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School has been out for three days the first night Derek shows up. He knocks on the door because Stiles is on the couch, his dad’s shift over in a few hours, and when Stiles sees Derek on the porch, he doesn’t say anything. He just stares. Derek looks different somehow, his beard a little thicker, his eyes a little sadder, his back a little straighter like he’s carrying the weight of the world on it. Or maybe just the weight of Boyd and Erica.
Stiles steps aside and Derek enters his house, looking around like he’s just as confused as Stiles about why he’s there. They stare at each other for a few moments, and then Stiles sighs and offers him some leftovers.
*
The next time is a few weeks later, when Derek slips through his window just after midnight. Stiles squeaks out his surprise when he looks up from his online game, and he’s about to ask what Derek’s doing there when he notices the blood on his shirt.
He doesn’t ask. He just goes over to his drawer and tosses him a clean shirt he’s pretty sure will fit. Stiles doesn’t look when Derek lifts the shirt over his head; he pulls up his Netflix instant queue and chooses a movie.
*
“I’ve lost their scent,” Derek murmurs quietly the third time he visits. It’s well into June, hot and humid, and Derek’s the only person other than his dad he’s seen in two weeks. Stiles is so lonely he doesn’t question why Derek’s showing up anymore, doesn’t want him to leave after the movie neither of them is watching finishes.
“I can call Scott, get him – “
“No. Don’t tell him about this,” Derek says, finally looking at Stiles. His eyes are bright even in the dark room, the changing lights from the laptop screen reflecting off them. His jaw looks more angular, the tilt of his head making it sharp and dangerous. “I shouldn’t have told you about this,” he whispers as his eyes close briefly, like Stiles wasn’t supposed to hear. But he hears, every word Derek says, the lilt in his voice, the rise and fall, like how it’s sometimes deep in his chest and other times almost nasal.
Stiles sometimes hears the words Derek doesn’t say.
He is about to tell Derek something – he’s not sure what – when Derek abruptly stands up and leaves through the window without a glance back.
Stiles pretends he was going to say something mundane but he knows he would have actually said something like please tell me everything. you can always tell me everything.
*
The fourth time Stiles is on the couch, and Derek just walks in without knocking. Stiles tries to believe the uptick in his heartbeat is from being startled.
Derek sits too close to him on the couch, thigh against thigh, the tight denim hugging Derek’s leg a distraction. Stiles isn’t sure when this became normal, when Derek showing up at his house made him nervous, but not in the way it used to. Maybe it was around the same time his hair started growing out, or when Scott started reading more to distract himself than for school, or when Derek started half-smiling when he talked.
All Stiles knows is that he watched a crime drama marathon with Derek, and the only thing he remembers is the way his leg felt pressed against his, the way his fingers felt when they absently brushed against Stiles’ skin.
*
Stiles finds himself outside Derek’s new loft after two weeks of not seeing him. Stiles tells himself it’s to make sure that Derek is okay, to find out how the search is going, and he tells Derek the same thing when Derek opens the door and looks at him in confusion, but not exactly like he’s not glad to see him. Stiles blames the sudden flush on the July heat and tells Derek he likes the new loft a lot better than the subway station.
Derek offers him a bottle of water, and Stiles looks around at the sparse furniture, probably all purchased from the Good Will or scavenged from the side of the road or dumpsters, and the bed in the corner that’s obviously new. It’s a start, Stiles thinks.
In the harsh overhead light, Derek looks ragged, tired, worn out in a way that Stiles has never seen before. His shoulders are painfully straight, and Stiles can see the tension radiating through the taut lines of muscle, the worry lines in his face almost permanent now.
He only stays for a few minutes, because Derek doesn’t have a TV and doesn’t seem in the mood to talk and Stiles can’t think of another reason to hang around. Before he leaves, he pulls something from his pocket and sets it on the counter. When he walks by Derek, he instinctively reaches out and runs a hand over the ball of Derek’s shoulder, his fingers lingering a little too long, Derek leaning into the touch a little too much.
Stiles doesn’t look at Derek – can’t look at him because he’s not sure he wants to see – and heads for the door.
“What’s this?” Derek asks as Stiles’ fingers wrap around the handle.
Stiles glances over his shoulder, a mistake when he sees Derek’s face. He’s holding the flat case in his hand, a vulnerable look in his eyes Stiles has never seen before. It makes him look younger, makes him look accessible, makes him look human.
“A mix CD,” Stiles answers lightly with a wave of his wrist. “For, you know, when you’re out looking. It’s just some songs I’ve been listening to lately. You’ll probably hate it; you don’t strike me much as the indie rock type.”
“Thank you,” Derek responds, his voice quiet and calm, lower and more gravelly than Stiles wants to acknowledge. He hears what Derek says, but he also hears what he doesn’t.
“Yup. Welcome,” Stiles says awkwardly, hurrying out of the loft and away from that look on Derek’s face.
*
Stiles drops by twice over the next week and Derek’s not there. The third time, Derek answers the door in a grey wife beater and impossibly tight jeans, and Stiles wonders what he’s doing, what they’re doing.
Derek orders pizza and Stiles loads up Netflix on Peter’s laptop, and they have to huddle close to see the screen despite the heat from the late July sun streaming in through the windows.
Stiles notices that Derek looks resolved, determined today, replacing the weary sadness he’d sported the last month. He wonders what’s different, but doesn’t ask. Instead, he tries to scoot closer, pretends Derek needs to be touched in his loneliness as much as Stiles.
Derek’s hand ends up on Stiles’ thigh, and Stiles’ foot draped over Derek’s ankle. When Stiles looks up and finds Derek staring at him, he’s not surprised when Derek leans down and kisses him. His lips are soft and gentle at first, hesitant like he’s still trying to decide, and Stiles lets him because Stiles decided weeks ago, maybe even longer ago than that.
Derek’s mouth grows more confident, more demanding, and Stiles gives Derek everything he wordlessly asks for without a thought. And when he ends up on his back on Derek’s new bed, his and Derek’s shirts discarded somewhere between the couch and here, his shorts unbuttoned as Derek licks one of his nipples, Stiles doesn’t pretend anymore, stops holding back from Derek and himself.
His fingers fumble gracelessly with Derek’s belt, but he doesn’t care, Derek’s breathing heavy as he holds himself on his knees, looking down at Stiles working his jeans and boxers over his growing erection. Derek shucks Stiles’ pants much more quickly, and he feels embarrassed until they’re pressed together, hot skin against hot skin. Between the heat from the setting sun and Derek’s body all over him, Stiles can barely breathe, and he’s staring up at the ceiling, at the exposed beams as he tries to get his bearings.
Derek’s rutting against him desperately, and Stiles matches him thrust for thrust, their bodies sweatslick atop the crumpled black comforter. Derek slides his hand up the long line of Stiles’ arm, threading their fingers together as he bites his neck gently, and Stiles hooks a leg around his waist as he squeezes Derek’s hand and pulls him closer. Derek grasps his hand tightly, holding on to Stiles like he’s afraid he’s going to disappear.
After Derek sucks a bruise into his skin, he lifts his head, looking down at Stiles, eyes bright and lust-filled until he blinks and red eyes pierce into him. Stiles feels stripped, in way he’s never felt before, in a way he decides he only wants Derek to do to him. Derek leans down and kisses him, and it’s all tongueteethlips and touchthrustgasp as they slide against one another, and Stiles knows that Derek is pulling him apart at the seams, that he’ll have to stitch Derek back together afterwards. When Stiles comes, Derek bites a bruise into his shoulder, and Stiles doesn’t have to pretend that Derek breathes his name when he comes a moment later.
They lay in bed afterwards, a mess of tangled limbs and sweat, and Stiles is silent for once, listening to all that Derek’s not saying, hoping Derek is listening to all the words that he doesn’t say.