January seventh. Seven days since the start of 2015, and seven days since his father's death.
The bastard, he thinks bitterly. The past year Derek Hale had made it very obvious that he hated his scrawny guts, taking every given opportunity to shove...
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An hour later he's sitting on the couch, a cup of hot tea in his hands and a blanket wrapped around his legs.
His hair is still damp from the shower he took, a pair of fuzzy sweats and thumbhole sweater soft against his skin. He watches the rain patter softly against the window, streaming down the glass in little silver streaks that blur the woods beyond the glass. The rim of the mug presses warm against his lips as he takes a sip of tea, feeling oddly fragile. He feels stripped bare, like a wrung out rag. Like he ran a marathon on an empty stomach, jumped off the empire state building without a parachute. He feels like a child, and he takes another sip of chamomile and thinks about how much he doesn't mind.
"Come on, Linda, what is Costa Rico? Who the hell let you on this show."
Stiles is in the kitchen fixing a hot chocolate for himself, occasionally poking his head out around the bar to snark at the TV, where Jepordy! is on. Derek listens to the beep beep of the microwave, the plastic stretch of the marshmallow bag. Eventually he comes over to join Derek on the couch, cradling a steaming mug of cocoa. A mountain of mini marshmallows spills over the rim, which he tries lapping up with his tongue while simultaneously balancing the hot cup between his fingertips. A menu pamphlet is tucked under his armpit, and his phone hangs precariously between his thumb and pinky. It's a small miracle that he doesn't drop anything.
Stiles plops down on the couch and stretches his legs out, flipping his phone right-side up in his palm.
"How does Chinese sound?"
Derek stares mindlessly at the TV. He nods.
"Was that a nod? Awesome, because I could totally go for some egg rolls right now. Let's just hope they actually remember the fortune cookies this time."
Derek watches from the corner of his eye as Stiles dials the number from the menu. The teen is sprawled across the cushions with one leg swinging over the arm of the couch, socked foot bouncing sporadically to some offbeat tune inside his head. His shirt is riding up to reveal a strip of pale skin dotted with moles, and a little trail of dark hair that ventures down below his waistband. He hums idly as he thumbs through the pamphlet in his lap.
A man answers on the other end of the phone. Stiles scratches his head, blinking rapidly as if pulled from a train of thought. Knowing him, probably four trains of thought.
"Oh, hey, yes, hello. Uh... Heh, guess I got a little excited to order, we haven't even decided on the food yet. Hey, er, could you hold on just a second?"
Stiles tucks the phone between his ear and shoulder, tongue sticking out at an angle as he uses one hand to thumb through the menu, the other to bring the mug of cocoa to his lips again.
"So let's see, just what we got last time okay? There's chow mein, sweet and sour pork, tong sui, some other thing I probably can't pronounce... Christ, look at all their dumplings. Do we like dumplings? I don't think I've ever tried one. But these little pictures make them look kinda tasty. Maybe we should get dumplings. You liked the orange chicken, right?"
