They've been together four years, and even though they snipe at each other about minor annoyances a lot ("Stiles, can you seriously get your feet off that thing, you'll scuff it up." "Derek, have you ever seen a coffee table before? Do you—do you know what it is?"), Stiles has never wished he wasn't with Derek.
Sometimes, in fact, he stands and brushes his teeth and watches Derek pee and blink groggily at his reflection in the morning and just feels satisfied, like he's accomplished some kind of crucial goal, or like he ate the right exact amount, or like he tripped and accidentally found something perfect and priceless and—
Derek wouldn't leave him. Derek wouldn't do that, so Stiles is being irrational. The fact that he hasn't actually spoken to Derek in three weeks isn't relevant, it's just a coincidence. Their schedules don't quite match up anymore, that's all. Stiles' texts and emails going unanswered are purely concurrent with Derek being busy, not with Derek purposefully blowing him off.
It isn't that Derek dislikes Stiles, that would be stupid. He just doesn't notice whether Stiles is there or not. And it's not because he doesn't care, it's just that—it—isn't important to him right now. Not that Stiles is unimportant. Because that is also untrue. Derek's just—he's got his friend, now. They hang out every day, and go to class every day, and sometimes Stiles catches him on his way out the door, and Derek doesn't ask if he wants to come because—he's probably just assuming Stiles doesn't like history. Even though Stiles is also a history major. Well, he must know Stiles doesn't particularly like Jerry. Who is his new best friend, so. That's a problem, definitely.
It's not for lack of trying. Once he got over the initial jealousy, Stiles tried playing nice with the guy, and it was clearly too late for niceties. Like last month, around Stiles' birthday, Stiles suggested that Derek bring Toy to the little celebration they had with friends at Chili's—Stiles has cheap tastes, okay—he came, and then he spent the whole time talking to Derek and Derek forgot about Stiles.
But that isn't because Derek forgot about—I mean, "forgot" probably isn't the right word. He just—didn't remember—that Stiles was there. For a while. And if Jerry called Stiles a loudmouth while Derek was in the bathroom, it was just a joke, because they aren't in fucking high school anymore and this whole thing is—
And Derek loses his phone occasionally and doesn't bother looking for it, because—well, it's.
Scott isn't any help because he's firmly in the I knew all along Derek was a butthole camp, and it rings a little too close to home to Erica, so she either chokes up and changes the subject or the conversation ends up being about how she and Boyd broke up for the last time. Allison isn't a close enough friend to confide in (although she knows, and she awkwardly offered Stiles a vegan cupcake), Danny listened politely and then told Stiles he had to go, and Greenberg sneezed on Stiles' purple hoodie. All in all, Stiles isn't entirely sure where to go from here. He figures he should try to catch Derek between classes and talk to him about it.
::
"Derek?" Stiles calls idly, letting himself into Derek's apartment after class one day. Tentatively makes his way through the place, tentative like he's never been before this semester, because he already knows what he's going to find, and he knows he won't like it. And there it is: a note scrawled on the pad of personalised stationary Stiles gave Derek two Christmases ago.
From the desk of DEREK I GOT YOU STATIONARY LOOK:
sorry gonna be out late studying for exams w/ jerry and i lost my phone. love you see you later
Stiles sighs at it. But the stationary is the best, and at least Derek loves him.
No, actually, the best part about this is that note was written two weeks ago, and every time it's true again, Derek just circles it again. It's got four circles in different pens around it.
It's funny.
In all honesty, Stiles got let down the first time, irritated the second time, livid the third time, and then the fourth time he just fuckin' left, stormed out and got drunk at Erica's. This time he just puts the paper down vacantly. Stares around the empty apartment. Just your typical Monday.
His fingers feel like they're itchy, so he goes to the couch and cleans up the chip bags and soda cans and beer bottles. While he's doing that, he might as well clean up the crumbs on the cushions. Dig out the change and stick it in Derek's empty mayonnaise jar piggy bank. He finds Derek's phone between the cushions and sighs at it, because it's always in some weird place lately. It's like he losing the thing on purpose. He flips it open and there are two texts in the inbox.
Stiles (unread) 3:46pm :
had a dream you were a really filthy proctologist… let's hope it's prophetic?? by which i mean i hope i see you tonight. proctology is optional.
Jerry 2:14pm :
be at ur place in ten minutes ud better not be wearing the star wars shirt im serious
Derek and Jerry are close enough that Jerry criticises Derek's clothing choices. What's wrong with the Star Wars shirt? He looks super comfy in it, and Stiles likes it when Derek's—he and Jerry are close enough that Jerry criticises Derek's clothing choices, how did Stiles miss this? How did he—?
Stiles marks his own text unread and plugs the phone in, leaves it on the counter, because he can't even think about that right now.
The living room gets clean, and then the dishes get done, and then two boxes of mac and cheese get made and mixed into a pound of ground beef. Stiles dishes himself a bowl, and then decides he isn't hungry and puts it back. He wraps up the macaroni and leaves it in the fridge. Derek'll probably think it's weird that Stiles made so damn much, but—you know what, never mind. He probably won't even notice it.
We need to talk, Stiles scrawls out on a notepad, and then he glances up at Derek's phone, idle on the counter, and finds himself staring at it. He stares at it intently, feels himself panic more and more the more he looks at it, and finally it culminates in him tearing up the note and crawling into Derek's bed.
He'll wait for Derek to get back. He'll wait for Derek and he won't fall asleep at all.
::
Derek doesn't know it, but Stiles is 9000% done.
But Derek doesn't know.
The thing is, if he knew that when he came home and found Stiles in his bed, he would appreciate it more. Probably take a few minutes just to admire the sight of it, Stiles all skinny and curled up tight on himself, glasses still on his face, askew, one foot sticking out of the covers. He'd probably slide under the blankets quietly, draw him into his arms and make him be the little spoon, because Derek does so love curling up around him in the wee hours of the morning. He'd maybe pull his glasses off, put them carefully on the bedside table. Probably slip a hand under Stiles' t-shirt just to feel the warmth of him, put his lips to the back of Stiles' neck just because he's soft, and if Stiles woke up, he'd likely tell him gently to go back to sleep, which odds are good Stiles would ignore, because Stiles generally disregards a direct command, especially from Derek. If Derek knew how fed up Stiles was, he'd probably go to Stiles and make things better.
If he knew just how done Stiles was, Derek would probably apologise. Check his phone for once, maybe. Offer him one of the cupcakes he brought back from hanging out with Jerry and his friends, because Stiles likes frosting a lot. Although he might just like frosting when it comes off of Derek's skin.
But Derek does not do any of these things, because there is no way for him to know what Stiles is thinking, and Derek isn't nearly observant enough to notice Stiles warily disentangling himself from Derek's life, simply doesn't notice any of it until it's over and done with.
Derek doesn't get into bed with Stiles because he doesn't have a clue Stiles will subtly bow out of his life in some kind of attempt to let Derek run free in the pastures of history classmates—which Derek doesn't particularly want, because he's only passionate about history because Stiles made him that way. Derek doesn't get into bed with Stiles because he has no idea Jerry doesn't like Stiles or Stiles doesn't like Jerry or Stiles misses Derek—because who's ever missed Derek? Like, ever?
No one has, is the answer, and it's sort of absurd that it would occur to Derek that Stiles is lonely and missing him because Derek is typically the one who's lonely and missing Stiles. They've argued about it at least twice in the past, Stiles and his extroverted nature, Stiles and his inclination towards overachieving, Derek and his quiet, brooding temperament that seriously limits his abilities to make friends. If Derek's noticed anything, it's that Stiles dislikes Jerry, which is sort of irksome because Jerry's only the first new friend Derek has been able to make since Stiles.
And Stiles hasn't really complained. He sort of went dead-eyed the first couple times Derek mentioned Jerry, but after that he got over whatever thing he had. Derek assumes they're cool, now; after all, Stiles doesn't want to be That Guy, that possessive significant other who wants Derek present or accounted for at all times. It must be a bigger challenge than he'd thought.
Derek doesn't get into bed with Stiles because he isn't quite tired yet, and Stiles is snoring again, and Derek's had Saria's Song stuck in his head for hours. Derek doesn't get into bed with Stiles; he raises an eyebrow at the sight of Stiles in his bed, and then heads back out to the living room to play Ocarina of Time until he dozes off on the couch, and when he wakes up in the morning the game is saved and there's a blanket on him and Stiles is gone.
::
The next couple days are quiet and Derek is inexplicably unnerved. He can't place why. Jerry is in good spirits, though.
Derek writes a stilted, awkward email to his sister Laura, who inquires after Stiles. She probably regrets it because she gets in return three paragraphs about Derek's last birthday. The cake Stiles made. Stiles can't bake for shit; there were hunks of cooked, badly-mixed egg in the cake.
He puts off doing laundry for a few days. It's a pretty boring and uneventful week, even though Jerry drags him out to shit with his friends almost every night.
That Saturday, Derek finds the macaroni. It's a lot of macaroni, and there's ground beef in it, Derek's favourite. Like, a lot of macaroni. It's weird. Nice, but weird.
Next he finds the phone. Fully charged, in the kitchen next to Derek's neglected cereal box (he bought a new kind that turned out to be gross, but Stiles and Erica said it was worth it because there was a prize inside). There is an old text from Stiles on it about hoping to see him.
Then he searches in the dishwasher and the sink for a glass and finds that all the glasses, plates, and bowls are in the cupboards. And then he gets suspicious.
Derek didn't do the dishes. In fact, Derek isn't a hundred percent positive how to do the dishes. And Stiles, Stiles only cleans when—when he's stressed out or depressed. Derek's palms tingle hot and cold. He looks warily at the bedroom.
Which is when he finds that the few shirts Stiles was keeping in Derek's apartment have been replaced with the ones he borrowed from Derek, and—it's fine. Maybe Stiles just felt like cleaning. And cooking. And giving back Derek all his shit. Maybe it's just some stuff that's been backed up. Stiles has been meaning to do it for some time, and he finally decided to.
Because that, that sounds like Stiles. That isn't at all a rationalisation.
Jerry is there the evening Derek finds the shirts, bouncing on his toes and glancing at his watch, which is a newer and thinner watch than Stiles'.
"You ready to head out?" Jerry asks. Hands in his pockets, collar lifted in preparation for the intermittent sleet. "Movie starts in ten." He pauses. "Why are you looking at a shirt like it's a math problem."
Derek looks up at him, distracted. "Oh," he says. "I just. Stiles had these, and now they're back. And his are gone."
"Okay," Jerry says slowly. Derek looks away from him. Puts the shirt back, and frowns at the shirts in the drawer, like they've crossed him somehow, like if he keeps staring, he'll figure out just what feels so incorrect about the whole thing. He tries to remember if Stiles said something about it the last time they spoke which was… which would have been... "So Skinny took his dopey shirts back, what. It's not like you could fit into them." Jerry huffs a laugh. "It's not like you'd want to fit into them." Derek squints, blinks at him until he explains, "Because they're, like. He has a Doctor Who shirt."
"I like Doctor Who," Derek replies blandly. "Stiles and I drunk-marathoned Nine twice in a row once."
Jerry stares at him, and it takes a moment to dawn on Derek that 'nine' probably means nothing to Jerry. Or maybe he really hates Doctor Who. Before he can explain, Jerry says "Okay" again. "Now can we go? Like, I don't know why you're freaking out."
Derek frowns back at the t-shirt in his hands. "I'm just trying to remember the last time I talked to Stiles." He saw him the other night. When was that? Monday night. He had to have seen Stiles since then. It's Stiles, it isn't like—
"Dude, forget Stiles. We're going to be late."
And this—this sounds weird. Like Derek ate something and instead of coming apart, it's sitting sideways in his stomach. He's having trouble digesting this command. "Forget Stiles," Derek repeats.
"Yeah," Jerry says, laughs mirthlessly, bewildered. "Forget him. What part of 'we are going to be late' did I not say clearly?"
The words are still jumbled in his head. He can't let it go. Derek shakes his head, dispels the disorientation. "You better go without me."
"Dude."
Derek shrugs, grabs the shirt he was holding and pushes past Jerry to grab his phone off the kitchen counter. Stiles works until eight, so if Derek hurries, he can catch him on his way home. Maybe take him to a late dinner or something. If he wants.
"Are you seriously bailing on me because Stiles moved a shirt?" Jerry asks, and he sounds pissed.
"Sorry, man," Derek says. "I sort of owe him."
"No," says Jerry, and Derek stops short, turns and looks at him, alarmed. A car drives by on the street outside, and the tires sound wet on the asphalt. "We have two classes together. We hang out all the time. That night you got tipsy after the exam, you called me to pick you up. Not Stiles. You can't even remember the last time you talked to him, and you're ditching me to find out why he took his shirts back?" He steps closer, but for all Derek can hear him better, he doesn't get any quieter. "Like, name one thing you have in common with him aside from you both like the Legend of Zelda, which—everyone likes the Legend of Zelda."
"Hey," Derek says feebly.
He smirks. "Yeah, you can fight me on that later. Just. Put down the shirt. Come to the movie tonight."
"Are you—" Derek squints, because this can't be happening. "Sounds a little nuts, but are you trying to convince me to leave Stiles for you?"
"Like he hasn't already left," Jerry says, gesturing to the shirt in Derek's hand.
"Jerry," Derek says. Jerry stares at him, and he's blocking Derek from the door, and it's—awkward. It's awkward like being with Stiles never was, probably because Derek adored Stiles, and he never had to do this with Stiles. He had to do it with a few people in the years since, but they were never his friends. It's awkward, and Derek just frowns apologetically, desperately willing Jerry to understand. "I gotta go find Stiles."
"Yeah, when do you not," Jerry snaps abruptly. "He's got you trained up good, he texts and you say 'how high?'"
That. Derek blinks. Narrows his eyes. "What?"
"Started hiding your fucking phone in the couch whenever he tried to check up on you." The couch? Check up? "I know he talks shit about me to you." He does? "I try to be the bigger man here and you still go looking for him, even when he hasn't said anything!" Derek opens his mouth to speak, but Jerry interrupts, "Fuck this!" and tears past him out the door. Down the sidewalk.
And Derek—
Doesn't have time for this. Exeunt.
::
Stiles is by no means expecting Derek to show up at his work, out of breath and looking—frankly insane. He's just about to turn out the lights and lock up and Derek bursts in through the door, huffing and puffing like the big bad wolf—more like the tiny, sad wolf, he looks miserable. "We're closed," Stiles says monotonously, staring back at him. Then he sees the shirt in Derek's hand. "Uh," he points at it. "You got a shirt."
Derek is still catching his breath, wheezing like Scott in springtime, but he holds up the hand with the t-shirt in it, like he caught the shirt trying to abscond with his carrots or something. "I found this in the middle drawer," he says, voice gravelly from whatever crazy sprint he just pulled.
"Okay," Stiles says dully.
"The middle drawer," Derek says roughly, "is your drawer." Stiles blushes, opens his mouth, but Derek interrupts. "It's yours. For your—for your Doctor Who t-shirt, and the one with the ponies you only wear on laundry day, and your sketchbook, and your glow-in-the-dark condoms that I said I wouldn't use because I'm a spoilsport." He gulps, still breathing hard. How the hell far did he run? "I do not appreciate finding my shit in there. It does not go there."
"Uh." Stiles squirms. "Sorry."
"And don't apologise to me," Derek snaps.
"What do you want me to say?" Stiles asks, deflating.
"Say you're—" Derek looks down at the shirt in his hand, as if he isn't sure why he has it. To punctuate it, he tosses it onto the counter. "Say you're not leaving me."
And that's, that's not what Stiles was expecting. His eyebrows jump up his forehead, and his mouth works for a moment, speechless. But Stiles is never speechless for long. "Me," he says, gesturing between the two of them. "Leaving you. That's rich. You're a little confused, buddy."
"Jerry hates your guts," Derek says, instead of a thing that makes sense. It's a really intriguing change of pace; Stiles was making sense, and Derek bravely opted to not do that. Stiles stares. "I-I mean, I had no idea," Derek adds. "He was hiding my phone from me, I never knew."
"You never do," Stiles grumbles. Derek just looks lost and forlorn, so Stiles says again loudly, "You never do! You never notice anything unless I point it out to you. Ever!"
"I noticed when you were gone," says Derek softly. Eyes on the floor. "When you thought you'd just stick a shit-ton of pasta in my fridge and that'd just make up for the fact that you weren't there."
"It was more productive than being there and reading your stupid note for the thousandth time." Stiles sends the rag in his hands in the same direction the t-shirt went. "I could make an entire list of things I was doing in the hopes of seeing you that were complete wastes of time." Derek opens his mouth to respond, but Stiles waves his hand, cuts him off. "Whatever," he says. Starts to turn away. "It's been a good run, right? Just—go have study dates with Jerry, or whatever."
"No," Derek says. "God damn it, Stiles. Jerry's—he's my fucking class friend, he isn't—he doesn't like the same games I do. He doesn't have the same sense of humour, he doesn't give a shit what I wear. He's kind of an asshole, he's super pissed off at me right now, he doesn't make my fucking knees weak, and he is by no means you." Stiles blinks. Derek adds in a shout, "You asshole."
There's a silence. Stiles says, "That's."
Derek explodes again. "You're my first! You're my first everything—jesus, not everything, but you're my first—g-guy, and my first A in history, and my first love, and I refuse—I fucking refuse to lose you because I'm an oblivious shithead!"
"Derek," Stiles says shakily. Stepping closer.
"And you're—what, you've been suffering in silence or whatever? That's ridiculous, don't do that!"
Stiles stiffens, hot in the face. "The fact that you're yelling at me about 'suffering in silence' is hilarious, really—"
"And now I get why you yell at me about it, it's infuriating," Derek bellows. "Next time a friend of mine is acting like a dick to you, I need you to tell me so I can kick him in the nutsack, you fucking thought I'd choose Jerry Schweitzer over you? Over you?"
"Derek."
"You were in my bed like less than a week ago, and I didn't—I just went back and played video games like a cockhead, you—"
Jesus christ. "Derek."
Derek looks up and sees Stiles right in front of him, jumps. Blushes. Stiles reaches out (and Derek actually flinches for a second, what the hell), puts his palms on Derek's face, where the heat is. He kisses Derek, and Derek kisses back, and jesus fucking—it's like kisses have been building up for a month and a half, and now they're—well, they're happening. Derek lifts Stiles onto a barstool and pushes between his knees, clutching at his hips, the back of his neck, and Stiles can't help but arch against him, draw him in.
They have sex in the diner (Stiles frantically locks the front door and throws the lights off), on the floor that Stiles just finished mopping like half an hour ago. ("Definitely worth a second mopping," Stiles says breathlessly, sniffling, but it's dark and Derek can't tell if he's crying or not.) If Stiles is a little rough with him, Derek doesn't complain. He doesn't really say much at all, actually—not that he's ever particularly talkative—but he does clutch Stiles to him like Stiles'll leave him immediately after exchanging orgasms.
"Jesus, Derek," Stiles says after he's wiped the come off himself with his apron, tossed his work shirt onto the counter, leaving him in just a thin t-shirt. "I, I just. I'm still pissed at you." Derek's nose stings. He nods, ducks his head. "But if, if you're willing to, um. Like, fix this. With me."
"I'll take you out," Derek offers suddenly. Blushes—but the lights are still off. "To dinner. Tomorrow."
"Like on a date?" asks Stiles. Mop in his hand.
Derek nods, and Stiles smiles softly. Tightens his grip on the mop.
"I'd like that."
::
They make it out to dinner (Stiles is literally wearing a bowtie and a sweater vest, and Derek doesn't have a clue what to do with him that doesn't use the words 'destroy' or 'ravish') and back to Derek's apartment without once remembering that Stiles is supposed to be pissed off at Derek or that they've been essentially separated for just over a month.
Stiles drove, but Derek paid, and when Stiles drops Derek off, he stands on the porch and slides his arms around Derek's neck, kisses him like Derek's neighbours won't see (which: Derek honestly doesn't give a shit if they see). Draws one knee forward, foot resting on his toes, like—Anne Hathaway, and there's a movie Derek could have gone without seeing.
"Wanna come inside for a while?" Stiles asks, coy.
"It's my apartment," Derek reminds him.
Stiles grins. "Maybe I wasn't talking about the apartment." And holy god above almighty jesus fucking christ.
"You're the worst," Derek says, jaw clenched, while he fumbles with his keys. "The best. The best-worst, best. Worst. You're awful."
Stiles just steps up behind him, presses against him, chuckling. "You love me," he teases, and Derek finally gets the damn door open, lurches forward with the momentum he used to open it. Looks over his shoulder at Stiles. That fucking bowtie. The sweater vest, he looks like fucking Archie, it's ridiculous. And Derek realises that if it was anyone but Stiles, anyone but Stiles, Derek would be mortified to be seen with him.
"Against my better judgment," Derek says, smirking. Pulls him inside by the hand.
::
"I should really get up soon," Stiles says, voice rough from dozing and loud sex, at 9:30 the next morning. Derek responds by continuing to languidly press wet kisses to his neck, palms on his naked skin. "I'm serious, dude. I have class. I should have been up forty-five minutes ago. You need to let me up." Then he gasps, digs his fingernails into Derek's hips. "Or you could finger me, that's—yeah."
"Move in with me," Derek says, and then he punctuates the request with a sharp nip to the hinge of Stiles' jaw.
"Ah," Stiles says. Derek soothes the bite with his tongue. "My—jesus, Der—my lease is up in May…"
"Then move in in May. Or, forget your credit, move in now. Move in yesterday. It's stupid we weren't living together already," Derek tells him. Watches his face, his mouth, his shut eyes. The increasingly rapid rise and fall of his chest. "Sometimes I would—forget you didn't live here."
Stiles hisses, arching against Derek's hand. "You need to let me have more than the middle drawer. I, I've got a lot of stuff," Stiles says. Bites his lip when Derek adds another finger. "And—and you need to eat more vegetables if I'm gonna—be in here, and you can't freak out about me putting my feet on your coffee table, because as you don't drink coffee, or read—fuck, Derek—or read tasteful home furnishing magazines, that is what coffee tables are for, god damn it, right there."
"You can put your feet wherever you want," promises Derek. "Put them in the food, I don't care. Just be with me."
Stiles actually growls at this. "Can't we discuss this after you fuck me?"
"Actually, I'd rather we agreed to it now, fucked excruciatingly slow—" Stiles makes another deprived ah sound "—and then talked about it some more. Good?"
"Derek, you really can't say shit like that," Stiles gasps. Lifts his knees desperately. "I'm gonna—fuck—get the impression you like me or something. Jesus goddamn—"
"Wouldn't want you to think that," Derek says, and finally pushes into him—finally, he thinks, as if they didn't spend the last eight and a half hours screwing each other senseless, finally, as if he's never fucked Stiles before. He pushes in deep, careful like he always is, tentative like he's never been. Tries to see how deep he can get, like he's trying to perhaps merge, occupy the same space. Which. Is a weird thought, but. Derek doesn't care anymore.
Stiles' mouth falls open, lips pursing slightly, trying to form words. Eyes fluttering shut. His hand slides heavy between them, and Stiles grasps himself, letting out this needy sound. Derek puts a hand of his own around Stiles'.
"Do you want to?" he asks between thrusts. "Move in with me? We could—" He has to pause to breathe heavily. "We could get a cat. Get all gross and—domestic."
"A cat, oh my god," Stiles finally bursts out, laughing somewhat hysterically.
"I'll let you give me shitty nicknames," Derek tells him.
"L-like love biscuit, can I call you love biscuit—"
"You can call me whatever stupid thing you want."
"Can I—oh, Derek—have veto power on decorations—ah—movies—"
"Anything—you—want—"
"Fuck, like I don't already want to marry you, you're—holy shit, Derek, I—"
"Stiles," and Derek effectively ends the conversation by crashing his mouth against Stiles', graceless, like everything Derek does. At his worst, Derek is everything Stiles isn't, broken and awkward and easily frustrated, dry and serious, meek and pessimistic. But at his best, he's Stiles' foil. Complementing Stiles, and Stiles seeps into Derek's cracks and chips and fills up all the missing parts. Taking the scratched, old thing that is Derek and turning it into a new, shiny thing that is the two of them pushing into each other, clutching at each other, making stupid, lighthearted promises that really mean other things.
When Derek opens his eyes after riding out his orgasm—stars, fireworks, the whole fucking enchilada, this is ridiculous and Stiles should be illegal—Stiles' eyes are tearing up. It wouldn't be the first time Stiles has taken it hard enough, given it hard enough, come hard enough that his eyes have watered, but Derek gets the feeling that isn't what this is.
Then it sinks in: Stiles wants to marry Derek. He just said that. He just told Derek he wanted to marry him. Derek struggles to find something to say. Maybe if he says the right thing, or asks nicely, Stiles will say it again. Repeatedly. Without taking his eyes off Stiles', Derek settles down next to him, draws him back in, tangles their legs together.
"You know I've had a fucking ring for you sitting in the Jeep for like three months," Stiles tells him steadily. "At first I, I wasn't sure if you wanted the whole domestic shebang, which, I wasn't going to force you, I don't need it right now. And then you started studying with whatshisass, and it occurred to me maybe you could want it, just not—well, just not with me. So I decided to give you some space, let you figure it out."
"I figured it out," Derek says.
"You figured it out a lot sooner than I was anticipating, I'll admit," Stiles says, smirking wryly. "Like, I was still actively angry with you when you came by. I was expecting a week or two at least."
"The dishes freaked me out," replies Derek, and Stiles laughs. "You only do dishes when shit is wrong."
Stiles snorts. "How is it that you notice shit like what chores indicate what mental state I'm in, but you're thoroughly unaware when your friends are treating me like garbage."
"Maybe I block it out." Derek sidles closer to him. Foreheads touching. Stiles is waiting for something, Derek realises. A promise, maybe. He says, "I won't anymore. I don't need space." He needs Stiles.
Later they'll shower together, probably. Stiles seems to have abandoned all plans to attend class, so maybe Derek can ask him to go on a lunch date. Derek's phone vibrated earlier, and a fleeting glance at the screen indicated it was a text from Jerry, but Derek ignored it, and odds are he will continue to ignore it for a while yet. Because for now, Derek has Stiles, and he is warm and safe in a way he sometimes forgets not to take for granted. Stiles blinks at him, slow and content, and Derek is transfixed by his face, the creaminess of his skin and the gleam of his eyes, and—
"You're really pretty," Stiles tells him abruptly.
Derek gapes, incredulous. "I'm pretty?"
"Derek, my bride," Stiles intones with a grin, and Derek shakes his head vehemently.
"No," he says, "you're not allowed to say shit like that, never say it in front of Laura. She'll never let me move on, don't."
"You're blushing," Stiles says, beaming, "you're my blushing bride, this is—"
"Engagement off," Derek declares. Stiles punctuates this by flinging his arms around Derek's neck and kissing him thoroughly.