Fuck. You.

Fuck. You.

Fuck. You.

"Stiles, wait-"

"I can't believe this." Stiles exhales a long, disappointed breath that doesn't sound like second chances and escapes upstairs, stepping over Derek on the floor and practically running up the steps.

Derek just sits, stuck dumb, at the base of the armchair, his ass going numb from the floor, his mind echoing with Stiles' words. He's ruined everything. He should have just listened to the voice in his head urging caution, he shouldn't have rocked the boat, they had a good thing going, and Derek wrecked it for what? For the chance to kiss Stiles on the lips? For sex?

Well, no. For the guilt that grows in Derek every time he calls up another white lie, faking platonic love, pretending that he doesn't ache for Stiles' presence every night they sleep in separate rooms. For the slight chance that Stiles might feel the same, and stay.

But he doesn't. He just. Doesn't. Stiles absolutely, 100%, is not in love with Derek. The way he fled from the room with a face like stone is clue enough.

He should have known it would end like this, that of course Stiles wouldn't want him, Stiles is meant for someone who can be happy and carefree, someone who can keep up with his sense of humor, someone who hasn't lurked in the shadow of his life for years, gobbling up whatever affection Stiles sends his way like a greedy bridge troll.

Gingerly, because his bones feel as though they're made of clay, Derek levers himself into the armchair and rests his head in his hands, bends double over his knees. How will they ever get back to normal after this? Stiles must be disgusted by how long Derek has been lying to him, horrified by the idea of Derek, soot-stained, moody Derek, daring to think of Stiles like that. Derek kneads at his eyes. Stiles is perfect, how could Derek have ever thought that Stiles would feel the same way about someone like him?

Footsteps sound on the stairs behind him, and Derek's head jerks up. He'd thought that Stiles would sequester himself upstairs for at least the rest of the night, but maybe now he can apologize, tell Stiles that it's alright, he'll crush it, he'll crush the feelings down, he has been for years anyway, they can go right back to the way they were before.

Stiles appears on the stairs, and Derek opens his mouth to speak.

Then closes it abruptly.

Stiles is carrying a box.

He was all unpacked, he'd moved in, what's he doing carrying a box that's clearly heavy with contents outside to his car?

Derek knows why, but he wants to pretend that he hasn't a clue know why Stiles, stone-faced and silent, is carrying a box back out to his car.

He remembers a red polka dotted mug smashed across the kitchen floor, the certainty that he couldn't fix it, that it was beyond repair, no going back. Derek had just thrown the mug away then, but this is much worse than a mug, this is his soulmate packing up boxes and walking out the door.

The second box that Stiles takes outside is bigger, one of the ones that Derek had carried for him on the way to the house. He staggers under the weight, but Derek knows his help wouldn't be welcome, so he lets Stiles shoulder his way awkwardly out the front door, kick it closed with so much force that the sombrero hanging over it swings from the nail it hangs from.

Derek wonders if Stiles will take the sombrero with him. He probably will, he loves the thing and all of its vivid pinkness. For all of Derek's faults, he does know how to buy Stiles a present. Even if he chickened out and never presented it to Stiles officially.

After Stiles storms back upstairs, (for another box, but Derek doesn't want to think about that,) Derek delicately unhooks the sombrero from the wall and cradles it between his hands. He remembers the occasions when Stiles would take it down himself and parade around the apartment with it, dancing an inept but endearing cha-cha; flipping it into the air and trying to land it on his head again; shaking invisible maracas.

At the very least, bar everything else, Derek got that much right. He was good to Stiles. He'd like to think that Stiles was happy before Derek screwed it all up. After all, they did have fun: Stiles' innumerable fits of laughter and smiles over the years couldn't all have been faked for politeness's sake. All those movies watched, conversations had, nights slept in the same blankets, hugs shared, that was something. They had that.

Derek's thumb drifts over the brim of the hat. They had that. Stiles hadn't hated him before today. Stiles was his best friend before five words messed it all up. He lets himself revel in that small light of comfort before one niggling question tunnels in through his skull and invades his brain:

If he and Stiles are such good friends, then why was Stiles' reaction to Derek's confession so... vehement? Derek isn't surprised that Stiles doesn't feel the same flooding love that took over Derek's life five years ago, but he is surprised that instead of letting Derek down gently, Stiles reacted as though Derek had peed on his father.

Trying not to let panic over Stiles packing boxes upstairs overtake him, Derek reviews the facts:

Derek is good at being friends with Stiles.

Derek is good at taking care of Stiles.

Derek is good at being kind to Stiles.

Derek is bad at is talking with Stiles about feelings.

And if there had just been a miscommunication... breathing in shakily, Derek allows himself to imagine the impossible for just a moment, just a second. Would it be so absurd for Stiles to care about him at least a little? Maybe he, Derek, isn't actually the worst possible match for Stiles.

No, Derek thinks as his train of thought speeds off the rails, he isn't the worst possible option. There's a reason that Stiles' father thinks that he and Stiles are dating. There's a reason that all strangers think that he and Stiles are dating. Derek isn't young and unbroken like all the eligible boys at The Jungle, or the girls in the dorms at UBH, but he does whatever he can to make Stiles' life better; it's not madness to think that Stiles might care back.

Stiles picks that moment to trample down the stairs with box number three. He's been crying, and Derek can't stand it.

"I bought this for you," he blurts, holding out the sombrero. It is absolutely the most unhelpful thing he can say in this situation, but there it is.

Adjusting the box in his arms, Stiles looks dubiously at the hat. "That's been here for years," he points out. It's almost like his normal argumentative self, if it weren't for the defeated slackness in his voice. He takes another step towards the door and Derek darts forward, following Stiles as he walks out to the car.

"No, I mean, I saw it in a shop in Colombia and I knew you would love it, so I bought it even though it was expensive and so pink/em. Then I thought it was too big of a gesture and never gave it to you officially. I always felt bad about that, because I gave souvenirs to the rest of the pack."

Dropping the box heavily into the jeep's trunk, Stiles breathes out, not looking at Derek, "I appreciate it, Derek, but you really, really aren't helping."

Seeing bait, Derek leaps at it. "Not helping with what?"

"This!" Stiles explodes, gesturing wildly at the jeep's growing stock of boxes. "It's better for both of us if I just go, you don't need to make it harder."

"I want to make it harder!" Derek winces internally at the phrasing. "Stiles, I don't want you to leave, I don't understand why you're leaving and I- I-" acting on impulse, he steps in front of the jeep's open trunk, arms stretched out wide, blocking entry. "I won't let you go until you tell me why you're going."

Stiles glares at him through red tinged eyes. "Don't make me say it."

Derek throws his arms up in exasperation. "Say what?"

"You know!"

"No I don't!" Derek replies emphatically.

Stiles heaves in a jagged breath, meets Derek's gaze with eyes that carry a pain that Derek can pinpoint exactly- he knows what it feels like. Stiles begins, hands clenched at his sides, "I-"

"You love me," Derek finishes for him, astounded. How long has this been going on? How long has Stiles been feeling the pain that's displayed so openly on his face now?

Derek knows that anguished look because he's felt it himself on many an occasion. But now, now he can make it go away. "Stiles-"

"Just don't, Derek!" Stiles cuts him off, rearranging stuff in the boxes that don't have to be rearranged. "I don't need you to- to say it again."

"But-" Derek reaches a hand out for Stiles' shoulder, and Stiles flinches away, "but I don't see where the problem is. I love you" it feels like a weight off of his shoulders to say it, "and if you, somehow-"

Stiles groans in frustration, pushing his palms into his temples like he wants to squish his brain into a different shape. "Derek, you're my best friend, so I can't let you do this to yourself, okay, you're the best person I know besides my dad, and I know you're trying to help, but I can't- I can't let you settle, okay?"

"What?" Derek asks in genuine confusion. If anybody would be settling, it would be Stiles.

"Let me finish! You want me to talk, I'll talk, okay? Okay. Oh my god," Stiles bounces up and down, "I can't believe- okay. So I know you care about me, but trying to make me feel better about being, just, grossly in love with you by just saying you're in love with me doesn't help anybody. I can't handle you acting like your feelings aren't important too, and I really can't handle the idea of you, what, faking your way through a relationship with me just because you feel bad that I got hurt this afternoon. That's just- nobody is happy there, Derek, and I don't like that you think that I could be. So I'm going to go back to my dad's for a while." Stiles rubs a thumb over the rim of one of the boxes. "That would probably be better."

"Stiles, I-" Derek reaches for Stiles' shoulder again, and doesn't let himself be rebuffed by Stiles' squirming. "No, come here, please, Stiles, please." He leans their foreheads together. Stiles' eyes dart away from his, but Derek needs to at least have him close, so he can correct Stiles' stupid, stupid idea. "I do love you. I really do. I'm not just saying that, I didn't know you felt this way until just now."

"I don't think you get it Derek," Stiles snaps, "when we were at that convention, the incubus came to me too. Did you know that? And the one person, the one 'irresistibly attractive person' he showed up disguised as was you. This isn't just a crush because I think you're nice."

Derek laughs. He can't help it. "I don't think you get it, Stiles. You, you're my," say it, you can finally say it, that one word that's been brewing in you for years, "my soulmate."

"Bullshit."

"Stiles."

"No!" Stiles pulls back, staggers awkwardly to the jeep where he can sit on the bumper. "Paige is your soulmate, I know that, do you think I forget everything?"

"I made her up!" Derek finally admits, half laughing with the relief of it. "Well, not her, but she was never my soulmate Stiles. I pretended she was so that you wouldn't get suspicious."

Stiles gulps. Shifts in his seat. Glances up at Derek then back to his own feet. "Really."

"Yes, really."

"Like, if I grabbed this bundle of sage right now," Stiles asks, fumbling a hand around in one of the boxes, all hard edged stubbornness, "and put a mind meld spell on us, your brain would tell me that Paige was never your soulmate."

"Yes!" Derek falls to his ass in front of Stiles, gripping Stiles' knees. They're so close, they almost have it figured out, if only Stiles would believe him. "Stiles Stilinski," he enunciates carefully, "I have been in love with you since I saw you in the woods and my heart gave me a jolt."

And finally, finally, Stiles believes him. He lets out a noise somewhere between a sob and a laugh, and sinks off of the jeep's bumper into Derek's lap. Derek wraps his arms around Stiles' back and revels in being allowed to pull Stiles' lithe body flush against his chest and tuck his nose into Stiles' hair without pretending he's only doing it because they're friends. Stiles sniffs wetly against Derek's shoulder, which calls Derek's attention to the fact that his eyes are wet too, and making little dark circles appear on the fabric of Stiles' shirt. Taking his cue from Stiles, Derek buries his face in Stiles' shoulder, smothering the tears and breathing in Stiles' scent. Stiles reacts by wrapping his legs around Derek's waist, prompting a battle of escalation wherein each of them tries to curl closer to the other. It's the best battle Derek has ever fought in.

"I can't believe we're here," Stiles mumbles into Derek's neck, tightening his arms around Derek's ribs. "I can't believe 'here' is on the driveway next to my car."

Derek laughs into Stiles' shoulder. He can hardly believe they're here either, pressed together, Stiles loving him more than Derek had thought possible even in his most far-fetched daydreams.

"Wait!" Stiles exclaims, head jerking up from its love drunk stupor. "I can kiss you now! Is that cool, can I kiss you, could I just, um," he barely has to turn his head for their lips to meet, warm and reassuring.

Their faces are still humid from crying, but Derek couldn't care less, because up until an hour ago, he had been certain he would never kiss Stiles again, and now here Stiles is, shifting in Derek's lap, pulling Derek's lower lip into his mouth, pulling back to breathe against Derek's cheek before eagerly moving back in again. These are the single most glorious moments of Derek's life so far.

Eventually, the kissing fades out and they're just holding each other again. Derek doesn't want to move, and from the way Stiles is leaning against him, neither does Stiles.

Then, quite unexpectedly, Stiles giggles, vibrating in Derek's hold.

Derek makes an inquiring noise and strokes his thumb over Stiles' back.

"I just wish that the me of like, last year could see me now. Like, I would be lording it over him so much. Or maybe just be giving him words of encouragement. I dunno. Really, time travel is scientifically impossible, so it isn't relevant. I'm just glad to be here."

"I'm glad you're here too." Derek kisses the top of Stiles' head and shivers at the thrill of excitement it sends through him. It feels different from the times he's kissed Stiles' hair before, probably because Stiles hums against him and tips his face up for a kiss full on the mouth. "I'm glad I'm here."

Stiles grins, kisses him again. "I love you. Can I just keep saying it? I'm going to keep saying it, oh my god, it's so nice to just say 'I love you!' and not freak out. I love you I love you I love you."

"I love you too." one two three four five six seven eight nine ten

"Can I sleep in your bed tonight?" Stiles blurts out. "Uh, I mean, we don't have to have sex or anything if you don't want to move so fast, I just want to be near you, you know, if that's cool."

Derek kisses Stiles again. It stops Stiles' talking, if not his worrying. "It's cool."

"Okay. Good. I don't want you to feel like there's pressure or something now that we've, that we're..." Stiles gestures between the two of them. "Whatever. Like, I don't want to be clingy or anything."

"Stiles." Derek opens his mouth, but can't think of any way to say be as clingy as you want, I'll cling right back other than, "is the offer of that... 'mindmeld spell' still open?"

Stiles raises an eyebrow. "I guess, yeah."

"Then do it," Derek instructs him. "I don't want a misunderstanding getting between us again. I need you to know."

"Are you sure? It's kind of invasive," Stiles hedges. "There might be things you want to keep to yourself."

Derek looks at his soulmate, perched in his lap and still not certain of how dear he is to Derek, and says, "yes."

Swallowing, Stiles answers, "okay. Okay. If we're doing this, we gotta do it both ways. For fairness' sake."

"You don't have to-"

"Yeah I think I do." Stiles gets up, starts rummaging around in the trunk for sage. "I wanna do this right." He slams the trunk closed, bundle of sage in hand. "I think we could be something really great if we do this right."

Derek presses in for another kiss before Stiles lights the sage and his lips start moving around latin words.

XXXXX

You can't believe that Scott didn't figure out that he'd been bitten by a werewolf. Really, you're told for years in Health class what the signs are, what authorities to turn to, how to manage your new abilities, and Scott just thinks that those vitamins he was taking were more effective than he thought. Some random hot guy in the woods has to figure it out, and even then, Scott needs some convincing.

You don't know what to do with him sometimes, you really don't. At least werewolf dude––Derek, his name is Derek Hale, you remember, from the night your dad came home and didn't sleep the whole night, was still sitting at the kitchen table when you came down for cheerios the next morning––has an idea of what it's like being a werewolf, even if he gives Scott unhelpful, born werewolf type advice like "try to find your inner wolf."

Still, you hope he sticks around. You and Scott sure as hell don't know what you're doing. Then again, you think that Derek might not know what he's doing either, but in more of a "doesn't know what he's doing with his life" way rather than a "doesn't know how being a werewolf works" sort of way.

Speaking of doesn't know what he's doing with his life, apparently Derek is the sort of guy who just gets shot and shows up in a school parking lot instead of calling an ambulance like a regular person. He seems pretty delirious, but delirium is no excuse for giving you a heart attack after seventh period. You realize Derek is not on top of his shit in like seven different ways. He shudders in your arms when you give him a "good thing you aren't dead" hug like it's the first time anybody has touched him nicely in years. He has a breakdown on your couch after he had to kill the last living member of his family.

The leather jacket and stubble shtick isn't as intimidating any more. You wonder if maybe Derek is just as insecure as you are. Sure, he doesn't wonder about next week's Chemistry test or whether Lydia Martin really meant it when she said that you were a mosquito that just buzzes around and feeds off of her energy, but you must both wonder about the future. You must both wonder if you can become the person you want to be.

You and Scott play video games and hang out and go to the movies like always, but after a while you start to feel guilty for leaving Derek out. It's stopped feeling like its Youandscott, and started feeling like Youandscottandderek. You feel like you're deliberately excluding him when you just hang out with Scott.

Besides, Derek's apartment is cool. It's small, but Derek owns it. Like he's a real adult with a real apartment and everything. You and Scott can come over and eat pizza late into the night without Mrs. McCall poking her head in and saying food so close to bedtime will make it impossible to sleep. She's right, but you gobble down the pizza anyway. You hang out at Derek's now, that's a thing you do. You feel infinitely cool when you can say in front of Jackson: oh we're just going to hang out at our friend's apartment tonight. It's a pretty cool bachelor pad type place.

Scott doesn't always come with you to Derek's. Mostly because he has a girlfriend now, but also because he doesn't see why Derek needs their company. Scott has never seen Derek cry on the couch in his living room. It's alright. You and Derek aren't as awkward together as you should be. Derek, loathe as you are to admit it, is like Batman: quiet, solitary, a little mysterious, and wearing all black, of course. You are like the sidekick on a late night talk show: loud, clamoring for attention, backed by a loud brass band. But you two do alright. You think it's probably because you remind him of a little brother. Sometime you feel like it. Naive in the face of everything he's seen, young compared to Derek's real life adulthood, filled with a weird need to impress him even though you never try to impress anybody.

Sometimes you worry about Scott. More to the point, you worry about your relationship with Scott. For so long, it was just the two of you, and that was all the two of you ever needed. Now he spends every waking moment either with Allison or talking about her, like she's an oxygen tank that Scott needs constant connection to. You used to be that oxygen tank, and now you aren't. It'll probably blow over, you tell yourself, high school relationships don't last, you tell yourself, but you're still alone every night with nobody to text or Skype with, no matter how much you try to reassure yourself.

So you go to Derek's more. He never complains, which you figure is his weird way of saying he likes you coming over. He's lonely, you're lonely, it's a match made in heaven. So you ask him to tutor you. You even sort of need it, considering how Ms. June has it out for you. Derek agrees to it too quickly. You wonder if he spends every hour of every week alone in that apartment.

Your history grade goes up, Scott is still dating Allison, you play World of Warcraft, you dogsit for some of the deputies, and Lydia still thinks you're the scummiest piece of excrement to ever sprout legs and walk the earth. Life goes on. You get closer to graduation every day.

You realize that Isaac Lahey has a few more problems in his life than hormones and homework. Once you finally put your finger on it, you go to your dad, of course, who gets up from the dinner table the minute you tell him and starts putting on his uniform. Your dad is the best man you know. Dad gets the legal stuff started right away, but you worry about Isaac. Where's he going to go? The foster system?

Then it's Tuesday again, and Derek is oh so gently taking the textbook from you and explaining that no, 'muckraker' was initially a derogatory term for journalists looking to expose corruption, but then the journalists took the term back. It's actually a common theme throughout american history, no, no, there's no way you could have known that. You're doing well, let's go back to political machines and Boss Tweed, and you get an idea. Because Derek's just that kind of guy. He would rather do something unthinkable like talk about his feelings than admit it, but he's a softie at heart.

He's the kind of guy who will bring an abused teenager he barely knows into the fold without a second thought, then do it again two more times for Erica and Boyd. He's the kind of guy who will tell you that if a girl treats you like shit, don't keep trying to impress her, you're better than that. He's the kind of guy who has been beaten down and abused more than Stiles can even fathom, but still greets you with a smile and asks if you want some earl gray maybe. He's the kind of guy who will eat your terrible Polish cabbage dish because nobody else will. He's the kind of guy who has a mint in life insurance money but still uses a laptop from the 90s because he bought it with his sister.

You think that everybody could do well by being a little more like Derek.

You tell Scott this, but he just looks at you, confused, and says that Derek is the grumpiest guy he knows.

You think that if the Lydia Plan doesn't work out, you could do well by finding a girl like Derek.

You don't tell Scott this.

Derek's sister is alive. You wonder if she's anything like Derek. If Derek would find it weird if you dated his little sister. It probably wouldn't be a good idea. You know Derek would be crazy protective of her. He must think of her as nothing short of a miracle, and friends don't go around dating friends' miracles.

After Derek flies off to exotic South America, you and the pack have dinner at Scott's house instead of Derek's apartment. You all wonder what she'll be like, how Derek will be different. Erica makes a comment about it hopefully cheering Derek up a bit, and you don't know what she's talking about. Derek's plenty cheerful.

Then you just.

You.

You burn the nogitsune out.

You burn. Him. Out.

This is your body, there was only meant to be one person in it.

Apparently you're a spark. It explains some things. Deaton and Belinda explain it to you, and you like the idea. You like the idea of being able to protect yourself. For your own sake, and for the sake of the expression on your dad's face, on the pack's faces ––Derek must not be back yet–– when you wake up. You agree to training with Deaton and Belinda, and then you say you want to go home.

Dad gets called out for some emergency, so Scott drives you home. He apologizes for not noticing earlier that something was wrong, thank god Derek did, and you ask, wait, Derek is back? Scott does some explaining. You make him swing by Derek's on the way home.

Cora, a stone wall of a girl, meets you in the hallway. She's not like Derek at all, from the softness of her jawline to the firm way she tells you to not make Derek talk if he doesn't want to, and that she hopes you aren't anything like the nogitsune. The nogitsune wasn't kind to Derek, she says, and your stomach twists with guilt again.

You talk at Derek through his apartment door, and you feel weird about not seeing him. It's been two weeks since you've seen the guy, and you realize that's the longest stretch of time you've gone without seeing him in months. So when Deaton calls and offers you a chance to observe your first spell reversal the next morning, you leap at the chance for more than one reason.

Then... well... you sort of fall in love with Isaac. Everybody keeps telling you that it's just because of a spell, but you can't believe that. Spell or not, Isaac is the most amazing person you've ever met or will ever meet. He's gorgeous, and perfect for you, you know it. Everything he says is hilarious, and you don't know how you ever missed the fact that he has no flaws.

Then... well... you sort of fall out of love with Isaac. You feel weird about it, and at first you think it's just because it's an awkward situation for anybody, but then you have trouble sleeping, and you keep spacing out in class, remembering that it's been weeks since you've been in control of your own body, how much longer until you lose it again? And you can't bring it up with Scott, or your dad, because you've tried, and they just start apologizing about not realizing you were possessed, then the whole conversation gets off track.

It makes a lot of sense to just go to Derek. He's your alpha, after all, an older brother figure––no, that sounds weird–– he's a trusted adult? He's your friend. He's your friend, and if anybody knows what it's like to have your life spin out of your control, it's Derek. God, you haven't dealt with anything compared to what Derek's been through.

He doesn't act like it, though. He reassures you, doesn't make you feel like an idiot for complaining about something that wasn't your fault, for complaining about what should be a comedic story about the miscasting of a spell. He lets you feel bad, tells you it isn't weird to feel bad. Then he changes the subject. It's just what you needed.

You wonder what would have happened if you'd seen him first when the love spell was cast. Sometimes you swear you have sense memory of sitting in his lap, but you don't know where that would have come from, besides the- you don't dwell on that.

You never freaked out about the spell making you fall in love with a guy, and that's food for thought, especially considering that Lydia- well, you aren't so sure that Lydia is a good idea anymore. When people ask you why you love her, you never produce anything better than the reasons you loved Isaac. And those weren't reasons at all.

Which doesn't mean you've given up on love. It's senior year, that's when people always find The One in movies. Maybe your life isn't a movie, but you figure that you're due for a little John Hughes/coming of age story action by now. There are plenty of girls in your classes who wouldn't be bad at all.

You don't ask any of them out. You can never work up the nerve, and even if you could, you don't know any girls well enough to ask out besides Erica and Cora, who are terrifying and untouchable. You decide that college will be the time you find somebody. People always find The One in college. Your parents met in college.

College dominates your life in general, because that's what it does senior year of high school. You've always known you were going to go to UBH, you're a Beacon Hills boy down to the bone, and you can't leave Dad, but College Drama surges around you for months. People needing somebody to read their personal essay, charts comparing average gpas accepted, facebook groups where students post where they'll be going, counselors hounding you about letters of rec, transcripts to send, college sweatshirts crowding the hallways as May approaches.

You're excited about UBH. College was the best years of everybody's life, apparently. You just aren't sure about living on campus. It's expensive, and you have a house a half an hour away for god's sakes. And the roommate horror stories you've read online have gotten to you. But you can't live at your Dad's house all through college, come on now.

The solution is standing right in front of you, you realize, when you overhear Isaac talking about moving out of Derek's and up north. You picture hanging out with Derek, late nights and popcorn, Derek semi-ironically calling you "roomie" and it's decided.

Living at Derek's is fantastic. Okay, there's more pressure to do your own dishes, and you have to chip in for rent (although you know for a fact that Derek is grossly undercharging you,) but otherwise it's fantastic. It's a bro-pad. Sometimes you guys just chill, and sometimes you play Settlers of Catan or whatever, but either way, it's nice. You definitely wouldn't feel as comfortable in a dorm. You wouldn't be able to just say "fuck it" and walk naked to the shower in a dorm either.

One thing you do notice, and it isn't a big deal really, it's not like it's a problem... It's just that Derek is actually that improbably attractive at all times of the day. Like, you aren't blind, you can admit that he's a hot dude, he could model if he didn't have Moral Issues with the modeling industry, but you always figured that Derek was good at picking clothes, that once he took his morning shower and coiffed his hair, he achieved model status. After all, even you can look good with the right amount of prep and lighting. But the thing about Derek is that he looks like a grecian statue when he's just rolled out of bed, in a gross T-shirt and pajama pants with a coffee stain down the front, or when he's been awake for like nineteen hours and should have crazy circles under his eyes but he doesn't. You've never met anybody as inconsistent about shaving as Derek is, but it doesn't seem to matter because Derek pulls off any length of facial hair.

It's just frustrating. Because Derek could have any girl he wants, but never bothers, and you have trooped out with the freshman hoards every friday night since school started, and never once has there been a girl at a party who's wanted to make out with you. Not even a little. It's a waste, is all.

Then you find out why Derek never goes after any girls and you get it with blistering clarity. As if Derek hasn't had a tragic enough life as it is, apparently the universe saw fit to take his soulmate away from him. You don't think there's anybody in this world who could use the support of a soulmate more than Derek. It's tragically unfair, and you worry about him, thinking about the news stories about people driven mad with grief by the death of their soulmate. Concern leads you to do research, but none of the advice you get helps; Derek is determined to be fine.

You wonder what Paige was like. What the person most suited for Derek in the world was like. Probably quiet, thoughtful, kind, to match Derek. Pretty, to match Derek. A subtle sense of humor that would complement Derek's dry wit. You're sure they must have been lovely together.

In a weird way, you're jealous. You know you shouldn't be jealous of Derek's tragic love life, but, you think resentfully, at least he's had one. It seems like everybody has found somebody but you.

The morning after you and Derek watch Transformers, you wake up with your face mashed into his chest, cuddled up against him, hypnotized by the beat of breath under his ribs. You aren't a werewolf, but he smells good even to you; like laundry, tea, something indescribably masculine. This is what you want, you think as you drift back to sleep. You just want to find somebody warm and comforting and muscular to wake up with.

It isn't until you're showering, hours later, that you realize you were picturing your future Someone with Derek's muscular, flat chest.

Pending sexuality crisis aside, you chase the feeling you had when Derek's heartbeat was under your ear, cuddling up to your friends at school, flirting with girls at parties––you think you're flirting, you're probably flirting, right? All the flirting advice online is written for girls––harder than ever. Sometimes you come home feeling disheartened and rejected, and you just nap in Derek's bed, faintly hoping that he'll curl up next to you. You're a tactile guy is all. You want a warm body to hug.

However, there's only so much tacit rejection a guy can take before he loses patience. You're in Max's dorm, and Max himself has disappeared upstairs with Marly, while Anders and Kiana are definitely hooking up somewhere else in the building, leaving you third wheeling with Juliana and Patrice, who are giggling and leaning in closer to each other with every minute that passes. Juliana's hand lands on Patrice's thigh, and you give up.

On the drive home, you wonder what you would have even done if the group at Max's had paired off differently, if Kiana or somebody had pulled you upstairs to one of the girl's floors. You don't even know how to kiss. Sure, you've googled it, checked out the WikiHow, but there's no way she wouldn't notice that you have no practical experience. But kissing is like trying to get a job: you need experience to get experience, so the only way to get your first job is through knowing somebody.

You pull into your parking space in front of the apartment complex and realize that you know somebody. Derek's been your surrogate cuddle buddy, surely he could be your surrogate kissing buddy too? Really, you reason as you climb the stairs, it would be good for both of you: you get kissing practice, and Derek would get to kiss somebody, no strings attached. You know Derek doesn't go around kissing random people, he's so cautious around strangers, so surely he'd appreciate a chance to let some steam off without attached complications.

Judging from the way Derek kisses you, you were right.

And kissing is fantastic.

You've heard conflicting reports on what kissing is like. There are the romance novel versions, of course, that wax poetic about lightning coursing through your body and violins playing in the background and the clouds parting to send a single beam of sunlight down upon your lover, but there are also the actual stories, the testimonials you've researched, the feedback from the pack, that say don't listen to the romance novels. First kisses are awkward and sloppy, and at first you won't see what the appeal is at all.

In your case, at least, there's lightning. You feel almost dizzy, but Derek's arms––which are really strong––hold you up as he kisses the daylights out of you. Suddenly you understand why people like mashing their tongues against each other's, and why biting is apparently a good thing when it comes to kissing. His stubble rubs against your face, and objectively, it feels like sandpaper, but subjectively, it feels amazing. And he still smells really good.

The appeal of kissing, you realize, isn't really the sensation of lips brushing together, but the thrill of knowing somebody likes you enough to put their face on your face. The closeness. You feel detached and alone in your body when the kissing ends.

Derek says you did pretty well. You figure it would be weird to return the compliment.

Later, in the shower, you can't help but think about stubble rubbing over your cheeks, what if would feel like to have somebody's stubble rubbing elsewhere, muscular arms looping around your back, your thighs-

You shut off the water, and figure that as sexuality crises go, that was pretty simple.

You and Derek go to The Jungle the next week. He's really cool about you not being straight, because apparently, neither is he. And doesn't that come as a surprise. Assuming makes an ass out of you and me, but you'd always figured he was straight, his type was supermodel, then after Paige, his type was nobody. It's hard to wrap your mind around the fact that he isn't. That instead of being part of some high-caliber, inaccessible dating world that you live galaxies away from, Derek is probably interested in the same people you are. (A little older, maybe.)

There's no way to explain that, so you make something up about having a bet with the pack that he was asexual, and escape to go change.

You like The Jungle. You like the anonymity, the thumping beat of the music that makes you feel sexy, you like the outrageousness of the drag queens and the shirtlessness of the dancers.

You shake and shimmy to the music, and you're pretty sure you get a few appreciative looks, which is an ego boost, but first priority is making sure that Derek has a good time. He's hardly moving, just standing next to you like a bodyguard, so you grab his hips and encourage him to dance. He gets with the program just in time for the music to slow down from a "party in da club" song to a "makin' love all niiiight" song. But that's fine, you roll with it like you roll your hips, loop your arms around him and sway like a wave. The men around you probably think you're a couple, which gives you a swell of satisfaction (fuck yeah I could bag this) before you realize that looking taken would get in the way of your goal for tonight.

You back up and right into David.

David is a hipster who says he isn't a hipster but secretly wants you to think he's a hipster. David has shaved sections of hair and a nose ring and sometimes wears glasses that have a fake handlebar mustache dangling from them on two thin chains. However, David is a biotech major at UBH, which makes him easy access.

Sometimes you wonder if you would go through the trouble of dating him if he didn't go to UBH. Just sometimes he kisses you and you wonder if this is what all of the fuss is about. You lose your virginity, which is nice to finally get rid of, and you come, sure, but you can do that on your own without somebody dripping sweat all over you and making weird noises. He's somebody to have dinner with, and that's nice, but you can have dinner with Derek any old time, and you don't feel like you have to spend every minute impressing Derek.

Not that it's relevant, because he does go to UBH, lives near where you take classes, can be paraded around in front of your college friends, is easy to track down at one of the frat houses on a friday night, can pair off with you after get-togethers in Max's dorm room. You can say "my boyfriend" when you talk about him, which makes you feel good, wanted, (even if you aren't sure if you're allowed to say it in front of David yet,) you can trade stories equally with Scott for once, instead of talking in hypotheticals on your side. It's nice to have a boyfriend, and you would like to keep ahold of him, thank you very much.

You come out to your dad. He's really supportive, not surprised at all, and too old to not be awkward about it. Dad claps you on the back and advises you to always wear a rubber. You tell him you've been seeing a guy, and Dad perks up, says he's glad that you and Derek have figured things out. You tell him the guy isn't Derek, and Dad tells you to keep your chin up, he'll come around. Parents, man.

Well, okay, it's probably because most of the stories you tell Dad nowadays involve Derek. But wedding bells don't have to be ringing for you to talk about Derek. You live with Derek, Derek's your best friend still living in Beacon Hills.

Like, you go home, see Derek knitting on the couch, and are struck with a vision of the two of you as old men: canes, glasses, suspenders, swinging back and forth on a porch swing while Derek knits and you squabble about The Grandkids or something. You want that future.

Like, you try out a spell and turn into a werewolf for like ten minutes, and Derek's scent is literally the best thing you've ever smelled. You just associate his smell with comfort and happiness, so once it gets magnified like a million times, you go a little crazy. The scent of tea and male are familiar, but underneath it are also carnations, pine, pavement after rain, a new bundle of sage. It's a damn good smell.

Like, David breaks up with you, so the first thing you do is crawl into Derek's bed and sob like a child. The breakup shouldn't have been a surprise. In hindsight, you see how noncommittal he was, how he played the "who can be the most casual" game with his texts, you realize that you never met any of his friends, and that he only came over to your apartment once. But it's just so exhausting, knowing that now you have to go through the same cycle again: having to explain the breakup to everybody (everybody you told. You and David were never facebook official, of course.) Then searching around for someone, dating at them, sex, trying to sneak your real personality in slowly enough that they don't notice and run, then rinse and repeat.

So you bury your nose into Derek's bicep and breathe in his scent. (You miss the werewolf nose.) Nobody holds a gun to Derek's head and tells him to comfort Stiles while he cries, but he does. Nobody threatens to burn his fancy alpaca yarn if he doesn't tell Stiles that David is a pretentious douchebag, but he does. Nobody blackmails Derek with his embarrassingly romcom heavy Netflix history so that he kisses Stiles' forehead and says he loves him. But Derek does.

So yeah, you talk about Derek a lot. The two of you are close. For god's sakes, when you get high on crazy fairy music, all you could focus on were the rainbow bubbles, and grabbing onto Derek's hands so he didn't float off of the earth. Maybe you can see where Dad would get the wrong idea

Next time, you'll find somebody more like Derek. Derek would be clear with you about defining the relationship. Derek wouldn't send passive aggressive texts, he would just bluntly tell you what he's feeling. Derek wouldn't mind that you're a cuddler, even if it's a hot night. Yeah, you've got to find somebody more like Derek. Would it be weird if you took him along on dates with you to vet people? Probably. But you're on the right track: when you go around telling everybody the breakup news, (cringe) Cora says that Derek would never have treated you like that. You ask why she mentions Derek, wondering if she's developed mind reading powers somehow. She just shrugs. He's the only other guy who likes guys that I know, she explains casually.

Officially labeling the two of you best friends makes it easier to slip into Derek's bed half the nights of the week, bring Derek breakfast in bed, joke about how "married" you two are, make Derek help you pack for Seattle. It's easier when you can just point to the glaring sign above your head saying "best friend" to say it's alright, we can do this. What are boundaries when you're best friends. You and Scott barely have any boundaries.

But... well... you have to admit it's different than it was with Scott. If you accidentally cast a freezing spell on Scott, your first instinct wouldn't be to strip down naked and climb into bed with him. You'd stick to the heat packs and take off your clothes as a last resort. With Derek, you can't suppress the surge of disappointment when he says he's fine, he really doesn't need you cuddling up to him like a homoerotic arctic explorer.

How are you supposed to deal with that?

And you miss him so much when you and Dad go to Seattle. There's so much time to wander around alone in Seattle, and for most of that time, you hold imaginary conversations with Derek. Why do you think they call it the needle if it isn't shaped like a needle? Why don't they call it the UFO on a toothpick? Well they built it for the World's Fair, and they needed a catchier phrase than that. Shut up Derek.

Your hotel bed feels too big and too cold. You want to text Derek about it, but it's hard to justify a platonic [I want you in my bed] text.

It would have to be platonic, is the thing. Derek hasn't touched anybody like that since Paige, you're pretty sure. His type is nobody. He definitely hasn't loved anybody (romantically anyway) since Paige either. Even if he did, Derek would date in a league far beyond yours. He would find people his age who also have the statistically improbable combination of a great body, brain, and personality.

And he's your best friend. You aren't going to be that cliche.

The text goes unsent, and you just hug Derek extra long when the pack meets you at the airport.

Now that the idea has verged upon your mind, you can't stop thinking about how easy it would be to just fall into domestic bliss with Derek. Erica and Cora book you and Derek (and Scott) into the same room, no hesitation. You're a package, and everyone knows it. When you pack for the conference, you ask Derek where half of your things are in the apartment, and he knows where they are. Then he carries your suitcase down to the car while you aren't looking. You don't even realize it was weird to walk into the bathroom to brush your teeth while Derek was showering until Scott points it out. It's default to climb into bed with Derek (you on the right side, while he takes the left) even when there are other options. You get mistaken for his mate by a total stranger. You have the perfect template for a relationship, all you need to do is throw in a little kissing, and you're set.

Forget finding a guy who's like Derek, you've already found Derek.

Probably somewhere in the multiverse, there's a universe where Paige never existed and Derek was just a bit less inaccessibly perfect. You and Derek are doing fantastically in that universe, and you wish them well. You just also wish that their universe were your universe.

It doesn't help when Derek approaches you on the first night's social, rubs your arms, says he couldn't stay away. Kisses you before you can say a word.

You assume you were wrong. Wasn't Dr. Vesuvine just saying earlier today that even people with SMDs can move on with their life and find somebody else? You've been underestimating Derek. If anybody would have the determination to move on with his life, it would be him. He kisses you and kisses you. You shouldn't have just assumed he'd given up on love entirely, you aren't a mind reader. The two of you can hardly speak for kissing. He follows you up to the room. He's lost his key card, but you open the door with shaking hands. All of that angst for nothing. Derek presses you into the bed, kisses you again and again, cradling your head in his hands. It's better than you imagined it would be.

You tell him that you love him. It slips out like the most natural thing in the world between breaths and kisses, floats in the warm air between your mouths. You panic for a second before you realize it's true. Then Derek says he loves you too, and you smile into the next flurry of kisses. This could be what it's like for the rest of your life, you think as you drift off in Derek's arms. This is the end of the movie, fade to black. For once, things are going exactly like you want them to.

The next morning, you wake up to an empty bed. When you finally track Derek down, he's apparently decided to pretend either like nothing happened, or that you were too drunk (one beer!) to remember. You can't believe that you were so wrong, that your judgement was so off. Since when does Derek say I love you when he doesn't mean it? Since when is he this callous? Were you that blinded by his pretty face and his ability to string together reassuring sentences? You're an idiot, you should have realized that Derek-of-the-strict-boundaries would want to sit you down first and talk about it if he actually took the kissing seriously.

It's betrayal on the highest scale. Scott's sympathetic, says that he wouldn't have seen it coming from Derek either, maybe he's just scared. You know better. Derek's out of your league and you're an idiot for thinking otherwise, however briefly.

That night, you walk into the next drink-and-get-drunk fest with an upper lip of steel and a determination to get the next interested person you see into bed. If they're a werewolf, all the better.

You get distracted by a commotion outside, and if anything has ever attracted you to a scene, it's a commotion.

Derek is standing in the middle of the crowd with that incubus kid at his feet, talking to some security guy, looking incredibly uncomfortable. It's no surprise that the incubus went for Derek, apparently nobody can keep their hands off of him. You feel a guilty twinge of satisfaction. Karmic payback is what this is.

Then Derek says that he was buying an anti-incubus charm last night, that he was never anywhere near the social. For a second, you want to call him out on the lie––why would he even lie about what time exactly he legally bought a charm off of some wiccans?––but then the incubus––who takes on the image of whoever the victim finds most attractive––stirs, and a tarry black mass of horror settles in your stomach.

The worst part is that you never had a clue that he wasn't Derek. You call yourself his best friend, but you couldn't tell that he was acting strange, never got suspicious that he was so out of character. Your first instincts were correct from the beginning: you aren't right for him. Of course Derek would never touch you like that, what were you thinking?

That night, he slings his arm around you while you watch bad reality TV from on top of the ugly floral hotel bedspread. He missed you, you can tell that much, but he'll never want more than this: somebody comforting to hug, somebody who will be there for him. Not after Paige, not after- A dark voice inside of you whispers about Kate Argent, the woman Derek's only talked about once, but about whom you've gathered enough know that she took advantage of him, took a fragile Derek and shattered him further. Derek needs a companion who doesn't demand anything from him. Derek's had enough taken from him without you expecting his love, too.

You brush your sock covered toes against his. You could be his companion. What else are best friends for?

You dedicate yourself to the role of Derek Hale's best friend, cuddle buddy, platonic life partner. Most of the time you manage to forget that you want more. It's still pretty great to come home to Derek knitting while the TV drones on in the background and just flop your head into his lap and complain about your day. He bops you on the head with his knitting whenever you mention doing something stupid. Which is often, but being bopped with knitting feels more like affection than punishment.

It's nice to walk into Derek's bedroom in the evening and curl up against him without needing an excuse. He's a tactile wolfman and you like a warm bed, that's all.

It's nice to peck him on the cheek here and there, knowing he's okay with it. He doesn't reciprocate often, but sometimes the situation calls for it, and your cheek burns for the rest of the day.

It's nice to pull on the mittens he made you when the weather is still a bit too warm for them, and feel like Derek's holding your hand when the wool settles around your fingers.

It's nice to share toothpaste and shampoo with Derek, to hear him pick up the phone and call the Chinese food place, adding in your usual order without a question, to toss his jeans in with yours when you trek downstairs to the laundry room.

Now and then, when Derek isn't around to distract you, you remember. Your eyes glaze over and the living room wall blurs as you wonder if you'll ever get over him and find somebody else. You don't want to. Who else could you find who makes you happy like Derek does? Who else is that crazy level of selfless and kind? Who else would throw themselves in front of a train if it would keep their pack safe, stay up all night when you have the flu to get you water and kleenex, knit you a complicated pair of mittens with cabling on the back, just because you asked?

You ponder a future where you just live like a symbiotic fungus on Derek's life; moving wherever he moves; soothing him on anniversaries of events that have to be remembered, but still hurt; making his favorite foods on nights that he doesn't make yours. Doing it until one of you dies. Would he mind? You hope he won't, because you sure don't want anything else.

It gets to be too much now and then, and you just have to get out of the apartment, go for a walk, breathe in the air and remind yourself that just because he won't love you back doesn't mean the world is ending. Distract yourself with thoughts of homework and Max's major-switching crisis.

Some nights you swing in the opposite direction, imagining in immense detail that alternate universe in which you and Derek get together. You two probably have bubble baths together after long weeks, and you have a closet filled with Derek's knitting, and you get a porch swing installed ahead of time for when you get old. Your rings have inside jokes engraved on the interiors. You sit in his lap after pack dinners, and persuade him to sit in yours before your legs fall asleep and you have to kick him off. He's made of muscle, he'd probably be heavy in your lap, but that gets you thinking about rewarding each sit-up with a kiss. Speaking of kisses: sleepy morning kisses and passionate night time kisses, I'll see you after work kisses and welcome home kisses. Reading sappy poetry to him in bed.

The only point where reality follows with fantasy is the Hale House. No dreams can replace the comfortingly warm feeling you get after a house planning session with Derek. The Pack House. Our House, you think of it fondly. You make extra certain to help Derek pick out the mattress. The biggest and softest you can find, a great reason to spend all of your nights in Derek's room, not just half. When Scott inevitably has his brood of adorable children, they'll call you UncleStilesandDerek, because how can you not be a unit when you share the master bedroom?

Derek confronts you. Says he's noticed that you've been moody about something, and he wants to know if he can help. You want to sob, because he's both the best and worst person to help with this. And for the love of god, he can hear lies. So you say something vague about feeling alone. He suggests that you go to The Jungle, find somebody, and you want to scream I've already found him! You're so mad at him for believing that it's that simple, and you would be fine with just any dude at a club, that you snap at him more than you want to, spit out passive aggressive statements through Thai food.

You're being so obvious, but you can't stop. You're being too touchy about being single, the kind of touchy that means you must be interested in someone. Derek's smart, you can see him putting the pieces together as you speak: if Stiles is interested in anybody, he would be interested in Derek, whose life he clings to, whose bed he keeps sliding into like some pathetic, impotent attempt at seduction.

On the other side of the couch, Derek's eyebrows pull together in concern.

You can't stay to watch Derek figure it out, to listen to him let you down gently, to see him lock his bedroom door tonight. Hugging him one last time before you go, just in case he won't let you when you come back, you leave.

Your feet slap against the pavement outside, and you start running. It feels better, the jolting pain of thin sneakers against concrete grounds you. He's going to hate you for feigning friendship when you wanted more, for pretending that you didn't mean anything by the touches, by the "friendly" flirting, when really, you were getting a sick thrill every time he innocently let you kiss his cheek.

Dad lets you brood in your old bedroom for a few hours while you get your shit together, muster up the courage to go home. He can tell something is wrong, gives you a Dad Hug before you leave. You're glad. Especially since Derek might kick you out when you come home. It's good to know you'll always be welcome here.

When you come back to the apartment, Derek's left a light on for you in the kitchen. You toe off your shoes, are tiptoeing down the hallway to your bedroom when Derek's voice sleepily calls out for you from his room. You hover in his doorway while he asks if you feel better. You say you do, no reason to make Derek upset. He nods, and you're expecting more, but he just holds open the covers for you.

Your heart breaks a little bit. Derek's too self-sacrificing for his own good. You should have known he wouldn't want to hurt your feelings by pushing you away, even if he doesn't feel the same. You half want to shake him into sanity––make a decision for yourself, not other people for once!––but the half of you who wants to climb under the covers and make a home between Derek's shoulder blades wins out. The both of you say goodnight to each other, then nothing else. It's for the best. You're both so bad at talking about feelings that you're safer staying silent.

Derek gets more upset about your little run-in with a piece of falling roof than you do. You wake up to his gorgeous face streaked with tear tracks, and it takes you a moment to understand what even has him so upset. He hovers over you gingerly for the rest of the day until you start worrying he's going to do something drastic, like carry you up all stairs so you don't trip, or wrap your entire body in kneepads.

Once you start playing one of his romcoms, he calms down a little, head lolling against your leg. (He still insisted that you sit in the chair while he made do with a cushion on the floor, the martyr.) You figure he's not going to go crazy anytime soon, and all the better for it. It's amazing, the stuff he does for you; you don't want to force him to do more by accidentally almost dying.

Then he says, I'm in love with you, and all of your hopes go flying out the window.

You find yourself upstairs, packing furiously. Does Derek think that he can just fake being in love with you like that will make everything okay? It's unfair to him, and you can't believe that he thinks you would be happy with that. You aren't a monster who would trap a reluctant Derek into a relationship with you. You want all of Derek or none of him, and now as you pack your boxes back up, it seems that it's going to be none of him. Your hands shake as you wrap a stack of comic books back in their bubblewrap. You had thought that you two would be able to walk the tightrope: Derek knowing you're in love with him but being cool about it, you being in love with him but not overwhelming him.

You fell off the tightrope.

Tears are streaming down your face by the time you trample down the stairs with box number three. You don't want to go, you want to stay with Derek and play house in your mansion of denial for a little longer. You want Derek to actually love you.

Then Derek races out of the house after you.

XXXXX

Derek resurfaces in his own mind like a drowning man lunging out of the ocean. He has to- where's Stiles, where is he-

He's curled up on his side, half tucked under the shadow of his jeep, sobbing like a lost child. Derek's first instinct is that something with the spell backfired, and Stiles is once again suffering at the hands of his own magic, but when he reaches his hand forward to touch Stiles' shoulder, Stiles' own hand shoots up to grab his.

"I didn't know," he gasps out between sobs, "I didn't- I didn't- I saw it all and Derek baby if I'd known I would've, I would've, I love you, okay, I love you, I've loved you for a really long time, I- you can't go around thinking I don't anymore, okay, I think you're perfect-"

"Stiles," Derek breathes, tugging on his hand until Stiles achingly crawls out from underneath the jeep. "It's okay, come here, it's okay, I should've- I should have told you sooner," he can't believe Stiles was so sad for so long, this is just what he wanted to avoid. Derek pulls on Stiles' hand until Stiles' body is pressed up against his again.

"I dated other people!" Stiles recalls in horror, tightening his hands in Derek's shirt. "Why did I do that?"

"I should have spoken up before you left The Jungle."

"You said you loved me and I just," Stiles sniffs explosively, "I just assumed you meant it in a friendly, older brotherly way maybe."

"I was too scared to admit anything else." Derek cups the back of Stiles' head and rocks them back and forth. "I love you."

"I love you too," Stiles chokes out against Derek's neck. "And you love me, and everything is gonna be really good once I just, okay, once I just calm down a bit, okay." He sniffs again and extracts his face from Derek's shoulder to wipe at his eyes, then brush a thumb across Derek's cheeks to collect tears Derek hadn't even realized were falling. "And I think I'm going to be kind of, um, uncharacteristically sappy for a bit, as I, um-"

"Me too," Derek finishes. He still feels the memory of Stiles waking up alone in the hotel room, betrayal resounding through him. "That was a lot of emotion." He kisses the part of Stiles' face that he can reach, and Stiles turns his head so that they can kiss properly. They haven't kissed without tears on their faces yet, but that's alright. There's time.

A breeze whistles through them, and Stiles shivers.

"It's late," Derek agrees, "let's go inside."

Neither of them wants to let go of the other while they make the hike upstairs, which leads to some awkward squeezing through doorways, but Stiles just presses closer to compensate, which Derek doesn't mind.

They end up standing on either side of the california king sized bed with pajamas and a choice in their hands.

"Should I..." Stiles trails off, looking down at his handful of Batman pajama pants. "Should I, um, bother?"

Derek swallows. "What, uh, what do you want to do?"

Stiles lets out a small, hysterical, laugh. "You pick."

"Stiles-"

"No, you pick," Stiles insists. "I'm fine either way, but you, uh, you should pick."

Derek smiles. Stiles is being a gentleman. He knows Derek has more hangups about sex than Stiles does. The choice really is up to Derek. He eyes Stiles' broad shoulders, lowering and rising under his T-shirt with each breath.

"No pajamas," Derek says carefully. "But I'd rather we didn't- tonight. Enough has happened tonight already."

Stiles flings his pajama pants dramatically over his shoulder. "Now there's a middle ground I can get behind!" His shirt follows. Then his jeans. Then Stiles hooks both thumbs in his purple underwear and meets Derek's eyes. "Here we go?"

Derek dazedly starts unbuttoning his shirt. He's seen Stiles naked before, but never like this. "Here we go."

Climbing into bed together is nothing new for them. It's a familiar comfort that Derek grounds himself in when he reaches out over the brink and touches the thrilling new landscape of Stiles' skin. Stiles hums deep in his throat and shuffles closer, pulling the down covers they picked out together up to their necks. Their legs tangle together and their erections brush against each other, ignored in favor of Stiles nudging his nose up against Derek and asking, "Can we kiss though?"

Derek answers with lips rather than words, capturing Stiles' face between his hands and angling it for the best access to his mouth. He hears his first Stiles Sex Noise. It's low, resounding in his chest as he hooks an arm around Derek's lower back to yank him closer.

Oh God, Derek thinks, staring at the ceiling as Stiles mouths across his jaw. For so long, Derek hadn't allowed himself to think of Stiles in a sexual way. Now he can, and it's overwhelming. Stiles' hands are huge, and they're sure and strong where they're splayed over Derek's back. Running his hands over the muscles in Stiles' arms and back that he's been forcing himself to ignore, Derek sends a sharp reprimand down to between his legs. They aren't supposed to have sex tonight.

Stiles lowers his mouth to Derek's neck and does something that make Derek moan and press a thumb against Stiles' jaw to feel the sharp line of it moving as he showers attention onto the lines of Derek's tendons. Stiles pauses to take a breath, inhaling and exhaling into Derek's skin. Then he's just inhaling, a hand cupping Derek's neck so that Derek holds still while Stiles smells him, like a wolf scenting their mate- oh god-

Clutching at Stiles' ass, Derek rolls them over so that Stiles is underneath him. Stiles makes another devastating noise and hooks his legs around Derek's waist. They gasp in startled unison as their erections brush together again, and this time, Derek can't ignore it, pressing his hips downwards. One of his hands grips one of Stiles' hips, narrow and strong in his hands. Stiles makes a noise in the back of his throat and arches up, lean stomach muscles stretching.

"Derek, I- we've gotta take a break, I'm about- nnn-" Stiles bites down hard on his lower lip.

"That's fine, I don't care, forget what I said," Derek pulls Stiles' lip from between his teeth so that he can bite it instead. "What I said was stupid"

"You sure?" Stiles murmurs against Derek's mouth.

"Yeah."

"Okay, yeah."

"Yeah"

Stiles affects a pornographic moan. "Ohhhhh yeaaaaahhh!"

Derek grinds his hips down harder, pressing Stiles into the mattress. He's going to get Stiles to make those noises for real if it's the last thing he does.

XXXXX

After, Stiles runs his hands through Derek's hair and comments, "the first time we both got into this bed, we had sex in it. I think that's a good start."

Derek presses a soft kiss into Stiles' chest.

XXXXX

Derek wakes up alone in the bed. He stretches out languorously until his toes poke out from underneath the covers. Stiles is probably in the bathroom or something. His arm bumps against a piece of paper placed on the pillow next to his.

The post-it reads: Don't panic! I would have loved to wake up with you with cuddles and kisses and stuff, but I'm starving and you're fast asleep, so I'm making breakfast.

The note spills out onto a second post-it: and hopefully you'll just sleep through me making breakfast and I can sneak back into bed and get rid of these post-its altogether

The third post-it: but I'm covering all my bases. Sweet dreams.

The fourth: also I love you.

When Derek gets up to join Stiles downstairs, he finds copies of the four post-its stuck to the door just above the handle. He's willing to bet he'll find another four on the bathroom mirror.

Stiles is making scrambled eggs––they're the only eggs I don't mess up!––in the kitchen. He turns around smiling when he hears Derek's footsteps on the carpet.

"Hey."

"Hey."

"I got your note."

Stiles holds up his hands defensively. "Communication is an important part of relationships! I've had to watch a lot of romcoms because of you, and there's always that moment where somebody wakes up alone in bed and are like 'they hate me!' and that is not going to happen, thank you very much, so I was thorough!"

The eggs are burning behind Stiles' back, so Derek grabs the spatula and prods them around the skillet. "I didn't think you'd leave me," he informs Stiles, "I thought you'd gone to the bathroom or something."

"Well," Stiles muses, leaning his head against Derek's shoulder, "then what if you'd peeked in the bathroom and I wasn't there? Where would you be then? Thankful that I'd left notes on the bathroom mirror, that's what."

"Pass me a plate?"

Stiles does, and Derek shovels the eggs onto it.

"Hey," Stiles slowly turns the plate in his hands. "So I've had like actual fantasies about morning kisses, just like, you know, kissing. In the morning. Which really isn't much different from normal kisses, but like, there's a sort of domestic feel to them, or at least I think there is, it's not like I've had the experience-"

"I have morning breath," Derek warns him.

Stiles sets the plate on the counter, says, "I don't care."

The eggs have to be reheated by the time they're done.

There are still boxes here and there around the house to be unpacked, but they elect to spend the day doing absolutely nothing instead. After breakfast, there's lounging and kissing to be done, and the same goes for after lunch.

("We're making out like teenagers," Stiles observes gleefully. "I never got to do this when I was a teenager!")

In the evening, Derek takes Stiles on a walk through one of the trails leading through the woods. It's more overgrown than it was when he was young, but that's alright, it's going to be walked through more now. They hold hands, exchanging giddy smiles like they're sharing a secret. Derek memorizes the way Stiles' thumb unconsciously rubs across the back of Derek's hand.

Cora texts [are you done w the heavy things? can i move in yet?] which Derek shows to Stiles.

"How do I respond without her making fun of me?"

Stiles takes Derek's phone and taps away at it thoughtfully. Then he abruptly kisses Derek's cheek while holding up the phone.

"What are you-" Derek hears the camera sound effect and rolls his eyes. "You aren't texting that to her."

"Think again!" Stiles exclaims, furiously typing. "I'm unstoppable."

Derek dives for the phone but Stiles lunges out of the way, falling lengthwise across the couch. By the time Derek crawls up Stiles' body to grab the phone, the text is sent.

It's futile, but Derek takes back the phone hoping there can be some damage control. Stiles sent a picture of himself kissing Derek's cheek, with the caption, [back off, the sex parade has begun]

Hastily, Derek adds, [that was stiles]

[but actually, a few days alone would be nice]

[please]

In the next hour, Derek receives the texts:

[lol stiles]

[wait but hes joking though right]

[wait derek is he?]

[derekkkkk]

[are you having sex right now]

[is stiles trolling me]

[derek]

[derekkk]

Derek doesn't answer them until the next morning. Stiles had never received a blowjob (reason #48 that Nose Ring was a terrible boyfriend) and that had to be remedied.

XXXXX

However, they can't stay alone in their little love den forever, especially since the pack all comes home for their winter breaks right around the time Cora insists she should be allowed to move in already.

The night before everybody except Isaac (Humboldt State is a week behind) arrive back in Beacon Hills, Derek and Stiles decide that when the pack thunders into the house tomorrow morning, they're going to wait until everybody is gathered around the dining table with their waffles, then announce their relationship.

("I'm glad Cora didn't spill to everybody, and I guess it's like, good that we can tell them ourselves, but it really feels like we're making a press release, it's kind of formal," Stiles confesses.

"I think it's odd too, but you know if we tell people one at a time, Erica is going to want to know why Scott knew first-"

"And Boyd will know before we even tell him, and Cora will be all smug about having the gossip before everybody else," Stiles rolls his eyes. "Press release it is.")

They have a plan.

The plan fails in favor of oversleeping. Derek is woken up by Scott opening their bedroom door to see Derek and Stiles woven around each other in bed, naked down to the sheets draped around their waists.

"Um," says Scott.

"We, uh," says Derek, lifting his head off of Stiles' sleeping chest.

"It's cool," says Scott, "I know you guys like your privacy. I'll just-" he leaves.

That was less dramatic than Derek expected. He braces himself for the parade of pack members trampling upstairs with questions and snarky comments, but they don't come. He hears Scott tell the pack "Derek and Stiles are still sleeping," and Boyd saying, "we can figure out how to make waffles ourselves."

Famous last words. Derek wipes the sleep from his eyes, then tries to kiss Stiles awake. It's harder than it looks in movies; Stiles just sighs and settles further into his pillow.

"So do you put the waffle iron on the stovetop? How does this work?"

Sighing, Derek grabs Stiles' shoulder and shakes.

"Wh- morning, baby," Stiles smiles, syrupy slow. "Sup?"

"The pack's here."

"No, we're waking up before them," Stiles corrects him, before blinking himself further awake. "Oh. We slept in."

"Yeah. And, uh, Scott knows."

Stiles makes a distressed noise. "Scott knows? How does he know? He's going to give me so much shit for not telling him first."

"He seemed calm," Derek reassures, "he just walked in on us like this," he gestures at their naked bodies entwined under and around the sheets, "said he'd give us privacy, and left."

"Hmm," Stiles runs his hands through his hair, trying to coax it out of its bedhead-y state. "Yeah, that's anticlimactic. Maybe he's waiting until I'm awake." Heaving himself upright, Stiles sighs, "might as well face the music."

When they come downstairs, Boyd is carefully reading out the waffle recipe from their singular cookbook while Erica measures. Nothing is burning.

Stiles clears his throat. "Um, good morning everybody." He gives a small, sheepish wave.

"Morning, bro!" Scott swoops in for a hug. "Good to be back." He pats Stiles casually on the back, then goes back to looking for eggs.

Stiles looks at Derek, who shrugs. Maybe last semester just really mellowed Scott out. "So, uh, I don't know what Scott told you guys, but, uh, me and Derek were, yeah, in bed together this morning."

Erica chuckles, rolling her eyes. "Oh my god, the scandal."

"This could affect the pack," Derek points out, "it's important that you all know this, and what affect we," he gestures between himself and Stiles, "might have on the group dynamic."

Boyd looks up from the cookbook, puzzled. "What do you mean? Has something changed?"

"Well," Derek looks at Stiles, who weaves his fingers through Derek's, then holds their joined hands up in display for the pack.

"Me and Derek are, um, in a relationship! Riding the long-term train, no longer 'single' on facebook, locked into the old ball and chain." Nobody seems to be reacting, which Derek guesses is why Stiles keeps rambling on. "I've got Derek's letterman jacket, he's my old lady, I can delete my OKCupid profile-"

"Ohhh," Boyd snaps his fingers. "They're not being private about it anymore."

The rest of the pack nods in understanding.

Erica smirks. "It's sweet of you guys to tell us, but I've known since SPECon at least."

Scott elbows Erica. "But we knew privacy was important for you guys, and we didn't want to make it weird in case you two broke up."

"Slim chance," Boyd mutters.

"So we thought we'd let you guys, uh, 'come out' when you were ready," Scott finishes pointedly.

Cora just leans against the counter grinning the entire time.

Stiles laughs, and even Derek can't contain a small smile. It seems everybody else knew but them.

"Uh, guys, I appreciate the sad attempt at detective work," Stiles says around a smirk, "but me and Derek have only been together since last week."

The pack explodes in exclamations of "what" and "but you said-" and "no way," all bar Cora, who crosses her arms, leans further into the counter, and with a crocodile's grin, announces, "you all owe me money."

Derek takes over mixing the waffle batter while everybody else argues over whether the bet was really a bet, and does it count if they didn't have it in writing.

The waffles turn out great, even if Scott does try to toast "the happy couple" by holding up an entire waffle on his fork, which promptly falls onto the table in a tragic spill of syrup and whipped cream.

Once he's done eating, Stiles walks over to Derek and sits in his lap. The chair isn't really made for two people, but Derek's been inside Stiles' head, he knows not to push Stiles off.

Stiles, meanwhile, nuzzles his head into Derek's neck, marveling that "you ever thought I would be subtle about a relationship with Derek, Scott, oh my god. Look at my man."

XXXXX

"The tub isn't really that big."

"Come on, Derek, tell me that we don't have the biggest tub you've ever seen."

"It's big for a bathtub," Derek allows, "but still not big enough for two full grown men inside it."

"We'll cuddle up then," Stiles wheedles, tugging Derek into the bathroom, where a tub full of warm, very bubbly water awaits. "Besides, I can think of at least one part of myself that I can store inside of you. Save some space."

He winks, and Derek can feel his cheeks turning a brighter red than the tub's hot water would ever make them. "That's terrible."

"Terribly sexy."

"No, terribly that-makes-me-sound-like-a-Uhaul-storage-unit."

"I'm going to master sexy talk one of these days days, you just wait," Stiles declares, dropping his towel and stepping into the tub, "you will be powerless against my wiles."

Between the view of Stiles' ass as he bends to fit inside of the tub, and Stiles' rapid learning curve in everything, Derek suspects that yes, he will be.

XXXXX

It's late when Stiles head butts Derek's shoulder and says, "hey, since we're fulfilling all of Stiles' cheesy fantasies today apparently, is it cool if I, uh, I wanna read you like poetry and shit?"

Derek brushes through Stiles' wet hair so it lays flat against the pillow. "You can read me all the poetry and shit you like. Do you have a book somewhere?"

Stiles snorts. "Please." He pulls out his phone. "Googling love poems now."

Rolling his eyes, Derek lays back in the bed. If Stiles thinks that epic love is made from people wanting to read love poetry to each other, well, Derek's suffered worse punishments. Besides, there's something comfortably familiar about Stiles lying next to him, looking through poems on his phone that Derek can't put his finger on.

"Okay here's one." Stiles' long hands are curved around the faint light of his phone, casting shadows on the sheets as he reads from it. "'Out of lemon flowers/loosed/on the moonlight, love's/lashed and insatiable/essences,/sodden with fragrance,/the lemon tree's yellow/emerges,/the lemons/move down/from the tree's planetarium.' Sexy, Mr. Neruda, sexyyy." He looks up with a smirk, and his eyes are so full of mirth and so close, "I think I could write a better love poem than that."

Derek laughs. "Let's hear something."

Pressing himself further up against Derek's side, Stiles hums in thought while he pulls another blanket over them. "There once was a man named Derek, who... was a were...ek?"

The halfhearted excuse for a poem strums a chord of recognition in Derek's brain, but he can't figure out what he's being reminded of. "You could do a haiku," Derek suggests, raising his eyebrows.

"Fuck yeah I could do a haiku," Stiles presses his lips together, and Derek can almost hear him counting syllables. "His eyes are blue-ish/or maybe green I don't know..." Stiles trails off, tracing a finger slowly down Derek's stomach. "'Oh I love you so?' I- oh my god, stop smiling like that, it's so cheesy, I just wanted something that rhymed!"

Derek can't stop smiling. He's figured out why the poems are familiar. He kisses Stiles fervently, and when Stiles makes a questioning sound against Derek's lips, Derek asks, "did you see any of my dreams when you were in your head?"

Stiles tilts his head to the side, thinking. Then his eyes shoot open. "That explains the deja vu. Fuck, man."

"Yeah."

"We're awesome."

Snaking his arm under Stiles' back, Derek pulls Stiles closer until his head is resting right over Derek's heart. The very same one that gave Derek a jolt the first time he set eyes on Stiles, years ago.

Most werewolves don't even have soulmates.

Most that do are dysfunctional.

The fraction of wolves who get dreams about the future with their soulmate are even smaller.

Only one werewolf in the entire world gets Stiles as a soulmate.

Laura would be proud.

Into the top of Stiles' head, Derek agrees, "we're awesome."

XXXXX

And we're done! Thank you all for hanging in there with me! Also, this chapter miiiight have had some weird formatting issues, so feel free to let me know about those (why must AO3 and have different formatting standards? Whyyyy?)