Six Feet Under | Sterek

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Derek's eyes are a wonderful shade of hazel, Stiles decides. They're a very green hazel, but they aren't green as such. They're pretty. Like the rocks he used to collect as a kid because he thought they looked like crystals. Except his rock collection hadn't looked angry. Derek looks angry, and Stiles decides that he's reckless enough right now to engage with angry.

"You have pretty eyes," he tells the werewolf, and Derek scowls. "No, no, no! Don't scowl, it makes them harder to see!"

"What are you doing here Stiles?" Derek's nose crinkles. "You reek of alcohol."

Stiles hiccups a laugh, because that is why he's here, isn't it? He's drunk, and he's sad, and Derek is always the best way to punish himself. He waves a hand flippantly in Derek's face and hiccups again. "Just thought you should know that i am currently not living in my house, so I advise again any late night visits to my bedroom." He tries to wiggle his eyebrows. It doesn't work.

Derek's voice is guarded when he asks, "Why aren't you living at home Stiles?"

And fuck, not even the copious amounts of alcohol he's consumed is enough to dull that sharp pain in his chest as he says, "Dad kicked me out. Said not to come back until I'd decided to stop lying to him." He shrugs, pretending that it isn't pulling him apart inside, as if his hands haven't been shaking ever since he'd gotten in the Jeep, as if his head hasn't been spinning since the first burning bottle of whiskey. "Decided I can never go home then."

Derek's lips pull back in a snarl, and Stiles starts to feel alive again because this is what he really came for. A fight. His blood is boiling with the itchy urge to fall into a pit of writhing bitterness and to unleash this pain on someone who'll spit it straight back at him. He's destructive, a hurricane that craves a way to hurt itself.

Then Derek's nostrils flare and all the tension drains out of the werewolf's body. His guarded expression gives way to concern and sympathy and Stiles wants to scream in frustration. "Where are you living currently?" Derek asks quietly. It only stokes Stiles's reckless urge to throw himself into a bad situation. "Has Scott taken you in?"

Taken him in. Like Stiles is some kind of weak, broken puppy that needs special attention. He clenches his fist and wonders how quickly he can chug the bottle of booze he has in the back seat of his Jeep. "Fuck Scott," he says viciously, and Derek looks so surprised for a moment that Stiles almost claws his face with his very human hands. "I'm fine on my own, Hale. Fuck you for thinking otherwise."

Derek holds his hands up. "Stiles-"

"I don't even know why I came here," Stiles says, and if Derek hears the jump in his heartbeat, well then whoopty-fucking-doo. "Maybe you should go back to eating squirrels and pretending you don't have feelings. Have a nice fucking night, Derek."

As he walks away, he half expects Derek to call after him. Derek doesn't, though, and bitter disappointment hits Stiles so hard he almost screams. He needs another drink. He needs another life. He needs to start over.

If he's honest, he has no idea what he needs any more, but he knows he doesn't need this.

He gets in the Jeep and waits until he's driven far, far away from Derek before he hits the steering wheel and shouts as loud as he can. He hates this, he hates this so much. He hates that he's the one who done this to himself. He hates that he's weak enough to stand in front of Derek, drunk and emotional and stupid. He hates this,

It's late afternoon, and he drives for a while with no destination in mind. The radio hums along, occasionally interrupted by static and silence before some pop song starts playing and Stiles can only bear it for so long. It's only half an hour before he's hitting the button to turn the damn thing off.

"Fuck this," he mutters and reaches for the half empty bottle of Jack Daniels he has stashed on the passenger seat. He drinks as much as he can in one breath before his eyes start to water and then he hits his head on the head rest and wonders how the fuck it all went wrong.

He feels small, so achingly small. His hurt is big but his body is small and he can only bear so much before his small heart stops beating just from the sheer sadness. His life feels too big for him, too heavy and bad and big and he's so small right now. He's too small for life, for living, for exisiting. He's too small to do anything but drive and drink and try to run away from his guilt.

Pathetic, he thinks, and yes, that's what he is. He's pathetic and stupid and sad and angry and useless and-

He has to stop. He has to keep going. He has to do something and he has to do nothing and fuck the bottle of Jack Daniels is empty now. He winds his window down, tosses the bottle out the window, and smiles when he hears it smash on the road. He wants to break like that too, just to see what it feels like. Maybe it's liberating. Maybe it hurts. He doesn't care, he just doesn't want to be so small and upset. He wants to break, and he wants to be angry.

He doesn't know what's worse, wanting to be angry, or wanting to be nothing at all.