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𖤓 his name ☾
Back and forth, back and forth.
Not even the windshield wipers swiping at their highest rate across the scratched glass could handle the downpour thundering down around him, and he barely noticed that he swerved along the road, back and forth, until blinding lights and a blaring honk nearly startled him straight off the road.
A warning sign flashed yellow on his dashboard.
He stared at it for a long, long moment—so long that he only shook out of his stupor when he veered onto the gravel alongside the forest road.
This time, he stopped the Jeep.
Always the engine light. It'd flashed as well when Derek had left.
How long had it been now? Months?
And yet he still couldn't stop thinking about him.
From the start, he'd known. He just hadn't wanted to admit it to himself, that he'd somehow fallen for the last person he should, and now he was losing his mind.
It'd started as anxiety, nerves; then paranoia and anger. Of course, his paranoia about Theo had turned out spot-on, but the anger had simmered and only boiled over after everything that happened with the Beast and chimeras, and then like a popped bubble, it'd finally deflated.
He thought it'd end there.
But no.
He missed him so much more than he thought he could.
Ah, would he ever feel less exhausted? Would he ever feel less hollow?
Derek texted him from time to time.
The first time had happened the night he'd killed Donovan.
'Everything good?' was the simple two word text.
Stiles, amidst near-breakdown hysteria, had typed a shaky 'how do you get rid of a body?'
'Depends,' Derek had replied within seconds. 'If you need it gone for a plan, either stick it in a garbage bag, weigh it down, and toss it into a lake. Or just toss it off the cliff. Otherwise just call your dad and tell him what happened. You're not going to jail for self-defense anyway.'
And Stiles had broken down into tears, heavy with guilt and fear and humor and relief, and god, how he loved that Derek never asked questions, didn't care about whose body it was, and automatically assumed he'd acted self-defense as if there was no other possibility.
Perhaps that was why, when Scott asked him how he could kill Donovan, a part of him had ached—not with betrayal, but with bittersweet affection.
Because why was it that Derek, miles away, understood him so easily and yet his childhood best friend, standing right in front of him, couldn't?
In that moment, he understood. He didn't have anyone anymore, not completely—who knew if Derek would ever come back?
If he were Derek, he sure as hell wouldn't.
He hoped Derek found what he was looking for. He really did, but Stiles didn't hold such hope for himself. Joining the FBI had sounded promising at some point, but as the weeks passed, he just grew more and more weary.
It could be the season. The cold months always brought back nightmares of anything and everything, from his mom screaming that he tried to kill her to his dad blaming him for killing her to the nogitsune trying to kill everyone, so he usually struggled during the winter, though not like... this.
He supposed that he'd just have to wait and see.
Deep down, however, he knew it wouldn't be so simple—nothing about him had ever been simple. Maybe that was why he'd decided to fall for someone so completely out of bounds, yet right in front of him; maybe that was why he sludged through life like this, even when the weeks passed peacefully by, unlike the others who thrived on the uneventful days.
And maybe....
Maybe that was why when his dad asked him who he was, when Scott and everyone else began forgetting him, his panic and fear had died down to a single thought—
'Maybe this is for the better.'
Under all the panic and fear, a part of him had accepted this, expected this even. 'Of course they forgot,' the voice whispered even though he knew it wasn't anyone's fault besides the Ghost Riders'. 'You didn't mean enough to anyone in the first place.'
A passing thought. He didn't dwell on it of course, especially after seeing all the somewhat soulless people in the train station just sitting there waiting for trains that would never arrive, not to mention Peter—he did manage to eventually shake him awake, but the man wasn't exactly a ray of sunshine nor much help.
So Stiles searched for clues himself. No one remembered him, so he needed to find a way out of this mess himself, or investigate for something that could help the situation, or at least get a warning to them if nothing else, or—
"Stiles?"
He thought he hallucinated the voice at first, because lord he knew he'd dreamed about that voice more than enough times, but he turned around to see Derek a few good rows away on the other side of the room searching through the silent, seated hostages while calling out Stiles' name in breathless urgency.
"Stiles? Sti—"
They locked eyes.
And Stiles tried to keep his heart rate down, tried to talk some sense to himself, because Derek had just, by some unfortunate turn of events, gotten roped up in this mess.
That's all it was.
Derek calling his name didn't mean anything.
𖤓 like a flame to a moth ☾
♫ SLOW DANCING IN THE DARK by Joji ♫
"You got yourself zapped here too, huh," said Stiles with a sigh, arms crossed. "You picked one dumbass time to come back to Beacon H—"
Derek grabbed his face and Stiles cut off with wide eyes.
A chill lingered on Stiles' pinkened ears, but his hair felt just as soft as before, face just as warm as before. He felt Stiles' shoulders—solid—then his arms and hands before breathing a deep exhale of relief.
"Thank god," he muttered to himself more than whispered. He rocked forward for a brief second, letting his forehead rest against Stiles' for a mere blink of an eye before stepping back to a more appropriate distance, hand rubbing the pendant around his neck in an absentminded habit. "There's not much on the Wild Hunt, so I wasn't sure if you were okay. Nothing much has happened to you here, right?"
Stiles, for some reason, just stared at him like a deer in headlights, big caramel eyes wider than usual and mouth opening and closing.
"I'm also fine," said Peter, voice dripping with sarcasm, as he strolled up to them. "Thanks for asking."
Derek blinked. "Oh. You're here too?"
"Wow, and here I thought I was your favorite uncle," muttered Peter.
"You're my only uncle," said Derek. "Who I completely forgot about."
Peter's eyes narrowed. "You forgot about me? How'd you remember Stiles then?"
"I didn't," Derek absentmindedly voiced aloud in a mumble meant for himself as he rubbed his pendant. "I never forgot him."
How could he forget him, after all, when he was the reason he'd left in the first place?
He'd wanted to stay away from Stiles. The longer he'd spent time in Beacon Hills, the more he'd found himself drawn to Stiles, and he hadn't wanted Stiles to get any more involved with him—like a moth to a flame, Stiles would only burn if he ended up in his arms.
Not that Stiles harbored that kind of interest in him, but Derek did.
And like a flame to a moth, he didn't want to scorch Stiles in the fire that surrounded him and his past as he found himself more and more unwilling to take his eyes off Stiles.
He couldn't even keep from messaging Stiles every now and then, for fuck's sake.
But thank god he'd returned when he'd woken up in a cold sweat two nights ago with a roiling gut feeling that nearly had him throwing up. The way his heart stopped when he asked Scott about Stiles only to receive a blank "Who?" in response—he'd wanted to throw up all over again.
"Please tell me you have a plan," said Peter with the most dramatic sigh he could muster, Derek was sure, because when he said no, Peter rolled his eyes. "Of course," he grumbled. "What the hell are you even here for then?"
"How else was I supposed to check if Stiles was okay?"
Peter groaned. "Great. Fantastic. Another deadweight, that's just what we needed."
"You're the only deadweight around here," retorted Stiles, arms crossed, before casting a quick glance at Derek then averting his eyes—Derek wondered if something had happened after all. "Um, I've just been trying to find a way out but I can't. Did you try to leave any, er, notes or clues behind before coming here?"
"No," said Derek. "Too much trouble. I doubt people forgetting me will impact anyone's memory much."
Stiles blinked, then opened his mouth—
"But they're remembering you, so we should be fine," clarified Derek—he hadn't meant to cut Stiles off, but it seemed an important fact to add. The group had already been feeling all out of sorts, understandably, not to mention the sheriff, trying to figure out why their memories seemed to miss chunks of time, so he'd helped speed things along a bit before he'd come.
He didn't know what Stiles had been about to say, but Stiles stared at him with wide eyes, and then—
Such a soft, soft expression, like snow melting in the spring.
Derek’s throat went dry.
“It would impact mine a lot,” Stiles told him, quiet and rough, like a whispered confession.
He walked off to try to open more doors before Derek even processed what he’d said, but when Derek did digest the words, his stomach twisted itself into knots—he didn’t want to read too much into it, but ah, it thawed his veins from head to toe.
He wondered if Stiles forgetting him really would impact him that much or if he was just being nice, grateful for company besides Peter perhaps. The latter most likely, because quite honestly, Derek couldn’t imagine how his erased existence would affect Stiles’ memories at all, but he appreciated the sentiment nonetheless.
Even when a blazing green rift opened for Stiles not too much later with Lydia telling him that she’d always find him no matter what on the other side, save him like he always did for her, as tears dripped down her cheeks, and the three of them made it through to the middle of the school parking lot.
Peter immediately left. To find Malia, Derek assumed.
A pause. “…I can track down where Lydia is,” he said after a brief moment of hesitation. He hadn’t realized that Stiles and Lydia were so close—only exceedingly strong emotions could become a catalyst for something as remarkable as a rift.
Her words had almost sounded like a… confession.
A lot had happened after he’d left, it seemed.
Good. He was glad that Stiles had someone that he could trust and depend on through everything, and besides, hadn’t Stiles held a flame towards her for years now?
He couldn’t compete with that, even if he wanted to.
“Oh, yeah, that’d be great,” said Stiles upon seeing no one else in the parking lot after looking around. “I guess the rift landed us somewhere else.”
Derek ignored the ache that throbbed through his chest. “Looks like it,” was his bland reply.
Good thing he never did talk much.
And, as it turned out, he tracked Lydia and others’ scents to the underground not a minute after Stiles started his Jeep—“We shouldn’t meet up with them then,” said Stiles as he looked at his phone. “They’re probably hiding from the Ghost Riders. No wonder they haven’t replied yet—I don’t think the service is great down there.”
Derek didn’t know why he said it. The words left his mouth before he fully thought them through.
“…Want to get some food?” he asked, when he should’ve just left the Jeep and let Stiles catch some much-needed shuteye at home.
But….
One night. Just one night alone with Stiles, relishing in his company, like a slow dance in the dark that wouldn't mean anything more than a stroll to Stiles.
That was fine, right?
Derek fingered his necklace as he looked out the window.
He wondered if his return to Beacon Hills had only gotten in Stiles’ way.
𖤓 no longer scared of the dark ☾
“Anywhere’s fine with me.”
Stiles flashed a grin and waggled his brows. "Oh? You sure you wanna leave the choice to me?"
"Pizza or curly fries," said Derek. "Those are the options, no?"
A huff of laughter—Derek noted the way the dark circles under Stiles' eyes had worsened since he'd last been in Beacon Hills. "You know me well, huh?" teased Stiles.
Derek shrugged. "You'd know that better than me."
"Mm, true," mused Stiles as he turned a corner. "I think— Oh!"
"Hm?" Derek glanced over to see Stiles peering at his dashboard.
"The warning sign," said Stiles. "It's gone!"
"Oh, yeah, I fixed it before I went to find you," Derek told him. "Got your dad to give me the spare key. Or, uh, your fake mom."
Stiles blinked—that same wide-eyed stare that'd been aimed at him more often than not the past few days was back. "Oh."
"I returned it," Derek felt the need to add.
"Oh. I mean, I wasn't— It's fine if you—" Stiles seemed flustered for some reason. "...Thanks," he settled on in the end.
And Derek etched the silhouette of his face amidst the scarce lights into his memory, the slightly higher than usual pace of his beating heart.
"So, what about you?" asked Stiles.
Derek stared at him for a moment. "What about me?"
"The— What we were talking about before, sorry."
"...Pizza or curly fries?"
"No, no, I mean, do you think I know you well?" Stiles grimaced and scrunched his nose. "Or who do you think knows you best? That's what I meant."
"You do," said Derek. He didn't need to think about it.
The wide-eyed stare came back. "Wait, really?" Stiles kept glancing between him and the road. "You've been gone for a while, though. I was surprised every time I got a text from you, to be honest. Thought you wanted to put everything behind you."
"What, thought I'd forget you?" Derek let out a wry huff of a chuckle.
"Not exactly. Just thought, y'know, as you meet new people and move on, that we'd all fade to the back of your mind. Which is normal," added Stiles.
Derek looked out the car window, at the crescent moon above the trees.
'We.' Of course.
He didn't correct Stiles that it was only him that he dreamed of amidst his worst nightmares.
"The further away I drove, I only ever thought about you more," he mumbled more to himself than anything, chest raw and aching with the spoken admission, despite knowing Stiles would interpret it as thinking about all of them.
He cleared his throat and glanced at Stiles—the same wide-eyed stare, possibly the widest he'd seen it. "I see your eyebags are even worse now."
Stiles licked his lips, heart rate skittering, then cleared his throat as well as he pulled into an Arby's drive-thru. "Whatever's good," Derek told him, watching Stiles order to pass over his credit card before Stiles could do anything about it.
"Would've ordered more if I knew," joked Stiles after parking in the lot, burger in hand while Derek ate a curly fry.
"We can do a second drive-thru run later," said Derek.
Stiles hesitated, eyes darting his way. "We could do it another night? If you're free?"
Derek blinked in surprise. "Sure."
"Maybe one of the many nights when I can't sleep," said Stiles with a huffed laugh.
"...We can do it as many nights as you want," muttered Derek—he shoved another two fries in his mouth as if they'd muffle his hopes.
Ah, this was why he'd left. He knew Stiles deserved someone not him, someone not surrounded by death and blood and misfortune, but he couldn't help the way Stiles grew around his heart, roots and new life growing over his scars. Months later, and Stiles only anchored him more than ever in his nightmares, to the point that he sometimes woke up broken not because of the screams and pain, but because the dream of Stiles had faded along with the nightmare.
"I...." Stiles sighed, gaze far away through the windshield. "I'm so tired lately."
Derek watched the shadows across his face, deepening his dark circles and hollowing his cheeks. He knew the feeling.
"I tell myself it's because it's nightmare season, but"—Stiles breathed out another large exhale—"I don't think it is. I feel like I'm wading through mud, in the dark, going nowhere, and there's nothing except pitch black around me no matter what. And I don't— I don't know what to do. I don't know what's wrong with me."
"There's nothing wrong with you," said Derek. "You said it yourself—you're tired. Sometimes you just need a break. Or a midnight run to Arby's for curly fries."
Stiles glanced at him, eyes weary but bright, searching. "Are you volunteering to put up with me when I'm feeling extra lost and blind?"
"Just because you can't see anything in the dark doesn't mean no one or nothing's there," Derek told him, and he leaned over the middle compartment just the slightest bit to meet Stiles' gaze properly, elbow grazing against Stiles'. "And I'm no longer scared of the dark," he murmured.
'Because of you.'
"So it works out perfectly, doesn't it?"
Wide caramel eyes, a moist sheen gleaming over them.
"Yeah," breathed Stiles on a shaky exhale. He turned his head away. "I guess, while you're here. Will you be leaving after this mess is over?"
Derek studied Stiles' expression and hesitated, considering how to respond. "I don't know," he said in the end. "If I'm needed, then—"
"You're always needed," Stiles cut in, voice sharp, and likely blurted on impulse judging from the way Stiles fidgeted and added a joking, "Who else would I go on midnight runs to Arby's with?" along with a weak laugh like he usually did when embarrassed.
To say Derek found himself both surprised and content would be an understatement.
"...Then I'll stay," he said.
The street lamps glimmered off the wet luster over Stiles' eyes, sparks shining in the depths of those dark irises, as Stiles looked at him once more.
A whisper that more resembled an intake of air. "Yeah?" breathed Stiles.
And the shadow of a bittersweet smile that trembled on those thin, pink lips—it wrenched at Derek's heart.
He pressed Stiles' face to his chest before thinking it through, brushed a kiss across the top of Stiles' head. "Yeah," he whispered as Stiles' hands dug into his shirt. "It'll be okay. You'll be okay."
His fingers curled in Stiles' soft strands.
'I promise.'
"Nothing some curly fries can't fix," he teased—he earned himself a muffled snort even as he felt dampening spots on his shirt.
So his fingers curled even tighter, for as long as Stiles needed.
𖤓 can I have this dance? ☾
It was okay, just like Derek had said.
He wasn't completely okay, though—not yet.
"You should come," he'd said during one of their now regular midnight Arby's runs, like a moron, instead of what he'd planned to say. "You never attended senior prom, right? Oh, but I guess you left your initials."
"You sure it was mine?" Derek had asked. "There are a lot of D.H.'s out there."
"But it was your handwriting."
Derek looked at him in surprise, curly fry pausing midair. "You recognized my handwriting? What did you do, study those bookshelves?"
"Wha— No," spluttered Stiles. "It was obvious. It was right there in front of my face when I went to sign my initials."
The gentle light in Derek's eyes, only further warmed by the tinges of amber that stood out amidst his silver green eyes under the bright parking lot lamps—it never failed to start Stiles' heart like a car coming back to life after years of disuse.
"If you say so," murmured Derek, a small, rare smile lifting the corners of his lips. "But I think it'd be strange for me to just show up to your senior prom when I haven't been a senior for, what, three years now?"
"Why would it be strange if you're coming with me?"
Derek blinked—Stiles belatedly realized he hadn't even asked Derek to go with him. He'd just said, 'You should come.'
God, he was a fucking idiot.
"Oh," said Derek. He looked a bit bewildered. "Well, sure, if you're okay with that, but you don't want to ask anyone else? It is your senior prom."
"Like who?"
Derek rubbed the back of his neck. "Mm, I don't know, like Lydia?"
"She's going with Malia," Stiles told him.
Derek's brows furrowed. "Weren't Malia and Scott...?"
"Fuck if I know," said Stiles with a shrug. "Felt like there was something weird going on for a hot second, right? But Kira's mom and Scott are dragging Theo to the desert trying to get Kira out—hopefully in time for prom, apparently. I guess it turned out he might have a solution for her kitsune going bonkers?"
Derek made a noncommittal noise, so Stiles forged on to add, "I'll pick you up at 6:30 p.m. then," before Derek changed his mind.
He didn't know why Derek looked surprised.
After all, he hadn't even properly asked him to go with him to begin with—not as friends or whatever this had turned into, but as his....
His date.
Nothing about him had ever been simple. He knew that. He knew he tended to overthink and repress and mull and spiral, but Derek coming back to Beacon Hills, somehow knowing him as natural as breathing like always despite the fact that his existence had been erased, finding him, letting him get tears on his shirt, staying by his side like there was nowhere else he'd rather be—it didn't matter if this didn't work out, and it didn't matter if Derek didn't feel the same way.
Every small thing felt as if it washed the mud off him until he no longer sludged but walked light as ever, with Derek's warmth suffusing his chest. The way Derek remembered his favorite foods, the way Derek took care of his Jeep like habit, the way Derek fidgeted with that talisman he'd given him before he left as if rubbing it for luck, courage—he'd never imagined that Derek would wear it around his neck like that, never taking it off.
And the way Derek looked at him sometimes, yearning and tender and so fond he choked up, and the veiled words he murmured aloud that felt more like confessions—
Stiles knew, no matter what, that he would never regret any of this.
Of course, that only applied if he actually got his shit together and expressed a fraction of said feelings in some fashion.
He'd planned to say something when he picked Derek up in his Jeep, but Derek had come out in a tailored all-black suit that somehow perfectly fit his sculpted body like a glove, not too tight yet not too loose, wearing only one accessory that topped off the look to another level—that silver necklace chain and locket talisman with a triskelion surrounded by a Celtic border etched on the cover that dangled like a centerpiece on his broad chest.
Stiles had lost his ability to speak, to say the least.
By the time he'd managed to splutter anything out, they'd nearly reached the school, and it hadn't helped that Derek had tucked a small sprig of white hawthorn flowers into Stiles' front suit pocket in place of a boutonnière and complimented his outfit with one of those tiny, heartstopping smiles as soon as he saw him.
Stiles tried hard not to think about what that meant. Maybe it was thanks for the talisman, since he'd used hawthorn as one of the ingredients for protection, or maybe Derek had simply chosen due to its significance in paganism and magic—the other meanings behind it didn't necessarily apply.
The pale yellow primrose he stuck in Derek's suit pocket when they arrived at the school held similar meanings.
Sort of. Except maybe sappier.
Derek, for better or worse, did not question his choice of flower, which he appreciated because he would not be able to explain why he'd given a flower that had meant 'I can't live without you' in the Victorian era and symbolized Freyja, the Norse goddess of love, magic, and many other things, among a plethora of even more various implicating meanings, without self-combusting at the moment.
He kept wiping his hands on his pants to prevent them from getting clammy even though he'd never been the type to get clammy hands when nervous. Better safe than sorry, he figured, but holy mother of god, why did Derek have to look so... good all the time and why did he have to be so awkward and why did Lydia, Scott, and Kira—(why Kira too?)—have to keep giving him looks across the gymnasium that screamed something along the lines of pitying grimaces and 'you didn't properly invite him here, did you?' and 'get a fucking move on already'?
None of which he could argue against because he and Derek just stood there next to the snacks table like NPCs.
"You can go talk to her if you want," said Derek amidst one of Lydia's impatient head nods to 'fucking ask him now' as he munched on peanuts.
...God, Stiles was a horrible date. Or prom friend. Or whatever Derek thought this was.
He'd bored Derek to the point of just standing there munching on peanuts, for fuck's sake.
Somehow, he couldn't get the words he'd replayed in his head over and over and over again past his throat—
'Can I have this dance?'
...No, that sounded too formal and stilted, especially from him.
But he couldn't just ask 'Wanna dance?' because the meaning wouldn't get across then and Derek would just think he was asking as a friend.
Derek leaned over to peer at his face, and Stiles stumbled back in surprise.
"You alright?" asked Derek. "You can go talk to your friends. I'm not the most exciting plus one, and I'm kind of hungry anyway."
An aching sort of yearning filled Stiles' chest, tinged with guilt. "No, that's not— I'm the one who—"
"...Lydia keeps glancing your way," Derek told him. "I think she wants a dance. Not sure how much of a wingman I can be, but knowing you, you're overthinking it."
Stiles blinked, then stared at Derek as realization dawned on him.
Dread froze his body.
"Did— Did you think I asked you to come to be my wingman?" Stiles managed to breathe out.
Mild concern creased Derek's face. "I'm not exactly wingman material, so no. But I can try. I know you've had a crush on her for a while, and you two seemed—" He cut off, and Stiles almost didn't catch the shadow that flitted over his expression. "Are you sure you're okay? Did something happen?"
"No, I'm—" Stiles struggled to breathe—god, he'd really fucked up. All this time, with how much Derek's very presence cleansed the mud that'd been plaguing him with ease, soothing him in waves of steady, wordless warmth, he'd thought he'd at least expressed how much he appreciated him. He...He felt so much for him, so much that he couldn't begin to put it in words, and he yearned for him to the point of suffocating, and yet Derek— Derek thought...?
He swallowed and ducked his head to hide his stinging eyes as he grabbed Derek's sleeve.
"Dance," he whispered, barely audible lest his voice crack. "Wanna dance?"
Normally it'd be impossible for anyone to hear him over the loud music and chatter, but he knew Derek could. Strong arms wrapped around his waist and Stiles buried his face in Derek's shoulder as he looped his own arms around Derek's neck.
As if on cue, the pop music cut off into a slow song, a ballad, and Stiles' face heated—he held no doubt that one of his friends had made that switch. 'When are you going to make a move?' they'd all whispered something along the lines of to him at some inopportune time or another, like when they ran around trying to stop overpowered Ghost Riders without getting erased or dying in the process—even Malia mentioned it to him, which meant he must've been mortifyingly obvious.
Well, not obvious enough, clearly.
His arms tightened around Derek's neck. He inhaled Derek's clean but rich scent, deep dark musk mixed with forest trees, leather, spices, and citrus—he didn't think he'd ever get enough of the addictingly warm smell. It heated his body, slowly pushing aside the heat of embarrassment from simultaneously nearly crying and not explaining a single thing, so now they just stood here in each other's arms swaying to the music because Derek was nice enough to just dance with him and not ask questions.
Stiles finally lifted his face, nose nearly grazing Derek's cheek as he tried to peek at Derek's face.
Derek glanced at him, silver green eyes glimmering like moonlight through the forest canopy—Stiles' breath caught.
"You smell good," was not what Stiles expected Derek to say. "Trying new colognes?"
"Yeah? I— I thought you'd like it," he blurted before his mind caught up with his mouth, "'cause you like tea and forests and you always smell like this really delicious dark musk and—"
His face went up in flames.
Fucking hell, he sounded like a babbling moron and probably pathetically head over heels and this really wasn't how he'd wanted to express himself but he supposed it was spades better than Derek thinking he'd asked him to come to be his wingman and oh god, Derek was staring at him with eyes as wide as saucers and—
Only a ceiling draped in string lights lit the dim room, but even then, Stiles could see the color that spread across Derek's face, especially on the edges of his ears, and Derek's arms around his waist pressed him even closer, if that was possible.
"You wore this for me?" asked Derek, barely a whisper. His breath brushed hot against Stiles' cheek, and Stiles gasped for air.
"I— I wanted to ask you to dance," he said, just as quiet, though he belatedly realized that he didn't really answer Derek's question nor make much sense. "But I kinda did a poor job."
Derek exhaled a small, disbelieving chuckle. "Are you sure you want me? You could dance with anyone."
Stiles leaned his head back just enough to look Derek in the eyes, their lips a mere inch apart. "You're all I've wanted," he breathed more than spoke, the confession cracking his voice, "for a long, long time."
And then he closed the distance.
Just a brush at first, barely there, then shy, awkward caresses of Derek's lips, until Derek deepened the kiss with a soul-rousing growl that felt so right, and a switch flipped on in both of them.
"Derek," gasped Stiles between ragged, open-mouthed kisses, all tongue and need, hips still swaying to the slow beat except against each other now. His hands buried in Derek's hair, moving down his back and clutching at his ass—Derek groaned, but his fingers danced along the waistband of Stiles' trousers, never quite traveling any further down.
The sharp bark of Coach shouting "Stilinski!" across the dance floor was all the catalyst Stiles needed. He laughed into Derek's mouth and only laughed even harder when he saw Coach trying to wade through the crowd to him with a thunderous look on his face as Scott and them stood to the side stifling their laughter—he tugged Derek's arm to escape the gym before Coach could reach them and lecture him for grabbing Derek's ass in broad dancefloor light, because he really had no excuse except that Derek's ass looked like a fucking peach in those tailored trousers and felt even better.
He didn't know where they ended up. Some random, dark, empty classroom with a wall of windows that Stiles greatly appreciated, especially when he nearly creamed his boxers just watching Derek stand over him impatiently loosening his collar, licking his lips still wet from Stiles' kisses and his other hand unzipping Stiles' fly to palm his leaking bulge before pressing him back down on the desk with rough, sloppy kisses.
Stiles rutted up against Derek, desperate for more. He wrapped his legs around Derek’s waist and fondled his fill of Derek’s firm, embattled body until Derek crooked a finger inside him at just the right spot—he could only clutch at Derek’s arms and shoulders for dear life as he shook with moans after that.
Raw and intimate, divine and dirty. His body arched against the cool wooden surface, neck bared, as they completed each other, swallowing each other's noises of pleasure as Derek filled him up so desperately that the desk shook and shook until it cracked in half. Stiles laughed as they nearly stumbled, though a tingle jolted up his spine at the ease Derek held him up with as if there'd been no need for the desk to begin with, until Derek fucked the laughs into whimpered praises for more against the wall, reaching even deeper inside than before.
Maybe it was the blissful cloud nine lifting his soul, or maybe it was the pulsing heat of Derek's body all around him, inside him, but he wanted to cry. Maybe it was how Derek's eyes on him gleamed molten silver in the shadowy room lit only by the moon through the windows, glowing as the scarlet lava of his alpha spark seeped through in sparks, all because of him, and how that intense, almost reverent gaze brought to the forefront what Derek felt like to him—
His own personal liquid sun and moonlight combined in one, shimmering like a soft, steady beacon in the dark.
Derek kissed his tears away, but his vision only blurred even more around the edges when he saw the unshed emotion glinting in a wet sheen over Derek's eyes, just as heavy and overwhelming and yearning.
"...If you leave again"—Stiles brushed his fingers along Derek's cheekbone, voice a whisper—"I'm coming with you."
A small, tender smile. Derek slumped even more against him from where they'd collapsed on the floor against the wall in an entangled but comfortable mass. "Yeah," Derek replied, pensive, then paused. "I'll make sure your wings don't burn," he said, so quiet he must've meant it as a promise towards himself.
Stiles let out a snort. "I'm not an idiot like Icarus. My wings aren't made of wax."
Derek blinked in surprise for some reason—his mouth open and closed before finally saying, light and disbelieving, "Are you trying to say I'm the sun in your metaphor?"
"You're the one who said it first," said Stiles, confused.
"Hm? Ah, I was referring to moths and flame," mused Derek.
Stiles pondered on it for a bit. "I guess both work. But I like my metaphor more. Either way, my wings are made of tougher stuff."
"I'm sure Icarus sounds more appealing than a moth," said Derek with a soft snort. "But a sun doesn't suit me, don't you think?"
"But you are my sun," said Stiles quite bluntly—he didn't quite register how absolutely sappy he sounded until he saw the way Derek's eyes widened, glistening, cheeks tinging a deep red, and Stiles' face went up in flames.
"Well, I mean," babbled Stiles, trying to salvage the situation even though he didn't know what he was salvaging, "it's kinda a combo 'cause you're my moon too, so uh, I just mean, y'know, it suits you more than you think, 'cause you're really...really amazing and stuff...."
He trailed off in triple his original embarrassment.
"I'm just going to shut up now," he muttered—the only reason he didn't hide in his face in complete mortification was because the rich sound and rare sight of Derek laughing so light and happy and genuine made him shiver in delight.
"What're your wings made of, then?" asked Derek with a cough and clear of his throat in between his peppered kisses on Stiles' hot face, laughter fading.
Stiles smiled, soft and content and complete in Derek's arms like this, and the whispered words he didn't need even a second to think about had Derek's cheeks reddening, brows pulling closer together, and eyes near overflowing, as if on the verge of crying.
"They're made of you, of course."