Kings of the Moonlight

Hunstanton Pier

In my heart and in my soul are all the people that I've known and the places I've called home. But in my head and in my mind they're all just things I've left behind, reminders of the changing times and these aging bones of mine.

-

Derek pulls Stiles into his bed later that night. He grasps his hands in his, brings them to his lips, kisses his pale knuckles and he says, 'stay tonight'.

So Stiles does, he nods and he sighs and Derek takes him to his bed.

The curtains are pushed to one side and the windows are open wide to allow the cool air to permeate the room with the smell of nightfall and dew. And in the stillness of the hour the moon hangs high in the sky, new and waxing and casting shadows of illumination around the room as the light glints off of the white sheets that surround the both of them.

Stiles lies on his stomach, half sprawled over Derek's chest and curling into his side as Derek brushes his fingers through his hair. They're both shirtless, gathering comfort from the warm slide of skin on skin as they breathe together.

Stiles has been quiet since his revelation earlier that morning; he's been walking around the apartment like an unfathomable dream, like a travestying parody of his former self.

His fingers lightly trace the ridges of Derek's collarbones in reverence, they dip into the hollow of his throat and they trail down and hover hopefully in the divot of Derek's hip with an enchanting, strange sort of magnetism, making blood and lust flood Derek's skin with pure need.

But Derek presses a stilling hand to Stiles' and he says, "Not tonight."

"Sorry," Stiles replies, he curls his hand into a tight fist and then he's quiet; his steady breaths hardly even brushing upon Derek's skin.

When Derek looks down at him, at the look of restrained sadness on his face, he can't quite help the way that he sweeps his fingers over the curve of Stiles' face, over the contour of his lips, and nor can he help the way that he tips Stiles head back to press a kiss to his mouth.

"Don't be."

"But I am," Stiles replies, and he looks at Derek with such an earnestness that makes his heart ache. "I'm sorry for a lot of things."

Time rushes into itself as they lie there, seemingly moving too slow and too fast all at once. Derek drifts in and out of reveries, reality and artifice blending into one culminating factor until the only thing that grounds him is the man lying next to him.

He cards gentle fingers through Stiles' hair, and the other man counts the time with his eyes on the clock and his hand on Derek's heart, the soft pad of his finger tapping Derek's chest in time to his steady heartbeat.

When their world plunges into midnight Stiles stills, and it's like he's turned into stone; the clock reads zero all the way across and it shouldn't make a difference but it does.

It really does.

The tension in the room condenses and hardens and it breathes right along with them, like it's sentient and watchful. It makes Derek uneasy, makes him cling to Stiles all the more tightly as the tension coalesces in a huddled mass over the man; he lies completely motionless for just a second or two, anguish crackling across his features and then, and then, he begins to tremble.

The shivers start slowly, and it's just as if he's seen a ghost, his body shaking against Derek. And despite it all, Derek thinks he looks beautiful; his pale skin shimmers in the moonlight like ripples on the surface of the ocean and his marble pink lips are parted gently open in thought, golden eyes trained on Derek; it makes his heart stutter and his breath catch.